The Last Message

Not Everyone Who Looks Like You Is You

Anya didn’t sleep. Not that night, not the next. How could she? Her reflection was no longer hers. Her photos existed without her taking them. And now something — something with her face — was on the other side of the glass.

At Priya’s apartment, Anya refused mirrors. She covered every reflective surface with towels, newspapers, blankets. But that didn’t help the dreams.

In them, she was always standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Only… it wasn’t her in the reflection. It was her face, yes — but off. The eyes were too still, too wide. The mouth smiled too early. And sometimes, it moved its lips without sound, whispering something she could never remember upon waking.

Priya watched her spiral. “You’re scaring me,” she finally said one morning. “What if this is something… psychological?”

“Then why is my phone still getting messages?” Anya snapped.

Priya checked the phone herself. Dozens of texts from unknown numbers. Some repeated the same message:

“You are not her.”

Others were new:

“Soon you’ll forget which side you’re on.”

One message arrived while Priya held the phone in her hands. Her face drained of color.

It read:

“Stop reading. She doesn’t like witnesses.”

That night, Priya insisted Anya see a doctor. Anya agreed, but only to calm her down. They scheduled an appointment for the following day. Until then, Priya locked all doors and stayed in the guest room with Anya.

At 2:17 a.m., they both woke up.

A soft knock on the bedroom door.

Then again. Three knocks. Slow. Deliberate.

They stayed silent.

Another knock. This time… on the window.

Third floor. No balcony.

Priya grabbed her phone and turned on the flashlight.

The window had fogged from outside. One word appeared:

“LET. HER. IN.”

Then the knock came again. But this time, it was inside the closet.

Anya wanted to scream. She ran to the door and yanked it open — empty.

She turned to Priya.

But Priya was gone.

Just… gone.

The bed covers crumpled. Phone left behind. Her scent still lingered in the room — shampoo, coffee, lavender. But she was nowhere. Not in the closet. Not under the bed. Not in the hallway. Every door still locked. No signs of entry or exit.

Anya called her name until her throat burned. She called the police. When they arrived, they searched the whole apartment and found no one.

But in the bathroom mirror, fogged from the police lights and her own panicked breath, a message appeared:

“SHE’S IN THE RIGHT PLACE NOW. JOIN HER.”

Her phone buzzed again.

Unknown number.

A photo this time.

It was Priya.

Standing in Anya’s old apartment.

Smiling.

Behind her, just barely visible… was Anya’s reflection. Watching her.

Grinning.

But Anya was nowhere in the photo.

Only her other self.

The apartment that haunted her was no longer just haunted.

It wanted her back.