The air felt wrong, thicker with every step. My lungs screamed, but I pushed harder, faster. The hallway stretched unnaturally, like the house was expanding around me — or maybe I was shrinking.
The shadows weren’t chasing anymore. They didn’t have to.
They were waiting.
I turned the corner and froze.
The front door was gone.
In its place was a mirror. Cracked, warped — but I could still see the reflection. His reflection.
He stood there, wearing my life, watching me. His head tilted, eyes burning with something I couldn’t read. Pity? Amusement?
He lifted his hand slowly, fingers curling into a lazy wave.
Then he whispered, though his lips didn’t move:
"You can stay. They like it better when you scream."
The shadows shifted behind me, close enough to feel their breath — hot and wet against my neck.
I didn’t scream.
Not yet.
I lunged at the mirror.
It shattered on impact, but this time, it didn’t ripple. It broke — sharp, jagged edges cutting into my hands. The world split with it, and I felt myself falling again.
But this time, I wasn’t falling into his place.
I was falling into theirs.
The last thing I heard before the darkness swallowed me was my own voice — coming from him — whispering:
The Stranger In My Photos 50 🤔🤔