The house had grown quieter than usual. Nathan could feel it, a suffocating silence that weighed on his chest. Every creak of the wooden floor, every subtle groan of the walls felt amplified, unnatural—as if the house itself were holding its breath.
The whispers hadn't returned in days, yet their absence felt more unnerving than their presence. Nathan wandered the dimly lit corridors with a flashlight, his hand tightening around the grip with each step. The beam cut through the darkness, landing on dust-covered furniture and peeling wallpaper, but never what he feared most.
Eyes.
He could feel them. Watching. Judging. Waiting.
They were always just out of reach, hovering at the edge of sight, nestled in the black spaces between each breath and blink. He'd see them in reflections—brief flashes in mirrors, a pair of gleaming dots staring from the darkness, vanishing when he dared look directly.
Nathan had tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe the trauma had cracked something deep inside him. But deep down, he knew the truth: he was being watched.
One evening, as dusk folded into a deeper gloom, Nathan stood in front of the mirror in his parents' old room. It was cracked, the silver behind the glass peeling like aged skin. He stared at his own reflection, daring it to shift, to reveal the presence he always felt.
Nothing happened.
And yet... he couldn't move. Something in the reflection was off. His face, his expression—it wasn't quite right. The longer he stared, the more it changed. His mouth twitched upward when he wasn't smiling. His eyes blinked slower than his own.
Then it moved.
The reflection tilted its head, but Nathan hadn't. He stumbled back with a gasp, the mirror vibrating violently before going still again. His reflection returned to normal, but the damage was done.
He knew.
There was something behind the glass. Something that mimicked, waited, and watched.
Desperate for clarity, he tore through old journals, photographs, anything he could find from his parents' life in the house. In one tattered notebook, he found it—a single entry, scrawled in his mother's handwriting:
"They watch through the mirrors. The house is filled with them. Don't trust your reflection. It's not always you."
Nathan slammed the book shut, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. A surge of dread seized him as he looked around. Mirrors. There were too many.
He covered them all.
Blankets, newspaper, paint—anything to blot them out. But the sense of being watched didn't leave. It intensified.
One night, after exhausting himself in paranoia, Nathan collapsed onto the couch, eyes fluttering shut. He woke hours later in darkness, the flashlight flickering on the ground beside him.
He wasn't alone.
Standing in the corner of the room was a figure, tall and thin, its face obscured by shadow. But its eyes… its eyes shone with a pale, haunting light.
Frozen in place, Nathan whispered, "What do you want?"
The figure tilted its head—just like the reflection.
"To become you," it said, voice like shattering glass.
Nathan scrambled backward as the thing lunged forward, its form distorting as if reality struggled to contain it. He dove for the flashlight and shone the beam directly into the figure's face.
It hissed, retreating into the shadows. As it vanished, a mirror across the room cracked violently.
Nathan stood panting, the flashlight trembling in his hand. It wasn't just paranoia. It was real. And it had nearly replaced him.
From that day forward, Nathan never trusted what he saw. Not in mirrors. Not in glass. Not even in water.
Because the eyes still watched.
And they were always waiting for him to blink.