On her sixth try, she got it. The space beyond the curtained stage was visible. Not by much, but enough. It was dark, and the static clinging to it was heavy, disguising almost all details except one.

A face stared out at her.

Margot, kneeling with the remote clutched in both hands, stared back at it.

A line of horizontal distortion ran across the face, cutting it in half just below the eyes. Poorly lit and grainy, not much of it was distinguishable.

She was almost certain it was a woman, though. Most likely the woman who had been narrating the clip. She hunched close to the miniature stage. Red lipstick created a gash of crimson color among the gray shadows. Something that might have been a pendant hung over her dark clothing.

Margot ran one hand over her face and felt the clammy chill of her skin. The image on the screen, for all its distortion and obscuration, felt uncomfortably familiar.

She dropped the remote and crawled to her feet. The lights on the lower floor were still off. Her mind was too wrapped up in the children’s video to care, though, as she crossed the hall into the kitchen.

Moonlight illuminated the table, the shopping bags she’d left on the counter, and the clean plates in the sink. Dozens of magnets dotted the fridge’s surface, holding photos and scraps of paper in place. Margot searched the images until she found the one she wanted, pulled it free, and carried it back into the living room.

She crouched back in front of the television, her skin painted in unnatural hues as she held the photo up beside the screen. In it, her mother leaned against her father, red lips lifted into a smile. A bronze, oval pendant hung from her throat, draped over a plum sweater.

The images on the screen were achingly grainy, but Margot was fairly certain they were a match.

She let the photo drop.

It’s not studio programming. My parents made this.

Her name had been on the peeling yellow label.

Margot’s Tape.

They made this for me.

She ran the back of her hand across her mouth. The film, short though it was, must have taken a lot of effort. They’d painted the backdrop with care. Sewn puppets. Created a small stage with curtains.

For what purpose?

Not as a sentimental gift for their daughter. If that had been their intention, the story wouldn’t have featured a young girl dying, surely.

If not sentimental, then…

A parable?

Fairy tales had been created to warn children of dangers in the wider world: Do not trust strange women who offer you treats. Do not approach wolves. Do not wander into the forest alone.

That felt closer to the tape’s intentions—a warning, wrapped inside childish visuals to make it easy to watch and absorb.

Warning about what? Another family…that comes out at night?