I locked the door behind me and stared into the mirror.
Three faces.
Familiar.
Identical.
Dead.
But not gone.
I pressed my fingers to the glass, and it throbbed.
Like it breathed.
Their eyes followed me.
Not angry.
Not even scared.
Just... waiting.
---
The diary had another new page.
One I hadn't written.
One I didn't want to read.
> "He doesn't need you to love him. He only needs you to forget who hated him."
That sentence broke something in me.
I wasn't scared anymore.
Not in the way I had been.
Now I was angry.
---
At lunch, he acted normal.
As always.
Perfect cutlery placement.
Lavender linen napkins.
Pasta with exactly four olives — her favorite.
He watched me eat.
I didn't speak.
When he reached to brush a strand of hair from my face, I grabbed his wrist.
> "What happened to the third one?"
He blinked.
The fork slipped from his hand.
> "You're remembering too much."
> "Was she the one in the woods?" I pressed.
"The one they said went missing after the accident? The one whose body was never found?"
He didn't answer.
But he didn't deny it either.
Instead, he said:
> "You should rest. Your mind is turning shadows into shapes."
> "No," I whispered.
"You're the one turning women into ghosts."
---
That night, I returned to the basement.
Alone.
The projector flickered again without me touching it.
This time, it played something new:
A video of him. Crying.
> "I keep trying, but none of them stay."
"The body accepts the heart. The mind doesn't."
"Amelia was weak. Arianne was kind. Elise was curious. But none of them... none of them became her."
He sobbed.
Then whispered:
> "Maybe the fourth will."
The screen cut to black.
Then a new message:
> "You are not the fourth."
"You are the last."
---
The last?
What did that mean?
I turned, and on the wall behind the screen…
Fresh words scratched into the stone:
"He will never let you leave. Not alive."