Chapter Two: The Presence Behind the Glass
Elias didn't sleep.
He lay on his bed, unmoving, eyes wide open, as if blinking might summon something from the dark.
The night stretched endlessly, and his body ached for rest, but his mind refused.
A weight pressed against his chest—not fear, not anxiety—something heavier.
He watched the ceiling for hours. Nothing moved.
Yet the stillness wasn't comforting.
It was a kind of silence that listened back.
When he finally stood, morning had already arrived—though it was difficult to tell.
The light through the curtains was pale, lifeless.
Not golden like morning should be. It was closer to… grey.
He walked through the hallway, eyes avoiding the last door on the right.
He had closed it the night before but never locked it.
He hadn't dared.
In the bathroom, he splashed water on his face, repeatedly, until it felt like his skin was no longer his.
When he looked into the bathroom mirror, something felt wrong.
His reflection was there.
Normal. Unchanged.
But… delayed.
Just for a fraction of a second, it lagged behind his movement—like a video that skipped a frame.
He tilted his head abruptly.
The reflection followed instantly.
Still, something in his gut insisted: It's not quite you.
He turned away.
The city outside felt different, too.
The wind didn't just blow—it touched him, deliberately.
The streetlights flickered slightly, even though it was broad daylight.
People passed, faceless in the blur of routine, but Elias sensed something watching him.
Not someone.
Something.
At work, he barely spoke.
His coworkers exchanged glances.
One of them whispered, "You look pale. Everything okay?"
He nodded once.
Lied without words.
During lunch break, he sat alone in the break room.
He scrolled through his phone without really seeing anything.
Then he felt it.
Something in his inner jacket pocket.
He reached in and pulled out a small, folded paper.
He didn't remember putting it there.
Unfolding it slowly, he found a sentence written in blue ink, in shaky handwriting:
"The child does not remember the blood,
but he carries its scent."
His fingers stiffened.
The handwriting looked familiar.
His own? But older?
He turned the paper over.
Random scribbles covered the back.
At first, it looked like meaningless lines.
But as he stared… they formed half a face.
His face.
He crumpled the paper and threw it into the trash bin beside him.
Then he glanced at the glass door of the break room.
A reflection.
Someone—no, something—stood behind him.
He spun around.
Nothing.
Just air.
But the sense of presence lingered.
That night, he returned home drained, hollowed out.
He turned on every light in the apartment.
Still, shadows clung to the corners like oil.
He sat on the couch and turned on the TV.
Static on one channel.
Then another.
Then… a strange black-and-white image appeared.
A child stood in an empty room.
No sound.
Just staring.
Directly at the screen.
At Elias.
And then a whisper. So faint he could barely catch it:
"Where did you hide them?"
He turned off the TV.
The silence roared louder.
Time passed. He didn't keep track.
Eventually, he stood and walked toward his bedroom.
As he approached, he noticed something strange:
A faint, narrow beam of light stretched across the floor.
It came from beneath the door across the hallway—his mother's room.
He had shut that door.
He was sure.
Now it stood slightly ajar.
He stepped toward it.
Pushed it open slowly.
The room inside was exactly as it had been.
Yet something was… shifted.
The mirror was covered again, draped in a thick cloth.
He didn't remember doing that.
His feet moved without his permission.
He approached the mirror.
His hand reached for the cloth.
He pulled it away.
The mirror was dark—darker than before.
But now, its surface pulsed faintly… like it was breathing.
He leaned in.
At first, nothing.
Then—
The glass shifted.
But this time, it didn't show a memory.
Nor a future.
It showed his own room, in this exact moment.
Same bed.
Same lighting.
Same angle.
But in the mirror's reflection, in the far right corner of the room…
something was standing.
Tall. Still.
Faceless.
Watching Elias.
From within the reflection.
His blood turned to ice.
The surface rippled—
Then went still.
He backed away, heart racing.
Closed the door behind him without a sound.
Returned to his bedroom.
And found a folded piece of paper on his pillow.
He didn't place it there.
He opened it.
Written in faint grey ink, barely visible:
"You didn't start anything.
You merely continued what others couldn't finish."
He sat down, staring at the paper, trying to feel the weight of the words.
But what he truly felt was this:
The mirror was no longer just in that room.
It was with him.
In him.
And tomorrow night…
It would no longer ask permission to open.