“Mr. Romero,” I tried to keep my voice stern, but I couldn’t help the strong pleading undertone that broke through. “What happened to Teresa?”

A small flicker of emotion crossed his face at hearing her name, but vanished almost instantly. At this point, 15 years later, her name had become a distant memory – a word he hadn’t heard in a long, long time. Still, it was clear that her name touched a nerve.

“I’ve already told you everything I know.” His voice was rugged, dry, his words sounded scripted and meaningless.

“Not me,” I leaned forward, trying – unsuccessfully - to keep eye contact. “I’m looking at your case with new eyes, I want to hear your personal account of that night.”

Romero chuckled, “New eyes? You gotta be fucking kidding me. You’ve looked over the case, yeah?” His eyes met mine, cold and blackened. “You already think I’m guilty. Don’t waste my fucking time.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?” He was getting aggravated, his upper lip pulled into a left-sided snarl.

“Guilty?”

“What do you think?”

On February 12th, 2008, Teresa Romero was found murdered in her family home on Zorn Avenue. After her neighbor hadn’t heard from her in several days, she called for a wellness check. Officer Christensen arrived at her residence at 0950, noting a 1995 Ford Explorer and 2000 Ford Taurus parked in the driveway. The officer noticed an abundance of flies in the window, and no answer after knocking on the front door. With suspicion that the resident may be in trouble, the officer entered the home through the unlocked front door.

Officer Christensen was an experienced officer of 23 years. Less than a week after the discovery of Teresa’s body, he handed in his formal resignation.

The small home looked as if a massacre took place, blood covered the walls in dried, crusted splatters. The ceilings, furniture – everything was stained with either blood or viscera. Patches of auburn hair hung in webs, body parts haphazardly amputated and thrown around the room, as if someone was trying to make the biggest mess they possibly could. A lump of flesh and bones lay seeping deep into the carpet – the shredded remains of Teresa Romero. In the middle of the living room, sitting on the couch with a stoic expression – was Manny Romero.

“I don’t think anything.” I said finally, breaking the long silence between us. “Like I said, new eyes.”

Romero shook his head, leaning further back into the thin metal chair. For a moment, he seemed to ponder, but with a quick clench of his jaw, he brought himself back to the present.

“Would I be in here otherwise?” His eyes drifted to the cell around us, landing on the handcuffs attaching him firmly to the table separating us. “You think I took a life sentence for the hell of it?”

The thing is, Mr. Romero has never once said the words ‘I’m guilty,’ or ‘I did it.’ His stories never delve into what happened the night Teresa died. All the signs pointed to him, the husband who was there, alone, with the victim. No one else was placed at the Romero home the night everything happened. But he was clean, not a drop of blood on him when Officer Christensen arrived at the scene. His body showed no signs of a struggle, he never tried to leave the house or run away. In fact, when he received his sentence, he looked… understanding.

No murder weapon.

No motive.

No one looked into it further after he was sentenced, the jury took less than an hour to deliberate. For 15 years, no one tried to find out exactly what happened to Teresa Romero. Why would they? They had a conviction, right?

“It’s just..” I struggled to find the words, “there are some things that don’t seem to add up.”

“I know.” He stated simply, with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Listen to me, Manny.” I watched his expression closely, making sure that I didn’t overstep a boundary by calling him by his first name. “If you didn’t kill your wife, we need to know. If you did,” I pressed my lips into a taught line, “why can’t we figure out how?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, it’s over.” His words were curt, with emphasis placed on the last word.

“Yes, it does!” I know my face showed my bewilderment, “Her family deserves answers, they were your family too, remember?”

Romero said nothing, his eyes glued to the concrete floor.

I readjusted myself in my seat, aiming to try a new approach. Maybe if I hint at his innocence, he’ll be more open. “If you didn’t do it, I can help. We can try to get you out-“

“NO.” His voice was loud, echoing off the walls. He swallowed, taking a shallow breath, “No.” He repeated, quieter, calmer. “I am exactly where I belong.”

“Why do you belong here?” I matched my tone to his.

“Because my wife is dead.”

Sorrow. But not just sorrow, pain. Even with every syllable of his words drenched in emotion, it lacked one – guilt.

“Do you miss her?” I surprised even myself by asking.

A hint of a smile played at the corner of his lips, not a menacing smile – but one remembering a time long gone, one of reminiscence. “Every day.”

“There was no murder weapon found. No motive – no one could figure out why you’d want Teresa dead. You never fled the scene. You had days to leave. Why didn’t you?”

“Guess I had nowhere to go.”

“You could’ve gone anywhere!” I knew my patience was beginning to wear thinner, “Why didn’t you leave? What happened to her?”

No response, just another empty silence.

“Please,” I leaned in closer, “Please tell me what happened to her.”

​

Exactly one week ago I sat at my computer, researching this case. I had found Teresa’s account on a community website that I won’t name here. She had detailed her fear, her experiences as she began seeing someone who looked exactly like her.

DECEMBER 10TH, 2007: ‘It looks like me, but it doesn’t at the same time. It’s like I took a photograph of myself and edited my features just a little bit. Like it wants to look like me but can’t get it right. I see her in mirrors, in the corner of my eye, in the distance. She used to be far enough away that I could block her out and pretend she’s not there. Now, she is closer. Her mouth is always wide open, like she is screaming but no sound comes out, her eyes are blood shot, she looks terrified.’

DECEMBER 18TH, 2007: ‘I’ve tried to tell my husband, he doesn’t believe me. Nobody believes me. I point directly to her, she is 20 feet away but NO ONE CAN EVER SEE HER. Every day she gets closer and closer, and there is a pit in my stomach that makes me nauseous. Am I losing my mind???? What am I supposed to do???? Is she going to hurt me??? Does anyone else know what I’m talking about?? Please’

JANUARY 11TH, 2008: ‘Fucking antipsychotics. That is his answer to everything. I’m not crazy, and the pills DON’T HELP. I can’t understand why no one will listen to me. I don’t know what I did to deserve this, I’ve always been a good person, I do everything right. Why is she always here?? Why is she always staring at me?? She doesn’t talk to me, I’ve tried talking to her, I’ve screamed at her.’

JANUARY 14TH, 2008: ‘She is so close now that I can smell her, she smells like death. I was a CNA once, I’ve smelt a dead person before, it’s kind of a sweet, rotten smell. That’s what she smells like. Do I smell like that? She looks just like me now. Do I have those dark circles under my eyes? Are my lips that cracked? Is my skin… gray?’

JANUARY 24TH, 2008: ‘She is like a shadow now, that’s how close she stays to me. I’ve given up on Manny, he will never listen to me, but I’ll keep taking these pills if that makes him like he’s doing something. I told him that I’m going to die, she is going to kill me, and he doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t believe me.’

FEBRUARY 5TH, 2008: ‘He doesn’t believe me.’

FEBRUARY 10TH, 2008: ‘She makes a sound now. A low, crackling moan. She’s so close, I can hear her directly in my ear. I try not to look at her, but she’s always in my sight, she never leaves. Maybe it’s because I haven’t slept? Or eaten? But I know my time is coming to an end, I can feel it. There is nothing I can do.’

FEBRUARY 12TH, 2008: ‘Her mouth is still wide open, but now, it looks like she’s smiling.’

​

“Please,” I repeated.

I could almost see Romero shutting down.

“You’re not guilty of killing her, are you?” Romero clenched his jaw again but did not look at me. “You’re guilty of not listening to her, and that’s why she’s dead.”

Finally, his eyes met mine. From the black, I could see a hint of understanding. “So, you’ve read the posts.” It wasn’t a question. I nodded, silently.

“I’m sorry, Teresa… wasn’t right. In the head.”

I took a deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs entirely, until it they burned – then let it out slowly. “What,” I paused, “happened to her?”

“Mr. Branham,” A soft female voice called, jerking my attention away from Romero, “Time’s up. We need to take him back. You can come back next week.”

I nodded, trying to regain my composure.

I did my best to ignore the figure standing behind her.

A figure that looks like me, but doesn’t at the same time.

I left the prison feeling far more defeated than when I arrived. I’ve had a harsh, dreadful feeling sitting like concrete in the pit of my stomach since I read Teresa’s posts.

At first, I couldn’t even tell that it was supposed to look like me. Apparently, it’s hard to recognize ourselves when we’re not looking at a picture or our reflection. It’s an eerie feeling, knowing that whatever this is - looks familiar. And at the same time, it looks so foreign.

It stays close to me, just close enough that I can feel it’s presence. It’s always staring, but it’s gaze is unsettling.. unnatural. People walk right past it, blissfully blind.

I have investigated murders for the better part of a decade, my mind is not an easy one to break. Level-headed, analytic, calm - all traits you need in order to be successful in this line of work. I don’t believe in paranormal bullshit, demonic or otherwise.

So, you could say it came as a shock when I couldn’t fight off this uneasy wave of fear and dread at the sight of this thing.

A thing - because I don’t know what else to call it. As much as my instinct tries to persuade me differently, I know that this thing isn’t human. Humans don’t stand amongst a crowd, unmoving, without a hint of acknowledgement. Nobody looks twice, nobody makes an effort to interact.

No human stands for hours on end, mouth agape, not blinking. No rise and fall of the chest - no breathing. It seems that it’s sole purpose is to stand there and stare at me until I break down into a state of perpetual psychosis.

Honestly, I would prefer that over what happened to Teresa.

Imagine a corpse, one still rigid with rigor mortis. Now, imagine that corpse standing, head tilted just slightly to the right. A corpse with its eyes pinned wide open, red tinged all around the edges. And it’s mouth…. its jaw unhinged and open wider than what should be possible.

Now imagine that corpse following you around, never leaving you, never letting you out of its site.

That kind of shit wears heavy on a person.

It wasn’t with pride that I took to Google for answers, it was a last resort. Maybe someone has dealt with this before? Maybe there’s something I can do?

So, I stumbled across Teresa’s posts. Initially, my interest was piqued but I had reservations - you simply can’t believe everything you read on the internet. While her story seemed to eat away at that nagging weight in my stomach, it didn’t become real until I searched her name.

Then, it felt like the world around me slowed, my heartbeat thudded angrily in my ears, my breath hitched somewhere between my lungs and mouth. And the pressure on my chest… Fuck, was that pressure intense.

I had peered over to my darkened kitchen, at the figure standing silently beside the empty table, and blinked back tears, not because I was afraid of dying, but because I was afraid of how long I would have to suffer like this. Suffer knowing how it would end.

Meeting with Romero today was my last-ditch effort to find out how to save myself. With that option ripped away, defeat mixed itself into despair.

It won’t be long now. He’s so close to me, I can reach out and touch him. I imagine he feels cold and hollow.

I used to try and focus on the sound of my heartbeat in my ears, tachycardic but steady - human. Now, all I can hear is a low, wicked groan.

And as I sit in my desk chair, it leans over me, like it’s frothing to take me at any moment. It feels eager. Like it’s been starved for years, and it’s finally about to feast.

I imagine it must be ready, because even though I try not to look directly at it - I can still see its gaping mouth begin to turn upwards…

Into a smile.