Cheryl found herself gazing at her hand as it lingered on the ivory handle. There was nothing necessarily explicit, or strange about it. It was completely familiar, she could feel the lines etched underneath from her fingernails that had grazed them over the years. This was her apartment. Rather, this was her father's apartment. She wasn't sure why she was here, it had been some time since she had seen her dad. He was always busy working on his novels to make time for her anymore. He was in his late fifties, and she knew he had more important things to do than care about the difficulties and trauma his little girl had been through.
A trickle of sweat snapped off Cheryl's chin. There was something decidedly off about this entire situation, but she couldn't quite place what it was. It was some howl from far off, some wind that occasionally carried a cry of clarity but it quickly turned to dross as Cheryl struggled to find the courage to simply turn the handle. This was silly. What was so strange about a daughter visiting her father? Plenty of girls did it all the time, what made this any different? She silently shook her head and let out a slight chuckle – she was about to have a warm visit with the man that raised her. Like any other day, like any other father and daughter.
The door swung open as she put her weight against the frame and some dim light poured out into the corridor. Cheryl took a step inside, calling for her father when she reached the corner and heard sobbing. It wasn't alien, she recognized it. Cheryl covered her mouth when she turned the corner. There was a soft light overhanging a corpse as it laid slump in its chair. The color of its blood soaking and seeking into the green fabric, turning it a sickly color. The blood had streamed through the carpet, snaking in all directions. Her eyes glanced downward and instinctively jumped as her shoes had indented in the thing's blood. Terrified, Cheryl took several steps forward and upon closer inspection noticed a figure kneeling at the front of the corpse.
The girl was clothed in a modest dress, the likes of which becoming unseemly as it became stained with the blood of the person she was shedding tears over – hands clutching at his arms as her screams and cries echoed across the domicile. The girl's voice broke, a desperation rang out and her voice crooned.
"Dad...dad..."
Her bereavement turned to quiet cries as she whispered in longing for the man that mattered so much to her. Cheryl found herself inexorably drawn to the scene, hands shaking as they balled into fists and she felt an overwhelming urge to hit something, anything. The creature, the corpse, the man before her was enshrined in his final moments; his body lifeless, glasses ever so lightly crooked as they threatened to fall off the bridge of his nose at any moment. He was frozen in eternity, and this girl was paying tribute and reverence to his holy visage.
The girl lifted her head at the sound of Cheryl's fist encasing itself into the wall, creases bending towards the intruder and her hand lightly caked in the white dust. Her hand ached, blood lightly mingling with the powder, but it was nothing compared to the scene in front of her. Her father, her dad, Harry Mason, dead. It was impossible, it wasn't feasible. He was fine. He was fine? He was...not fine. He was gone. And every bit of her lit up with a fire she hadn't felt in years. The girl's face was sullen as fresh tears continued to dribble down her face, and she watched Cheryl.
"It's not fair, Heather. It's not fair..."
Her face contorted in anguish as she turned back to her father, her cries louder than ever. Heather felt the fire inside her bubble as it hit a fever pitch in her head, and her own screams intertwined with Alessa's as the entirety of the situation came to ahead, and she suddenly lurched over in nausea and pain. Falling to her knees, her vision spun as she reached out to the other girl in assistance. Her mouth opened to say these words, but they would never leave her throat as her body racked and she instinctively heaved as a black liquid exited her mouth instead. The strange vomit was covering some cancerous lump. The cries of an infant grew louder, and Heather's breathing grew laborious as her eyes wavered and she collapsed underneath Alessa. Heather's mouth cracked, weakly apologizing at the altar of her now deceased father. Her vision dimmed, Alessa's lamentations continued and she would continue to mourn until the light overhead burned out in due time and they'd all be lost to the suffocating darkness.