The photo stared at me from the floor, my face twisted in a silent scream. It wasn’t a trick of the light — it was me. But I didn’t remember taking it. I didn’t remember that moment ever happening.
The room felt wrong, like the air was too thick. Too still.
I grabbed my phone to check the time. It was 3:17 AM. I blinked — and suddenly it was 3:18.
No. It wasn’t a normal blink. It felt like I’d lost a second. Like time skipped without me.
Then my phone buzzed. A notification.
1 new photo.
My heart dropped.
I opened it.
It wasn’t a picture of me. It was a picture from my eyes.
It showed the corner of my bedroom. The corner I was staring at right now. But there was something in the picture that wasn’t in the room.
A door.
An old, wooden door where my wall should be — slightly open.
My breath caught in my throat. I looked up from my phone. The wall was still solid. No door. Nothing.
The phone buzzed again. Another photo.
The door was wider now. A sliver of darkness peeking through.
The buzz came again. Another photo.
The door was fully open.
This time, there was a figure standing in the doorway. Not him — not the man who wore my face. This was someone else. Someone taller, thinner, their face sunken and wrong, like their skin had been stretched too tight.
The phone buzzed again.
The figure was closer now.
I dropped the phone. It hit the floor with a hollow thud.
I didn’t want to look down, but I did.
The screen lit up one last time.
Look behind you.
My chest tightened. My throat burned. I didn’t turn around — I couldn’t.
But I felt it. The cold breath on my neck.
And then a voice. Not mine. Not his. Something worse.
The Stranger Who Wore My Face 8