The first time I noticed something strange was one chilly night in March. As I walked back from my evening jog, the air thick with the scent of damp earth, I felt an uneasy sensation prickling at the back of my neck. At first, I brushed it off as paranoia, just a lingering trick of the shadows. But as days turned into weeks, the feeling grew stronger. It was subtle—things slightly out of place at home, faint footsteps echoing behind me in deserted streets, and that constant, gnawing sense of being watched.
By the time the sixth month crept in, I knew it wasn’t just in my head. My plants by the window started withering as if suffocating from something unseen. Odd messages popped up on my phone, always from unknown numbers, whispering words of dread that lingered in my mind for days. Each message seemed to know things about me—secrets I hadn’t even shared with friends.
I began to notice subtle signs of intrusion in my apartment. A faint, moldy smell would sometimes waft from my closet. And when I gathered enough courage to check inside, I found nothing but darkness, staring back. I even started hearing faint scratching sounds at night, soft enough to question if I was imagining it, yet distinct enough to keep me awake in fear.
Seven months into this nightmare, my nerves were frayed. Determined, I set up a small, hidden camera in the hallway, desperate to catch whatever—or whoever—was doing this. That night, I waited, heart pounding as I forced myself to stay awake.
At exactly 2:13 a.m., I heard it: the soft sound of my doorknob twisting. My heart raced, and I fought the urge to bolt out of bed. I heard footsteps, almost imperceptible, creeping toward my bedroom. The air grew colder, as if something unnatural had entered.
I mustered the courage to check the footage the next morning, hoping to find some clarity. When I pressed play, the video revealed something I could never have imagined.
The figure on the screen was me.
There I was, walking slowly, eyes blank, face void of expression, trailing my own footsteps in some sort of trance. It was as though I had been following myself, moving like a puppet through my own home. Seven months of terror, and it turned out I had been the monster lurking in the shadows, the ghost haunting my own existence.
But the worst part? When I turned off the camera, I heard a faint whisper echoing from my closet:
“You’re not alone.”
As the days went on, the reality of that chilling discovery consumed me. I couldn’t shake the sight of myself, moving like a stranger through my own home, or the whisper that seemed to linger, echoing in the silence of my apartment.
I became obsessed, determined to understand what was happening. I researched sleepwalking, possession, dissociative states—anything that could explain the mystery. Each night, I recorded myself, hoping to find answers. And each morning, I’d watch in horror as the footage showed me moving again, drifting through the apartment with an eerie calm, occasionally whispering to someone or something that wasn’t there.
One night, fueled by desperation, I decided to confront this other “me.” I set up mirrors around the apartment so that, no matter where I wandered, I would catch a glimpse of myself. I hoped that seeing my reflection would snap me out of it, force some kind of reckoning.
That night was different. Around midnight, I found myself standing in front of the mirror, staring back at my own reflection. But as I looked deeper, something was wrong. My reflection didn’t mimic me exactly; it stared back with a strange intensity, a grin slowly spreading across its face—a grin that I wasn’t making.
Paralyzed with fear, I backed away, watching as my reflection tilted its head, eyes gleaming with something dark and unnatural. Then, I heard it whisper, clear as day:
“I’ve always been here. Now it’s my turn.”
Before I could react, an overwhelming force took hold of me, pulling me toward the mirror. The room spun, and the world around me faded as if I were sinking into a void. I fought to break free, to breathe, to scream—but everything went black.
I woke up in a cold, empty space, staring through a glass-like surface. On the other side, in my apartment, was me—the reflection, smiling as it lived my life, free at last.
Now, I’m the one trapped on the other side, watching, helpless, as my reflection walks away, leaving me behind forever.