She had barely wrapped the towel around her body when the lights flickered, dimming and buzzing as if deciding whether to stay on. The old bathroom mirror reflected her silhouette in fragmented pieces, distorted by a crack that ran from corner to corner like a jagged scar. She stared into it, and for a moment, she thought she saw something else staring back—something darker, something wrong.
Ignoring the growing chill that seeped into the room, she turned her gaze back to the discarded newspaper, now soggy on the floor, the ink bleeding out in slow, inky tears. The words seemed to move, shift, like they were whispering secrets to her, taunting her with their knowledge. “REAPER CLAIMS THREE MORE,” the headline screamed again, but the letters seemed to twist, forming a shape she couldn’t quite decipher. Her breath caught in her throat.
The faucet dripped, each drop echoing louder than the last in the silence. She could feel a cold draft creeping along her spine, raising goosebumps on her wet skin. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to deepen, growing darker, stretching as if they had lives of their own. And then she heard it—soft at first, almost a hum, but unmistakable. A faint whisper, just at the edge of her hearing.
Her pulse quickened. She knew that voice, though she hadn’t heard it in years. A voice that belonged to someone who should have been long gone. She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening on the towel, knuckles white. The whisper came again, a little louder this time, like a breath brushing against her ear, carrying with it a familiar name.
Her name.
She felt a sudden, sharp prick at the back of her neck, as if an unseen hand had reached out from the shadows and touched her with the lightest, coldest touch. Panic surged through her veins, but she pushed it down, forcing herself to breathe. She glanced at the mirror again, and this time, she did see it—her reflection wasn’t alone.
There was a face behind her shoulder, pale and grinning, eyes wide with something that wasn’t quite joy. The lights flickered again, and she spun around, but the room was empty. The air felt heavier, like it was pressing down on her, squeezing the breath from her lungs.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the light switch. She needed light, she needed to see. But as her fingers brushed the switch, the whisper came again, louder now, clearer, and with a chill that made her bones ache.
“Run.”
