Episode 6: Elias Crowe
959 Words
Aria didn’t go near the windows again.
She sat in the center of her old bedroom floor, surrounded by the scattered childhood drawings, knees pulled to her chest. The rain had picked up outside, drumming hard against the roof like it wanted in. Every drop sounded like footsteps on the shingles.
The shadowy figures hadn’t moved. She’d checked once more—carefully, from the edges of the curtains—and they were still there. One at each window. Identical silhouettes. Her shape, but wrong. Too still. Too dark.
Her phone lay beside her on the carpet, screen dark. She hadn’t turned it on since the child’s voice—her own voice—had whispered those accusing words.
You left me in the dark.
She didn’t know how long she sat like that. Hours, maybe. The light outside faded from gray to twilight blue. The house creaked around her, settling in the cold.
She needed answers.
She powered the phone on with shaking fingers.
No new calls. No texts. Just the usual notifications.
She opened her browser, hands clumsy, and searched the only thing that felt concrete: the words from the back of her drawing.
“Don’t let it in the light.”
Nothing useful. Quotes about hope, Bible verses, song lyrics.
She tried variations: shadow moving in mirror, reflection blinking alone, childhood imaginary friend real.
Most results were forums—Reddit threads, old message boards—full of people asking if anyone else had seen their reflection smile when they didn’t. Most replies called them crazy or suggested carbon monoxide poisoning.
One post, buried on page three of an obscure occult forum, stood out.
Title: Shadow Doubles – Has anyone actually spoken to one?
The post was short:
I’ve been studying these things for twenty years. They’re not ghosts. They’re parasites. They latch onto grief. If yours is active, you’re already marked. Message me if you want to live.
Posted by user ECrowe88. Three years ago. No replies.
Aria stared at the username.
Her thumb hovered.
She clicked message.
Typed:
It’s writing my name on mirrors. It took photos of me sleeping. It’s outside my windows now. Please help.
Sent.
She didn’t expect a reply. The account looked dead.
Her phone buzzed almost immediately.
ECrowe88: You’re not safe there. Meet me. Alone. Coffee shop on 5th and Mercer. The one with the blue awning. One hour.
She stared at the screen.
Another message:
Bring one of the drawings.
She looked at the crayon picture beside her—the little girl holding hands with the black scribbled figure.
She typed back: How do you know I have drawings?
The reply came instantly.
Because your mother sent me hers.
The coffee shop was half-empty when she arrived, soaked from the rain despite the umbrella she’d found in her mom’s hall closet. The place smelled of burnt espresso and wet wool. Holiday music played softly—some instrumental version of a song that felt wrong in December.
She spotted him immediately.
Older man, thin, sitting in the back corner booth. Graying hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck. Pale eyes that flicked up the moment she walked in. He wore a dark wool coat over layers of sweaters, scarves draped like he was always cold.
He raised a hand slightly.
She walked over, clutching the folded drawing in her coat pocket.
“Aria Thompson,” he said quietly as she slid into the booth opposite him. Not a question.
“How do you know my name?”
“Your mother told me.” His voice was soft, accented faintly—Eastern European, maybe. “Before she died. She was trying to protect you.”
Aria’s throat tightened. “You knew my mom?”
“I helped her fight it. Once.” He sipped black coffee from a chipped mug. “She lost.”
The words hung between them.
He extended a thin hand across the table. Scars crisscrossed the skin—old burns. “Elias Crowe.”
She didn’t shake it.
He withdrew without offense.
“You brought a drawing?”
She pulled the crayon picture from her pocket, unfolded it carefully on the table.
Elias studied it without touching. His pale eyes narrowed.
“Classic attachment,” he murmured. “Started young. It waited until you were vulnerable again.”
“What is it?”
He leaned forward slightly. “It’s called an Echo. A shadow parasite. Not a spirit. Not a demon. Something older. It exists in reflective space—mirrors, water, glass, screens. It feeds on grief. Loss. Loneliness. When the host is weak enough, it begins to replace them.”
“Replace?”
“Piece by piece. First the reflection moves independently. Then it speaks. Then it acts. Eventually…” He paused. “It wears your face. Your memories. Your life. The original is gone. Overwritten.”
Aria felt cold seep into her bones.
“My mother—”
“She fought it for years. After your father.” Elias’s gaze softened, almost pitying. “It took him first. She burned everything she had on it. Thought if you never knew, it couldn’t find you.”
He reached into his coat, pulled out a faded Polaroid, slid it across the table.
Her mother, younger—early thirties—standing beside Elias in front of a mirror. Behind them, reflected in the glass, two black silhouettes stood where their reflections should have been.
“Your bloodline is marked,” Elias said quietly. “And it’s already inside.”
Aria stared at the photo.
Outside the coffee shop window, rain blurred the streetlights into halos.
She looked up at Elias.
In the window’s reflection behind him, his image didn’t match his posture.
It sat perfectly still.
Watching her.
- Writer
