That night, the whispers didn't stay soft for long.
Tyler woke gasping, drenched in sweat. His lamp was on. He didn't remember turning it on. His journal lay open at the foot of his bed, pages covered in handwriting that wasn't his—sharp strokes, aggressive curves.
He picked it up with shaking fingers. Line after line scrawled across the paper:
LET ME SPEAK. LET ME SPEAK. LET ME SPEAK.
His pulse thundered in his ears. He dropped the notebook.
And then he heard it—clear, guttural, right behind his ear.
"Tyler."
He spun, slamming back against the wall. The room was empty, shadows stretching long in the lamp's glow. His lungs seized, breath ragged.
The reflection in the mirror grinned at him from across the room.
This time, it moved.
It leaned forward, pressed its palm flat against the inside of the glass, as though the barrier were thinner now. The sound of nails dragging echoed, shrill, like claws against a chalkboard.
"Don't you see?" it whispered, lips moving in sync. "You don't need him. You don't need anyone. You have me."
Tyler squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his palms over his ears.
"No," he rasped. "You're not real. You're not real."
But when he opened his eyes again, the glass was cracked. A fine spiderweb fracture stretched from the corner where the reflection's palm had been.