After James died, the house felt impossibly quiet. His absence was a wound that refused to heal, and every room seemed to whisper his name.
Sarah spent her days wandering through the empty halls of their home, her grief swallowing her whole. The days blurred together, and sleep, when it came, was restless and filled with strange dreams.
It had been a month since the funeral when Sarah found the journal. She wasn't looking for it; it just appeared one afternoon, tucked away at the back of James's desk drawer. The leather-bound book was worn and faded, the pages yellowed with age. She had never seen him write in it before, but something about the journal drew her in.
At first, the entries were ordinary—thoughts about work, mundane observations about the weather, lists of things to do. But as she flipped through the pages, something shifted. The handwriting, once neat and controlled, became jagged, hurried. The content grew darker, more disjointed.
July 12th:
She doesn't know yet. I don't think I can keep this up much longer. I hear them in the walls at night. Scratching. They're watching me, waiting for me to slip. I can feel their eyes on me even when I close mine.
July 14th:
I saw it today. Just for a second, but it was there. In the mirror, behind me. It smiled. I know it knows. I don't know how much longer I can hide it from Sarah.
Sarah's hands trembled as she turned the page. Her heart raced, her stomach knotting in unease. James had never spoken of anything like this. What was he talking about? A presence in the house? Something watching him?
The entries grew increasingly frantic:
July 18th:
I can't sleep anymore. I hear them everywhere. In the walls, in the floor, in the dark corners of the house. They're waiting for me to crack, but I won't let them. I can't let them get to her. I won't.
July 20th:
I saw her tonight. Not Sarah—it. It took her form, wore her face like a mask, but I knew. I always know. Its eyes are wrong. Too dark. Too empty. She came to me in the night, stood over me while I pretended to sleep. It whispered my name, but it wasn't her voice. It's never her voice.
Sarah's breath hitched. Her skin prickled with cold dread. What was James writing about? Had he been losing his mind? He had always been steady, grounded, but these entries painted a picture of someone unraveling.
She hesitated but couldn't stop herself from reading further. The last entry, written in a shaky hand, chilled her to the bone.
July 24th:
It knows I'm onto it. I don't have much time. I have to warn her before it's too late. It's pretending to be her now, slipping into her skin, but I know it's not her. Sarah's gone. The thing in the house… it's wearing her. It wants me next.
Sarah's heart pounded as she slammed the journal shut, her mind reeling. What was this? Her hands shook, and she glanced around the room, half expecting to see something lurking in the shadows. The silence of the house pressed in on her, suffocating, deafening.
She stood abruptly, her legs weak. James had been unwell, clearly losing his grip on reality toward the end, but this—this was something darker. Something sinister. The thought of him believing that something had taken her place gnawed at her, sending waves of nausea rolling through her stomach.
But the unease wouldn't leave her. That night, as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, she couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. The house creaked and settled, as old houses do, but every sound made her tense, made her wonder if James had been right. She turned on the bedside lamp, casting the room in soft yellow light, and tried to tell herself she was imagining things.
And then she saw it.
In the corner of the room, reflected in the mirror, something stood just beyond the shadows. Its form was vague, too dark to see clearly, but she felt its eyes—cold, hollow, watching her.
It smiled.
And in the dim light, Sarah realized, with a sinking dread, that it was wearing her face.
Sarah bolted upright, her breath caught in her throat, her heart hammering against her chest. The image in the mirror, that smile wearing her face, was gone as quickly as it had appeared. But the cold dread remained, curling around her insides like a parasite, feeding on her fear. She blinked hard, trying to shake off the lingering image.
I'm losing it, she thought. It's just grief. The journal—it's gotten into my head.
But no matter how hard she tried to rationalize it, something deep within her whispered that James hadn't been hallucinating. That whatever had driven him to madness was still here. Still watching.
She stared at the mirror, her own reflection looking back at her now—pale, wide-eyed, scared. She quickly turned away and pulled the covers tighter around herself, but sleep wouldn't come.
All night, she could feel it—the eyes, watching her from the dark corners of the room. The presence was unmistakable. It was as though the air itself had thickened, as though the house was holding its breath, waiting for her to slip.
The next morning, Sarah decided to leave the house. She needed to get out, to clear her head, to escape the weight of James's journal. She spent the day in town, walking aimlessly, trying to drown out the creeping thoughts that threatened to consume her. But no matter how far she went, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was following her.
She caught herself checking reflections in shop windows, expecting to see the shadowy figure with her face staring back at her. But every time she looked, there was nothing. Nothing except her own reflection, frail and haunted.
By the time she returned home, the sun had already set, and the house stood ominously against the darkening sky. The journal still lay on the desk, exactly where she'd left it. Part of her wanted to burn it, to rid herself of its poison. But another part—a part she hated to acknowledge—felt compelled to understand.
She couldn't help herself. She needed to know what had driven James to the brink of insanity.
With trembling hands, she opened the journal again and flipped to the last page. The handwriting had grown more erratic, almost unreadable, but there was one final sentence scrawled at the bottom.
It's in the house, Sarah. It's wearing you. Don't trust it.
Sarah's pulse quickened. Her mind raced, replaying every word, every fragmented thought James had scribbled in those final days. He hadn't just been losing his mind. He had been afraid—terrified—of whatever this thing was. And now it was coming for her, too.
Suddenly, the floorboards creaked behind her.
Sarah froze.
For a moment, the house was deathly silent, as if the air itself had stopped moving. Her heart pounded in her chest, and every instinct screamed at her not to turn around. But she couldn't help it. Slowly, she turned her head toward the door—and saw herself standing in the hallway.
The figure was identical to her in every way, from the strands of hair falling over its face to the way its chest rose and fell with each breath. But its eyes—its eyes were wrong. They were too dark, too empty. Like polished stones, reflecting nothing but cold indifference.
It smiled again, that same twisted, unnatural smile she had seen in the mirror.
"Sarah," it said softly, its voice dripping with a sickly sweetness that wasn't hers. "Come to bed."
Her legs felt like lead, her body refusing to obey her panicked mind. She wanted to scream, to run, but she was frozen, locked in place as the thing that wore her face took a slow step forward.
"I've been waiting for you," it whispered, tilting its head at an unnatural angle, eyes fixed on hers. "James knew. But it's too late now."
Sarah's vision blurred as tears welled in her eyes. She backed away, nearly tripping over the chair, her heart pounding in her throat. She stumbled to the desk and grabbed the journal, clutching it to her chest like a lifeline, though she knew it held no salvation.
The creature's smile widened. "You can't run. You're already mine."
With that, it lunged.
Sarah screamed and bolted for the door, her legs finally kicking into action. She slammed the door behind her and ran through the house, her footsteps echoing through the empty halls. She didn't stop, not even when she heard that voice again, calling after her.
She ran into the bedroom and locked the door, her hands shaking violently as she braced herself against it. Her mind raced, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
In the silence that followed, she heard a faint scratching sound. It was soft, almost imperceptible, coming from the walls. It grew louder, and with it came a whisper—James's voice, so faint she could barely make out the words.
"It's in the walls, Sarah."
The journal slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with a thud, pages fluttering. She didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe, as the scratching grew louder, more insistent.
Suddenly, the mirror on the far side of the room shattered, glass raining down onto the floor. Through the jagged shards left in the frame, Sarah saw it—herself, standing on the other side, eyes hollow, staring back at her. It smiled, slowly, impossibly, and took a step closer.
"Let me in, Sarah," it whispered, its voice distorted, blending with the scratching, the whispers in the walls. "It's time."
Sarah collapsed to the floor, her sanity unraveling, as the walls seemed to close in around her. The scratching grew deafening, a cacophony of claws and whispers, drowning out her own screams. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image of her reflection—her true reflection—was burned into her mind.
And then the door creaked open behind her.
When the neighbors found Sarah two days later, she was curled up in the corner of the bedroom, rocking back and forth, mumbling incoherently. Her eyes were wide, her hands bloodied from clawing at the walls. The journal lay open on the floor beside her, but the last pages were blank, as though whatever had been written there had faded away.
The only words she repeated, over and over, were:
"It wasn't me. It wasn't me."
But when they looked into her eyes, they saw something staring back—and it smiled.