I kept running. My lungs screamed, my legs burned — but the sound behind me didn’t stop. It wasn’t footsteps. It wasn’t breathing. It was something worse.
A low, wet scrape. Like meat dragging over stone.
The figures didn’t move anymore. They just watched. Rows of them, lining the endless corridor. My face on every one now. Some were smiling. Some were crying. One was laughing soundlessly, head thrown back too far.
My phone buzzed.
I didn’t want to look. But my hand moved on its own, shaking as I glanced down.
"You’re going the wrong way."
My chest tightened. My throat felt raw, like I’d been screaming without realizing it.
The corridor stretched ahead, endless — but something was different now. The walls weren’t smooth anymore. They pulsed, faintly, like something breathing behind them.
My phone buzzed again.
"He’s waiting."
I skidded to a stop. The sound behind me didn’t stop. It got closer.
I turned.
The stranger was there, at the end of the hall. Except it wasn’t him anymore. It was me.
But not me.
The face was mine, but the skin wasn’t right. Too tight, too smooth. Like a mask stretched over something else underneath. The eyes weren’t mine either — they were too dark, too hollow.
He smiled.
My phone buzzed.
"Switch."
My stomach dropped. The stranger raised his hand — my hand — and waved. Then he stepped backward into the dark.
I felt it before I saw it. The cold breath on my neck. The weight behind me.
And a voice that wasn’t mine whispered in my ear:
"Your turn."
The world tilted. The floor fell out from under me.
The Stranger In My Photos 28 🤔🤔