When my friend Sarah invited me to a pottery party, I thought it would be the perfect way to relax before the baby arrived. I was seven months pregnant, and the idea of molding clay with friends, sipping tea, and chatting sounded like just the kind of peaceful evening I needed.
The studio was cozy, filled with the soft hum of music and the earthy scent of wet clay. At first, everything was normal. We laughed, swapped stories, and focused on our creations. But as the evening wore on, something felt… off. The instructor, a quiet woman with piercing blue eyes, began acting strangely. She moved between us silently, her gaze lingering too long on me, as if she knew something I didn’t.
Then, the lights flickered, and the room grew cold. The music slowed, warping into an eerie, distorted tune. I tried to shake off the feeling of unease, but when I looked down at the piece I was molding, I froze. It wasn’t the small vase I had started—it was a perfect, lifelike sculpture of a baby’s face, eyes closed as if asleep.
I glanced around, and that’s when I noticed everyone else’s pottery had morphed too. They were all sculpting babies. No one spoke. Their eyes were vacant, hands moving as if controlled by something unseen. My heart pounded, and I felt a deep, instinctual urge to protect my unborn child.
I stood to leave, but the instructor blocked the door, her smile chilling. “You can’t leave,” she whispered. “You’re part of the creation now.”
Panic surged through me. Somehow, I managed to push past her and stumble out into the night. When I looked back, the studio lights were off, as if nothing had ever happened. But the fear? That stayed with me.
