What Follows When You Don’t Look
794 Words
Kevin didn’t stop running until his legs couldn’t take another step.
He stumbled into a small 24-hour laundromat—one of those quiet, flickering places that looks like it hasn’t changed since the 90s. Rows of washing machines hummed faintly. The vending machine buzzed in the corner. A single man folded towels without looking up.
No mirrors.
No glass.
Just metal and plastic and fluorescent light.
Kevin collapsed onto one of the plastic chairs, dragging his hoodie over his head, trying to shrink inside it.
His breath still wouldn’t steady.
His hands were shaking so badly he had to sit on them.
His mind kept replaying the same impossible image:
His reflection gone.
And something else standing where he should’ve been.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
“This isn’t real,” he whispered. “This can’t be real.”
But every part of him knew it was.
⸻
His phone buzzed.
Kevin jumped hard enough to knock the chair leg against the floor.
He pulled the phone out slowly, like it might bite.
1 New Message — Liam
His stomach dropped.
Of course Liam would sense something. He always did.
He opened the message.
Where are you?
Short. Precise. That tone he used only when he was worried—or when he felt Kevin slipping beyond his reach.
Kevin swallowed. His thumb hovered, shaking.
He typed:
Out. Needed air.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Then—
Stay where you are. I’ll come get you.
Kevin’s heart squeezed.
Not with comfort.
With dread.
Liam didn’t say please.
Liam didn’t ask.
Liam collected him.
Kevin typed back quickly:
No. I’m fine. I’ll come home later.
The dots appeared again.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Liam was thinking. Calculating. Deciding whether to push.
Finally:
Call me.
Kevin turned the screen off.
He couldn’t talk. He couldn’t explain. And he didn’t trust his voice not to c***k, not to reveal too much.
He shoved the phone into his pocket like someone might snatch it.
⸻
The man folding towels left.
The door chimed as he exited, leaving the laundromat empty.
Completely empty.
Kevin tried to breathe deeply—four seconds in, four out—but his chest felt hollow, scraped raw.
He stared at the spinning washers.
Round windows.
Glass.
His stomach twisted sharply.
He forced himself to look away—too late.
In the reflection, just for a flicker—
Something stood behind him.
Kevin whipped around.
Nothing.
Just rows of machines and silence.
He exhaled, shaky, and turned back—
The reflection was his again.
But his face looked… wrong.
Too strained.
Too pale.
Too focused on him.
He lifted his hand slowly toward the glass circle.
His reflection didn’t move.
Kevin froze.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t—”
The reflection suddenly slammed its palm against the inside of the washer window, cracking the glass with a single sharp fracture.
Kevin fell out of his chair.
The sound echoed through the laundromat like a gunshot.
The glass trembled.
Not shattered—just cracked.
But the c***k spread in a smooth, spiderweb pattern, pulsing like it was alive.
Kevin scrambled backward on the floor, pushing himself until his back hit a dryer.
The reflection pressed its face to the glass.
Not Kevin’s face.
A smaller face.
A boy.
Wet hair clinging to his forehead.
Eyes wide and glassy.
Lips blue.
The missing girl from their childhood flashed suddenly in Kevin’s mind—
and then the boy spoke.
No sound.
Just the movement of lips through the glass.
don’t go home
Kevin’s breath stuttered.
“What?” he whispered. “Why?”
The boy’s head tilted in a jerky, unnatural angle.
he’s not alone in there anymore
The laundromat lights flickered once—twice—then steadied.
Kevin’s blood went cold.
He forced himself to breathe through the rising tremor building in his hands.
“Who’s in my apartment?” he asked, voice tiny.
The boy’s reflection leaned closer until his forehead pressed the glass.
not who
what
The c***k across the washer deepened with a soft, splintering sound—
like something pushing through.
Kevin bolted upright.
He grabbed his bag, didn’t even zip it, and sprinted to the door.
As he pushed it open, the lights behind him went out all at once.
Darkness swallowed the laundromat.
And in the reflection on the glass door—just for a split second before he escaped—he saw himself standing inside the dark, staring back at him.
Only…
his reflection wasn’t trying to leave.
It was trying to reach him.
Kevin stumbled into the street, breath sharp and broken.
He didn’t know where he was going.
But he knew one thing for certain:
He could not go home.
Not while something else was already there.
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