My fingertips brushed the mirror — and it wasn’t cold. It felt warm. Too warm. Like skin.
The surface pulsed beneath my hand, faintly beating like a second heartbeat. My heart. His heart. I couldn’t tell anymore.
The woman’s face in the mirror twisted with panic. Her palms slapped against the glass, leaving smudges that didn’t fade.
“Let go!” she screamed. “He’s not alone — you’re bringing them all through!”
My hand wouldn’t pull back. My arm burned, muscles trembling, but I couldn’t stop.
The stranger leaned in behind her, his face — her face — inches from hers. His head tilted again, too far to the side, until his neck made that wet, cracking sound.
“It’s his turn now,” he whispered. His eyes flicked to me. “They all want a turn.”
The mirror’s surface rippled beneath my palm. Not glass. Not anymore.
It was soft. Stretching. Like skin pulled too tight over bone.
Something moved underneath it.
The faces. The ones behind him. They weren’t still. They pressed closer to the surface, grinning, eyes too wide, mouths too wrong. They weren’t just watching.
They were trying to get out.
The woman in the mirror’s face contorted with rage. Her voice wasn’t a scream anymore — it was a snarl.
“If you let them through, you’ll never get your face back.”
My chest heaved, the weight of the stranger’s smile still pulling at my own. My face burned, cheeks stretched too far, jaw aching.
The stranger grinned wider. His head tilted the other way.
“Maybe he doesn’t want it back.”
My hand sank into the mirror. Not through it — into it.
It felt like my skin was being pulled inside out. Like something was grabbing my wrist from the other side.
And then, as the woman pounded on the glass one last time, the stranger leaned closer. His face pressed against the other side, his lips barely moving as he spoke.
The Stranger Who Wore My Face 19