Every time she blinked, something in the room moved.
At first, she thought it was just her imagination—a flicker at the corner of her eye. But twenty minutes in, the pattern emerged. Undeniable. Every blink shifted the world around her.
She wasn't a fool.
She narrowed her eyes, surveying the room like a detective at a crime scene. The television buzzed quietly. The sofa hadn't moved. The remote sat snug in her hand. She noted every object's position like her life depended on it.
Then she blinked.
The remote was no longer in her hand. It lay on the table.
She froze.
Was her mind playing tricks on her?
She stood, opened the door, and stepped into the corridor. Blinked again.
Nothing happened. The hallway remained still.
She reentered the room. Her eyes locked on the wall clock:
10:52 AM.
She blinked.
12:52 PM.
Her stomach twisted.
Another blink.
2:52 PM.
Panic crawled up her spine like frostbite. Time was slipping—two hours gone with every blink. And it wasn't just time.
The room itself... it shifted. Sometimes one object moved. Sometimes more. The furniture danced with every shutter of her eyelids.
She needed grounding. Something normal.
She opened her laptop. Launched her notepad. Tried to drown in her part-time work—anything to feel anchored.
Then she blinked.
Words had appeared on the screen.
She hadn't typed them.
"Don't blink. Watch carefully."
Her fingers trembled as more lines emerged:
"Something is in the room."
Her skin crawled. The air felt too still, like the room was holding its breath.
The chair was closer now. Inches from where it had been.
She hadn't moved it.
She clenched her jaw. No blinking. Not now.
Grabbing her phone, she tried to call someone—anyone. But the screen was black. Then, a single word appeared in white, pulsing:
"Blink."
Her heart thudded like war drums. Her eyes burned from staying open.
She blinked.
Darkness.
She opened her eyes again—this time outside her apartment door.
It was locked.
She didn't remember walking out.
Inside, the window glowed. Her laptop screen faced her, bright and unblinking. The same words shone through the glass:
"Blink."
She clenched her fists. Tried to steady her breathing.
Then—
A voice. Behind her.
"Neha…"
She turned sharply.
It was her mother's voice. Gentle. Familiar.
"Wake up, Neha."
Her eyes snapped open. She was in her room. On the bed. Panting.
Her mom was folding clothes nearby, humming softly, bathed in afternoon light.
A dream? Just a dream?
She reached for her notepad. Checked her phone.
Routine. Logic. Order.
Her heart stopped.
The notes were still there. Typed in cold, clear font:
"Something is in the room."
Her mouth went dry.
"Mom?" she called out.
She checked her phone again.
The word flashed:
"Blink.""Blink.""Blink."
Panic surged.
"MOM!" she cried out. "Look! This was from my dream—it's still here!"
Her mother didn't turn. Kept folding the clothes, calm as ever.
Then, in her usual tone, casual and warm:
"I'm sure it'll be fine, Neha. Just blink."
Neha's voice cracked, a child trembling in horror:"Mom?"
Her mother turned.
Still smiling—
But her eyes were blinking. Constantly.Unnaturally.
Like a glitch in the world. Like a puppet on repeat.
Neha's scream caught in her throat.
No words came.
She looked down at her phone.
Beneath the pulsing word was something new. Faint. Glowing. Etched into the screen:
The Blinker's Curse.
She turned back toward her mother.
Still blinking. Still smiling.
Neha blinked.
The screen changed again:
"The Blinker's Curse has claimed you."
One final blink.
Darkness.