Episode 7: The Missing Night
813 Words
Aria left the coffee shop in a daze.
The rain had eased to a cold mist, the kind that clung to everything. Streetlights blurred into halos. She pulled her hood up and walked fast, not toward the rideshare pickup, but aimlessly—needing air, needing to think.
Elias’s words echoed.
It’s already inside.
She kept glancing at windows as she passed—shop fronts, parked cars, the dark glass of a bus shelter. Her reflection followed obediently for now. But she didn’t trust it.
He’d given her a folded piece of paper before she left. Three handwritten rules on yellowed notebook paper.
Never look into a reflection after midnight.
Never speak your full name aloud in the dark.
Never let it bleed you.
At the bottom, in smaller writing:
It’s learning your habits. Be unpredictable.
She’d crumpled the paper into her pocket without promising anything.
She ended up back at her mother’s house just after nine p.m. The shadowy figures were gone from the windows—at least the ones she could see. The rain had stopped completely, leaving the night unnaturally quiet.
Inside, the house felt colder than before. She turned on every light she passed. Made tea again. Sat at the kitchen table with Elias’s rules smoothed out in front of her.
She needed to research. To understand.
But her laptop battery was dead, charger still in her overnight bag upstairs.
She went up to her old bedroom.
The drawings were still scattered on the floor where she’d left them.
She plugged in the charger, opened the laptop, started searching “shadow doubles,” “echo parasite,” anything Elias had mentioned.
Results were thin. Same forums. A few scanned pages from old occult books. Nothing concrete.
By midnight she was exhausted, eyes burning.
She remembered rule one too late.
The laptop screen had gone to sleep, turning into a black mirror.
Her reflection stared back—wide awake, eyes too dark.
It smiled.
She slammed the lid shut.
Heart racing, she crawled into her childhood bed fully clothed, pulled the covers over her head like when she was seven.
Sleep took her hard.
She woke on the bedroom floor.
Sunlight slanted through the blinds—late morning, maybe noon.
Her body ached like she’d run a marathon. Carpet burns on her elbows. Mouth dry, head pounding.
The laptop was open on the desk, screen glowing.
She didn’t remember getting up.
Clock read 11:47 a.m.
Twelve hours gone.
She stumbled to the bathroom—her mom’s upstairs one, the mirror covered with a towel since childhood habits died hard.
She splashed water on her face without looking up.
Her phone buzzed on the bed.
She picked it up.
Gallery open.
New photos.
Dozens.
Close-ups of strangers sleeping in their beds—mouths open, peaceful, vulnerable.
A woman in her forties, graying hair.
A teenage boy with braces.
An elderly man with an oxygen tube.
All taken in the dark, flash off, from very close.
Timestamps: between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m.
Last one: Lena.
Asleep in her own apartment, head on pillow, phone charging on the nightstand.
Timestamp: 4:03 a.m.
Aria’s stomach lurched.
She called Lena immediately.
It rang six times.
“Hello?” Lena’s voice, groggy.
“Are you okay?”
“Aria? Yeah… just woke up. Weird dream. Why?”
“I—” Aria swallowed. “Can I come over?”
“Now?”
“Please.”
Lena paused. “You sound terrible. Yeah, come.”
Aria grabbed her keys and bag, left the house without looking back.
Lena’s apartment was twenty minutes away—small, bright, full of plants and medical textbooks. She opened the door in pajamas, hair wrapped in a silk scarf, concern etched on her face.
“You look like hell,” Lena said, pulling her inside.
Aria collapsed on the couch.
Lena brought coffee.
Aria showed her the photos on the phone.
Lena’s face went pale.
“That’s… me. Last night.”
She touched the screen, zoomed in.
“And these other people—who are they?”
“I don’t know.”
Lena looked up. “Aria, what’s happening?”
Aria told her everything—the mirror, the motel, the drawings, Elias Crowe, the missing night.
Lena listened without interrupting.
When Aria finished, silence stretched.
Then Lena whispered, “I thought I dreamed you.”
“What?”
“Last night. I woke up—or thought I did—and you were standing over my bed. Just… watching. Your eyes were…” She trailed off.
“Were what?”
“Black. Completely black. I thought it was a nightmare. Went back to sleep.”
Aria felt sick.
Lena stood, walked to her bathroom, came back with a small mirror—the kind for makeup.
On the glass, written in her own lipstick:
SHE LET ME IN
The letters were still wet.
- Writer
