ACT II: Slipping Through Cracks
There was no day anymore.
Not really.
Elias woke up, sometimes, to light leaking in through the windows—but it never felt like morning. Not in the way it used to. There was no hunger, no alertness. Just presence. A reluctant awareness that he was still here. Still inside this house that now felt like a skin he couldn't shed.
The mirrors began to betray him first.
At first, it was subtle. A blink that didn't match. A delayed reflection. He thought it was exhaustion. He avoided them after that, but every time he passed one—hallway, bathroom, the sliver in the microwave door—he caught glimpses of... not-him. His mouth would twitch slightly later. His reflection's eyes would linger, long after he looked away.
One night, he passed the hallway mirror and it didn't show anything at all.
He stood in front of it for ten full minutes, trying to convince himself it was just a trick of the dark. But the hallway light was on. He could see the rest of the hallway reflected clearly—the photo frames, the peeling paint, the lamp—but not himself.
Elias didn't go near that mirror again.
He tried to track time with clocks, phones, journals. But everything felt like it was in on the joke. The battery in his wristwatch died. The wall clock ticked backwards once before freezing at 3:07. He replaced the batteries—twice—and it just stopped entirely. His phone showed different times on different apps. Once, the weather widget said it was raining.
The sky outside was clear.
But was it?
Sometimes the windows wouldn't show anything. Just fog. Just white. He placed his hand against the glass, and it was cold—not the kind of cold that comes from outside air, but the sterile cold of a freezer. Of something dead.
The neighborhood seemed quieter, too. Like it had retreated.
He hadn't heard the garbage truck in days. Or birds. No kids on bikes. No rustle of wind in leaves. He opened the front door once, just to check.
There was no sound.
No wind.
Just a muffled, heavy stillness. Like the world had been padded in cotton.
Elias stepped outside.
The moment his foot hit the front porch, he felt dizzy. A sudden rush of vertigo, like the ground tilted underneath him. He stumbled back into the doorway, heart hammering. The house swallowed the dizziness whole as he crossed the threshold again.
He hadn't stepped out since.
Then came the gaps.
Big ones.
Entire days he couldn't remember. Or hours that vanished. He'd walk into the bathroom and come out to a sky that had turned completely dark. The TV would flick on sometimes, even when unplugged. Once, it showed static—and for a brief second, he thought he saw himself on screen. Not a reflection, but a live feed. Staring into a mirror. Writing something down.
He blinked, and it was gone.
There were notes in strange places. Not his handwriting.
Under the sink: "He's starting to see it."
Behind the toilet tank: "Keep him disoriented."
Written in red marker on the inside of the closet door: "DON'T TRUST THE BASEMENT."
The house had a basement. He hadn't been inside it. The door was always locked. No key ever fit. One time, he thought he heard something from behind it—shuffling, or breathing.
Or maybe it was his own heartbeat.
He tried to call someone. Anyone.
He found his phone in the freezer.
When he finally charged it, the contacts were gone. All of them. Instead, there were three new entries:
"You"
"Not You"
"It's Already Here"
He deleted them.
They came back.
He left the phone on the windowsill after that and stopped touching it.
Then one morning—if you could call it morning—Elias found his closet filled with clothes that weren't his. Not just one or two shirts, but an entire wardrobe. Jackets he'd never worn. Shoes that didn't fit. A woman's scarf. Everything smelled faintly of mint.
He stood there for a long time.
Then noticed the mirror on the opposite wall showed him wearing one of the jackets.
But he was still in his T-shirt.
He slammed the closet shut and backed out of the room.
Sleep became impossible. He would lie down, close his eyes—and then open them hours later, somewhere else in the house. On the staircase. Under the kitchen table. Once, in the bathtub with water running.
He started talking to himself. Out loud. Just to anchor thoughts.
It didn't help.
He caught himself mid-sentence one night, saying, "We're almost ready," in a voice that wasn't his own.
His throat had gone dry. The room spun. He vomited in the sink.
The reflection in the faucet watched him, unmoving.
The feeling of observation grew heavier. Denser.
The walls began to pulse at night—he swore he could hear them breathing. In, out. In, out. As though the house was alive. As though it had always been alive. And the more he tried to hold on to facts, to memories, the more they crumbled.
His father's face? Gone.
His favorite song? Couldn't remember the name.
He wasn't even sure of his birthday anymore.
The only thing that remained, solid and unchanging, was the house.
The more Elias faded, the more real it became.
One night, he dreamt of himself standing in a room with no doors. Just walls covered in photographs of people he didn't recognize.
But in the middle of them all—
A picture of him.
Smiling.
Standing in front of this very house.
With a caption underneath.
"It chose you."