The empty suit

The night was warm, thick with a silent heat that clung to the skin. Sarah woke with a start, the air conditioning having failed completely. She nudged her husband, Mark, but he didn’t stir. She decided to check the thermostat herself.
As she stepped out of bed, a chill inexplicably ran down her spine. A peculiar, wet sound emanated from the corner of the room. She looked over, her eyes wide with terror, to see Mark’s favorite striped pajamas standing upright, shimmering slightly in the dim light. They were empty, yet perfectly shaped, as if holding an invisible form.
“Mark?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
The man in the bed finally stirred, his eyes shooting open in pure, unadulterated fear. He scrambled backwards, his body slick with sweat. His gaze wasn’t on the pajamas; it was fixed on Sarah.
She looked down at herself, a scream building in her throat as she realized the horror in his eyes. She was still wearing the nightslip he’d bought her last Christmas. The pajamas she was holding were her own, identical to Mark’s in every detail but size.
They both stared at the empty suit in her hands, then at each other, realizing that one of them had just been replaced.