The Stranger Who Wore My Face 25
I couldn’t move.
The thing in the closet—me, but not me—stood in the shadows, watching. Waiting. Its lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile.
"Switch with me," it whispered again, the voice wrong. Distorted. Like an echo from somewhere else.
I forced myself to step back, my legs shaking. No. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
But then it moved.
One step out of the closet.
The dim light from my bedside lamp barely touched it, but it didn’t need light. It saw me anyway.
It tilted its head, eyes locking onto mine.
Then it spoke again—this time in my voice.
"You’ve done this before."
A chill shot through my body. What?
No, I hadn't. This was the first time. The first time I’d seen it, heard it.
But as soon as I thought that, something shifted in my mind. A memory. A whisper.
Flashes of a moment I didn’t recognize. Standing in front of a mirror. My own reflection smiling back—too late.
A creeping sense of déjà vu curled around me.
Had I done this before?
My heart pounded. No. It was messing with me.
But then—
It took another step forward. The room seemed to stretch, darkening around us. I reached for my phone, but my hands fumbled.
The screen was still open to the last image.
The message behind my bed.
"You woke up too soon."
A realization hit me like ice in my veins.
What if this wasn’t my first time?
What if I’d switched before?
And what if I was never supposed to wake up?
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The Stranger Who Wore My Face 25