The Stranger Who Wore My Face 28

I turned to run, but the door behind me was gone. Just a wall now—solid, unmovable.

The whispers grew louder. Not just from the hallway. From inside my head.

"You took this life."
"You don’t belong here."
"Your time is up."

The faces in the open doors moved closer. Too close. Their grins stretched wide, their eyes locked onto me.

Then, as if pulled by an unseen force, they all spoke in unison.

“It’s your turn.”

A cold wave of dread crashed over me. My turn for what?

The other me was still behind me. I could feel it watching. Waiting.

No. I couldn’t let this happen. I wouldn’t.

I clenched my fists, forcing the fear down. There had to be a way out.

Then I saw it.

At the very end of the endless hallway—one door. Different from the others. Slightly open.

I ran.

The whispers turned into shouts. The faces lunged, arms reaching—too many hands, too many fingers. I dodged, barely escaping their grasp.

The door was close now. So close.

I reached out—

And something yanked me back.

A hand on my shoulder. Ice-cold. Familiar.

I turned—and stared into my own face.

The other me shook its head slowly. Smiling.

“You still don’t get it,” it whispered.

And then—

It pushed me.

Straight into the open door.


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