There was a horrorterror who worked as her attaché, and it wore her mother’s face…

Now it stood in her doorway. “Hello to You, Rose,” it said.

They were unable to fully recreate her. None of the colours were correct. They were subdued, off, the scent of Chanel mixing with sweet putrefaction and the everpresent ocean salt, the hinges on the arms not moving quite correctly and the bones too sinuous to let it walk right. Too inept. Too ineptly done to hurt.