I do not know this man. I do not know this man in the mirror. The one staring right back at me, moving his eyes to reflect wherever I look. He does every single thing I do. Makes every single face, pokes back at fingers aimed against the glass, and turns his back when I turn mine. To the untrained eye, it looks as any normal reflection does; behaves as any mirror is designed to do. There is nothing obviously out of the ordinary that would arouse suspicions otherwise. But as of a few restless nights ago, my rationality has flipped completely on its head. I cannot explain what changed in the span of those 24 hours. The mirror looks…

The nonstop pitter-patter of the cold rain against my bedroom window set the mood. I found myself rubbing my eyes, unable to follow the now swaying lines. My book was a jumbled mess of dyslexic text. I spent another minute trying to decipher the words, but my exhausted state of mind could not put meaning to them. I folded the top right corner of the page and gingerly placed Bram Stoker’s, Dracula, back on the windowsill.   I must’ve dozed off at some point because I found myself dreaming. Eyes. Red eyes the size of saucer plates peered into the depths of my soul. No matter how hard I tried to look away, I could not break the gaze. I felt…

In the flickering light of the torch, the old gold shimmered with a mesmerizing allure, a testament to the treasures of a bygone era. At long last, the avaricious seekers had found their prize, their hearts consumed by an insatiable hunger for wealth. “We shall be rich beyond measure,” declared Sir Hampton with a triumphant laugh, his fingers greedily digging into the mounds of golden coins. His men exchanged glances of unbridled excitement, their hands eagerly filling their pockets with the gleaming metal. “Never again shall we toil,” one man exclaimed with glee. “Nor our children,” another added, his voice brimming with anticipation. The crew’s laughter echoed through the ancient chamber, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. But their revelry…

The man’s mind was a blank slate, a void where the memory of how he came to be stranded on this small island should have been. He had woken on the shore, his body battered and bleeding, with the ghostly echo of an incessant beeping ringing in his ears. When he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of fire and twisted metal, but the meaning behind these fragmented visions eluded him. He spent the first day clinging to the safety of the shore, too afraid to venture into the unknown depths of the island. With his own hands, he built a fire, cracked open a coconut, and fashioned a crude shelter from the branches and leaves that lay scattered nearby.…

It’s almost seven. Zoya leans back in her chair, stretching her arms with heavy sighs after a fifteen-page essay. It’s due tomorrow, so there’s still time for edits – but she’s been staring at her screen too long. She peeks out her bedroom window to the right. The last creeping bands of pink and orange sun grow dim across the barren treetops of the forest nearby, bleeding into the horizon beyond her corner of the suburb. The autumn air is cool and fresh, the wind is tame and her work is done for the day. She’s looking forward to her daily run. Kicking off the chair, putting her PC to sleep and slipping into freshly-laundered workout clothes and a thin…

The following document is from a journal found in an abandoned mental facility. Please note that the probability that any of this is real is low, and most likely the result of the patient’s broken mind. I doubt anyone will believe me, I doubt any of you who might have stumbled upon this will even care afterwards. This is my story. I’m writing this down because somehow that thing got in here. I don’t know how much time I have, maybe an hour, maybe a few seconds before it breaks the door down. It all started the day I bought my first house. I had lived in apartments and flats, but never owned a place of my own. It was…

The following document is from a journal found in an abandoned mental facility. Please note that the probability that any of this is real is low, and most likely the result of the patient’s broken mind. I doubt anyone will believe me, I doubt any of you who might have stumbled upon this will even care afterwards. This is my story. I’m writing this down because somehow that thing got in here. I don’t know how much time I have, maybe an hour, maybe a few seconds before it breaks the door down. It all started the day I bought my first house. I had lived in apartments and flats, but never owned a place of my own. It was…

It’s almost seven. Zoya leans back in her chair, stretching her arms with heavy sighs after a fifteen-page essay. It’s due tomorrow, so there’s still time for edits – but she’s been staring at her screen too long. She peeks out her bedroom window to the right. The last creeping bands of pink and orange sun grow dim across the barren treetops of the forest nearby, bleeding into the horizon beyond her corner of the suburb. The autumn air is cool and fresh, the wind is tame and her work is done for the day. She’s looking forward to her daily run. Kicking off the chair, putting her PC to sleep and slipping into freshly-laundered workout clothes and a thin…

The man’s mind was a blank slate, a void where the memory of how he came to be stranded on this small island should have been. He had woken on the shore, his body battered and bleeding, with the ghostly echo of an incessant beeping ringing in his ears. When he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of fire and twisted metal, but the meaning behind these fragmented visions eluded him. He spent the first day clinging to the safety of the shore, too afraid to venture into the unknown depths of the island. With his own hands, he built a fire, cracked open a coconut, and fashioned a crude shelter from the branches and leaves that lay scattered nearby.…

In the flickering light of the torch, the old gold shimmered with a mesmerizing allure, a testament to the treasures of a bygone era. At long last, the avaricious seekers had found their prize, their hearts consumed by an insatiable hunger for wealth. “We shall be rich beyond measure,” declared Sir Hampton with a triumphant laugh, his fingers greedily digging into the mounds of golden coins. His men exchanged glances of unbridled excitement, their hands eagerly filling their pockets with the gleaming metal. “Never again shall we toil,” one man exclaimed with glee. “Nor our children,” another added, his voice brimming with anticipation. The crew’s laughter echoed through the ancient chamber, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. But their revelry…

The nonstop pitter-patter of the cold rain against my bedroom window set the mood. I found myself rubbing my eyes, unable to follow the now swaying lines. My book was a jumbled mess of dyslexic text. I spent another minute trying to decipher the words, but my exhausted state of mind could not put meaning to them. I folded the top right corner of the page and gingerly placed Bram Stoker’s, Dracula, back on the windowsill.   I must’ve dozed off at some point because I found myself dreaming. Eyes. Red eyes the size of saucer plates peered into the depths of my soul. No matter how hard I tried to look away, I could not break the gaze. I felt…

I do not know this man. I do not know this man in the mirror. The one staring right back at me, moving his eyes to reflect wherever I look. He does every single thing I do. Makes every single face, pokes back at fingers aimed against the glass, and turns his back when I turn mine. To the untrained eye, it looks as any normal reflection does; behaves as any mirror is designed to do. There is nothing obviously out of the ordinary that would arouse suspicions otherwise. But as of a few restless nights ago, my rationality has flipped completely on its head. I cannot explain what changed in the span of those 24 hours. The mirror looks…

The following document is from a journal found in an abandoned mental facility. Please note that the probability that any of this is real is low, and most likely the result of the patient’s broken mind. I doubt anyone will believe me, I doubt any of you who might have stumbled upon this will even care afterwards. This is my story. I’m writing this down because somehow that thing got in here. I don’t know how much time I have, maybe an hour, maybe a few seconds before it breaks the door down. It all started the day I bought my first house. I had lived in apartments and flats, but never owned a place of my own. It was…

The man’s mind was a blank slate, a void where the memory of how he came to be stranded on this small island should have been. He had woken on the shore, his body battered and bleeding, with the ghostly echo of an incessant beeping ringing in his ears. When he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of fire and twisted metal, but the meaning behind these fragmented visions eluded him. He spent the first day clinging to the safety of the shore, too afraid to venture into the unknown depths of the island. With his own hands, he built a fire, cracked open a coconut, and fashioned a crude shelter from the branches and leaves that lay scattered nearby.…

It’s almost seven. Zoya leans back in her chair, stretching her arms with heavy sighs after a fifteen-page essay. It’s due tomorrow, so there’s still time for edits – but she’s been staring at her screen too long. She peeks out her bedroom window to the right. The last creeping bands of pink and orange sun grow dim across the barren treetops of the forest nearby, bleeding into the horizon beyond her corner of the suburb. The autumn air is cool and fresh, the wind is tame and her work is done for the day. She’s looking forward to her daily run. Kicking off the chair, putting her PC to sleep and slipping into freshly-laundered workout clothes and a thin…

The nonstop pitter-patter of the cold rain against my bedroom window set the mood. I found myself rubbing my eyes, unable to follow the now swaying lines. My book was a jumbled mess of dyslexic text. I spent another minute trying to decipher the words, but my exhausted state of mind could not put meaning to them. I folded the top right corner of the page and gingerly placed Bram Stoker’s, Dracula, back on the windowsill.   I must’ve dozed off at some point because I found myself dreaming. Eyes. Red eyes the size of saucer plates peered into the depths of my soul. No matter how hard I tried to look away, I could not break the gaze. I felt…

In the flickering light of the torch, the old gold shimmered with a mesmerizing allure, a testament to the treasures of a bygone era. At long last, the avaricious seekers had found their prize, their hearts consumed by an insatiable hunger for wealth. “We shall be rich beyond measure,” declared Sir Hampton with a triumphant laugh, his fingers greedily digging into the mounds of golden coins. His men exchanged glances of unbridled excitement, their hands eagerly filling their pockets with the gleaming metal. “Never again shall we toil,” one man exclaimed with glee. “Nor our children,” another added, his voice brimming with anticipation. The crew’s laughter echoed through the ancient chamber, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. But their revelry…

I do not know this man. I do not know this man in the mirror. The one staring right back at me, moving his eyes to reflect wherever I look. He does every single thing I do. Makes every single face, pokes back at fingers aimed against the glass, and turns his back when I turn mine. To the untrained eye, it looks as any normal reflection does; behaves as any mirror is designed to do. There is nothing obviously out of the ordinary that would arouse suspicions otherwise. But as of a few restless nights ago, my rationality has flipped completely on its head. I cannot explain what changed in the span of those 24 hours. The mirror looks…