The Second Voice
890 Words
Arin didn't turn.
Every instinct in her body screamed at her to.
To spin around.
To fight.
To prove that fear still obeyed logic if you moved fast enough.
But something held her still.
Not paralysis.
Calculation.
Because the message hadn't felt theatrical.
It had felt wrong. Different.
The first messages from him always carried a certain rhythm. Controlled. Deliberate. Almost intimate in the way they anticipated her reactions before she had them.
But this-
He's behind you.
That felt rushed.
Uneven.
Like it had been sent by someone whose hands were shaking.
Arin's grip tightened around her phone.
Her pulse hammered once against her ribs.
Twice.
Then steadied.
"Nice try," she said quietly into the darkness.
No answer.
The room remained pitch black except for the pale glow of her screen reflecting faintly against the canvas.
The painted figure stared back at her from the shadows.
Incomplete.
Watching.
Her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number.
Not him.
Don't turn around.
Cold slid down her spine.
Arin's jaw tightened instantly.
"Okay," she whispered to herself. "Not funny anymore."
Another buzz.
If he thinks you can see him, it changes things.
Her breath slowed carefully.
Controlled.
The camera.
Her eyes flicked toward the tiny black lens across the room.
Covered.
Still.
Silent.
"You said he was behind me," she typed quickly. "Who are you?"
Three dots appeared immediately.
Disappeared.
Returned.
I tried leaving once.
A sound interrupted the message.
Soft.
Close.
Directly behind her.
Arin moved before she could think.
She spun around-
Nothing.
The room was empty.
Her chest rose sharply as adrenaline hit her bloodstream all at once.
The door remained locked.
The windows shut.
No movement.
No one.
And yet, the air felt disturbed.
Like someone had just left.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time from him.
You turned around.
Her stomach dropped.
Arin stared at the screen.
"What the hell are you?" she typed.
The reply came slower than usual.
Someone trying very hard not to lie to you.
That answer unsettled her more than any threat could have.
Because it implied effort.
Limits.
Restraint.
She swallowed hard and looked back toward the canvas.
Another line had appeared.
Longer now.
Intentional.
The shape of a shoulder beginning to emerge from the shadow.
"I didn't paint that," she whispered.
No.
"Then who did?"
Silence.
You're asking the wrong question.
Her heartbeat slowed again.
Not from calm.
From concentration.
The room suddenly felt like a puzzle built around her instead of a space she lived in.
Every object looked slightly unfamiliar.
The easel.
The chair.
The covered camera.
Even the painting itself.
Like the apartment had become a stage while she wasn't paying attention.
Another message from the unknown number appeared.
Ask him about Evelyn.
Arin frowned immediately.
"Who's Evelyn?"
The reply came instantly.
He won't tell you the truth.
A pulse of irritation cut through her fear.
Enough.
Arin stood abruptly and grabbed the cloth off the camera.
The lens stared back at her.
Unblinking.
"You don't get to do this anonymously anymore," she said sharply. "Who are you?"
Several seconds passed.
Look at you.
Her jaw clenched.
"What does that mean?"
You're frightened and still confronting me directly.
Another pause.
That's rare.
Something about the message felt different tonight.
Less composed.
Less untouchable.
Like the darkness had affected him, too.
"You're avoiding the question."
Yes.
"At least you admit it."
I admit most things.
Arin folded her arms tightly across herself.
The room suddenly felt colder with the lights still out.
"Fine," she said. "Then tell me this."
Silence.
She stared directly into the lens.
"What do you want from me?"
No immediate response came.
For the first time since this started, he seemed to hesitate.
The typing bubble appeared.
Stopped.
Appeared again.
I wanted to observe you.
A pause.
Then I wanted to understand you.
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Now I want your attention badly enough to ruin myself for it.
The breath left her lungs unevenly.
Not because the words were romantic.
Because they didn't sound rehearsed.
They sounded dangerous.
Honest in the way unstable things often were.
Arin hated the small flicker of warmth that moved through her chest anyway.
"You don't even know me."
I know you paint when you're angry instead of crying.
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
I know you reread old messages before deleting them.
I know you pretend not to care when people disappoint you because disappointment embarrasses you more than pain does.
Her eyes lowered slowly.
The accuracy of it felt invasive.
Intimate.
"How long have you watched me?" she whispered.
This time-
No response.
Which answered enough.
Arin looked back at the painting again.
At the unfinished figure emerging from darkness.
And suddenly! She noticed something she hadn't before.
The outline wasn't random.
The height.
The posture.
The angle of the shoulders.
It resembled the silhouette of someone standing behind her.
Her blood turned cold.
Slowly-
Very slowly-
She turned back toward the empty darkness of the room.
Another message arrived from the unknown number.
He's not in the apartment.
Before she could process that, another message came from him.
But I used to be.
The lights flickered violently.
Once.
Twice.
Then returned.
And for half a second-
In the mirror across the room-
Arin saw the reflection of a man standing directly behind her.
Smiling.
Then gone.
- Writer
