The sound of the mirror exploding swallowed everything. Glass rained down like ice, slicing my arms and face, but I didn’t care — I was too busy running.
I bolted for the door, heart slamming in my chest. My mom — or whatever was wearing her face — stepped into the hallway. Her head cocked to the side, slow and unnatural, like her neck barely worked.
“Where are you going, sweetie?” she cooed. Her voice was syrupy soft, but her smile stretched too wide.
Behind her, in the shadows of the hallway, I saw more shapes moving. Too many.
My phone buzzed.
"They’re not done with you yet."
I didn’t stop. I shoved past her and ran. She didn’t grab me — she didn’t need to. Her laughter followed me down the stairs, high-pitched and wrong.
I reached the front door. Locked. Deadbolted. The chain rattled. My hands fumbled, slick with sweat and blood.
My phone buzzed again.
"Going somewhere?"
I screamed and turned — and there he was. The stranger. Standing in the middle of my living room, watching me. His head tilted, just like before. His smile was calmer now. Satisfied.
My voice came out broken. “Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”
His expression didn’t change. My phone buzzed one more time.
I didn’t need to look.
He answered, voice smooth and cold, like he’d been waiting for me to ask.
"We want to live too."
The lights flickered — and everything went black.
The Stranger In My Photos 36 🤔🤔