Chapter 3: The Reflection
572 Words
Eli didn’t remember leaving Apartment 9B.
One moment, the door had slammed behind him. The next, he was sitting on his own bed, still wearing his shoes, morning sunlight trembling weakly through the blinds. His laptop sat open across the room, humming.
For a long time, he just stared at it.
He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten home. He couldn’t remember walking down the stairs.
When he finally forced himself to look, the recording software was still open — only now there were two windows running. One labeled Room_9A.wav and another labeled Reflection.mp4.
He didn’t remember recording any video.
The file loaded automatically, the screen flickering to life with static and faint city light bleeding through digital snow. A figure appeared in the grain — sitting at a desk, staring into a camera. The resolution was too low to make out details, but something in the posture made Eli’s throat tighten.
The figure looked like him.
He leaned closer to the screen, watching the man move — slight gestures, the way he scratched the back of his neck, rubbed his eyes, tilted his head. All things Eli knew he did. Then, the figure turned toward the camera, and Eli saw his own face staring back.
“I told you not to listen,” the reflection said.
Eli slammed the lid shut.
His reflection in the dark laptop surface didn’t move right away.
For a few seconds, it just stared back.
Then it smiled.
He stumbled to the bathroom, clutching the counter, breathing hard. He needed to see his face — the real one. The mirror was cold to the touch. His reflection looked pale, hollow-eyed, his pupils slightly too wide. But it was him.
He leaned closer, whispering, “You’re real. I’m real.”
The reflection didn’t echo the words.
Instead, it tilted its head — a split-second delay that wasn’t possible. Eli froze, the air turning heavy. The reflection lifted a hand and pressed it against the glass, palm first.
Eli’s own hand shook as he matched it.
A faint hum filled the room.
The mirror vibrated, just slightly — like a low-frequency pulse, the same kind he heard through his headphones.
Then, from somewhere deep in the pipes or behind the wall, came a distorted whisper:
“Keep recording.”
He stumbled backward. His phone lit up on the counter, vibrating. Unknown number. The screen showed only “9B” as the caller ID.
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But the call didn’t stop. It rang once, twice… then a third time. When it ended, the voicemail icon blinked.
He pressed play.
At first, only static.
Then his own voice spoke through the speaker — quiet, ragged, afraid.
“If you’re hearing this, don’t—”
A burst of static swallowed the rest.
He replayed it, but the file was gone. Deleted automatically.
When he lifted his head, the bathroom mirror was dark — not reflecting him anymore, only his empty apartment behind him. But in that reflection, something moved past the doorway.
Eli turned. Nothing there.
When he looked back at the mirror, his reflection was smiling again.
And the faint sound of typing came from the other room.
Someone — or something — was writing.
On his laptop screen, new text appeared, line by line, as though dictated by invisible hands:
He looks at the mirror and realizes it isn’t reflecting the room anymore.
It’s reflecting the reader.
- Writer
