The next morning, I woke up with a headache and a resolve to be brave. I told myself I was being foolish. It was an old house; old houses play tricks on your mind. But as I walked into the kitchen, I froze.
The back door was unlocked.
I always lock it. Every night, without fail. I checked the windows,all secure. But the door was slightly ajar, letting in the cool morning breeze. A strange, floral scent lingered in the air—like jasmine mixed with something metallic, like old copper.
Fear crept back into my chest. I called the police. They checked the perimeter, found no signs of forced entry, and suggested I might have forgotten to lock it. "It happens, Miss Moore," the officer said kindly. But I knew what I did.
After they left, I decided to explore the house thoroughly. Maybe there was a hidden passage, or a loose window I didn’t know about. I went from room to room, checking every corner. Finally, I reached the attic.
It was dusty and filled with cobwebs. Boxes were stacked against the walls, filled with old newspapers and forgotten furniture. But in the center of the room, covered by a white sheet, was a small wooden desk. I pulled the sheet away. It was beautiful, polished mahogany, with a small drawer.
The drawer was locked. But there was a key in the lock, rusted and old. I turned it. It clicked open.
Inside, there was a stack of letters tied with a ribbon, and a small leather-bound journal. I opened the journal. The handwriting was elegant, flowing, and familiar in a way that made my skin crawl.
The first page read: "My name is Lena Moore. This is my home."
My blood ran cold. That was my name. I flipped through the pages. It was written exactly one year ago. The entries described the same house, the same routine, the same fears. But the last entry was terrifying.
"I feel like I am being watched. There is a woman who looks exactly like me. She is standing in the mirror, waiting for me to leave. She wants my life."
I dropped the book as if it burned me. What is happening here? Who wrote this?