What happens when a perfectly ordinary morning becomes anything but ordinary?

Inspired by a dream I recently had, The Kitchen That Was Not Mine is a new psychological suspense story that took on a life of its own before I even intended to write it. Haha!

In the spirit of Halloween, I’m sharing this little sneak peek into a world where nothing is quite what it seems.

Happy reading! 🎃

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The morning started like any other.

I woke up around six so I could get breakfast started and make sure the kids were up in time.

Dan left for work around seven this morning. By eight, I’d gotten Ella and Max on the bus.

Ella is the oldest at eleven and Max is eight.

I love my family, but I have to admit, there’s something wonderful about those first few minutes after everyone leaves for the day.

The house is quiet.

No one is asking where their shoes are, whether I’ve seen their homework, or what’s for dinner.

Just me, my coffee, and a little peace and quiet.

At least until the afternoon, when the kids come bursting through the door with a million things to tell me.

I sit at the kitchen table, savoring the last few sips of my lukewarm coffee while catching up on the latest news.

I’m not one to watch the actual news.

I’m more of a check-social-media-to-see-what’s-happening-in-the-world kind of person.

It’s rarely good.

But I love seeing what my friends and family are up to.

I have a load of laundry waiting for me downstairs, a grocery list I haven’t finished, and absolutely no idea what I’m making for dinner tonight.

But those things can wait another few minutes.

After I finish my coffee, I get up from the table and walk to the sink to rinse it out.

When I turn around, I see a man sitting at my kitchen table drinking coffee.

I jump.

What the—?

He looks at me.

Oh. My. Gosh.

What?

“Honey, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

His eyes look familiar.

He’s older.

But somehow he still looks like I remember him.

Realization strikes.

I drop the cup that’s still in my hands.

“You… you can’t be here,” I whisper.

“What do you mean, sweetheart? I live here.”

I glance around the kitchen.

The cabinets are different. The trash can is different. Even the table is different.

I look around again.

This isn’t my kitchen.

My heart pounds against my chest.

Seventeen years.

It’s been seventeen years since I last saw those eyes.

And yet, here he is. Sitting at a kitchen table that isn’t mine, looking at me as though nothing has happened.

How is any of this possible?

He scoots his chair back.

The sound of it startles me.

He stands and walks over to me.

He’s tall.

I’ve always had a thing for tall guys.

Dan is six foot three.

“Aubrey?” he says.

“Bobby.”

He smiles at me.

I can’t help but smile back.

He wipes a tear from my cheek.

I didn’t even know I’d been crying.

“Sweetheart, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

His voice.

I remember that voice.

It’s deeper than it used to be, but there’s something about the way he says my name.

Something that takes me back seventeen years.

I shake my head.

“Bobby, what are you doing here?”

He furrows his brow.

“Making coffee?”

“No. I mean, why are you here?”

“Aubrey, honey, this is our house.”

He reaches for my hand.

I pull away.

One step.

Then another.

I stumble backward into the hallway.

I blink.

The cabinets.

My cabinets.

The table is back where it belongs.

Bobby is gone.

I stare at the floor.

No broken glass.

I look toward the sink.

My coffee cup sits there, perfectly intact.

What the heck just happened?

I stand there.

Staring.

Wondering.

I pinch myself, thinking I must be dreaming.

Nope.

Wide awake.

Fully conscious.

I walk back to the doorway.

Everything is just as it has always been.

I put one foot across the threshold.

Immediately the room changes.

Whoa.

There’s a little girl with Bobby now.

I jerk my foot back.

The kitchen returns to its normal state.

Empty.

Not a soul in sight.

I’m shaking.

I walk down the hallway to the bedroom.

I pace the floor.

I can’t go back in there.

But how do I not go back in there?

How am I supposed to get to the kids when they get off the bus?

Oh!

The basement.

The garage is in the basement.

I can go get them off the bus through the garage.

I need to check the laundry anyway.

I start toward the stairs.

Wait.

I stop.

What will I do until then?

I’ll get hungry.

And the living room is on the other side of the kitchen.

I stand there for a moment.

No matter what I do, I can’t avoid that room forever.

I look back at the kitchen.

With a deep sigh, I walk back toward the doorway.

I don’t hesitate this time.

I just walk right in.

The kitchen changes.

It’s not mine.

I notice a broom and dustpan leaning against the counter.

Then I look down

The broken pieces of the coffee cup are still scattered across the floor.

I stop and stare at them.

So that really happened.

Then I look up.

There’s Bobby.

And the little girl who looks to be about four years old.

She also looks a lot like… me.

It’s her eyes.

And her hair.

Whoa.

She seems to be showing Bobby something she drew.

She looks up from her picture and smiles at me.

She drops the picture and runs to me.

“Mommy!”

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Intrigued? The Kitchen That Was Not Mine is a potential upcoming novel inspired by a dream. Visit its dedicated page to follow its development! The Kitchen That Was Not Mine

• Short Stories