Chapter One: The Reflection That Smiled
Lucas didn't believe in fresh starts.
His mom did. That's why they moved to Riverside—a quiet town where nothing happened. The kind of place where streets stretched in perfect, identical rows, where houses had the same white picket fences, and where neighbors smiled at you but never really looked at you.
A town that felt staged.
Lucas stood in his new bedroom, staring at the blank walls. His suitcases sat untouched, the room too unfamiliar to feel like his. He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his dark hair.
Something about this place made his skin itch.
It wasn't new. It wasn't quiet.
It was something deeper. Something is wrong.
For a moment, he thought he smelled dusty—old dust, thick and heavy like the air inside forgotten places. His eyes flicked toward the corners of the room, half expecting to see cobwebs, but everything was clean. Too clean. Like someone had scrubbed away every trace of whoever had lived here before.
His gaze landed on the window. From here, he could see the whole street. Rows of identical houses, their warm yellow lights flickering through the curtains.
The town was still.
Too still.
Lucas turned away. Maybe a walk would clear his head.
---
The air was cool when he stepped outside, crisp against his skin. The streetlights cast long, skeletal shadows across the pavement.
The silence was the first thing he noticed.
No stray cats slinking through alleyways.
No distant voices spilling from open windows.
No hum of passing cars, no faint rhythm of music.
Just quiet.
Too quiet.
Lucas walked, hands shoved in his pockets, sneakers scuffing against the cracked sidewalk. The houses all looked the same, but there was something off about them. Some had their porch lights on, but no movement inside. Others had flickering bulbs, buzzing faintly against the night.
Curtains twitched as he passed.
Lucas swallowed hard. Were people watching him? Or was his mind playing tricks on him?
Then, in the distance, something loomed at the edge of town.
An old church.
It stood hunched between gnarled trees, its wooden frame dark with age. The once-white walls were weathered and cracked, the stained-glass windows murky with dust.
It looked abandoned.
And yet—inside, candles burned.
Lucas stopped.
His breath hitched as he stared at the flickering lights.
Abandoned buildings didn't light themselves.
His heart pounded against his ribs. Someone was inside.
He should turn around.
He should walk away.
But his feet carried him forward.
---
The church door groaned as it swung open.
Lucas hesitated, fingers still curled around the worn handle. The scent of dust and old books filled his nose. The air inside was heavy, like it hadn't been disturbed in years.
Yet the candles burned.
Rows of empty pews stretched before him, shrouded in shadow. The walls were lined with faded paintings of saints, their hollow eyes watching. The wooden beams overhead creaked, as if the church was breathing.
Lucas stepped inside.
His footsteps echoed too loud.
At the front of the church, the altar stood beneath a massive, cracked window. And resting on its surface was a journal.
The book was old, its pages yellowed and brittle. Dust coated its edges, yet someone had recently flipped it open.
Words were scrawled across the page in large, jagged letters.
If you're reading this, you're in danger.
Lucas's pulse spiked.
The handwriting looked frantic, the ink slightly smeared. The words felt alive, like they had been written in a hurry. Like whoever had written them hadn't had time to finish.
Something shifted.
From the corner of his eye.
Lucas stiffened. Slowly, he turned his head.
A dusty glass frame sat beside the altar, cracked along the edges. It was old—probably once a portrait, but the image inside was long gone, leaving only the reflective surface behind.
It showed him his own reflection.
Or at least—it should have.
Lucas's breath caught in his throat.
His reflection wasn't looking at him.
It was still staring at the journal.
Lucas's skin went cold.
His real body had already moved. His reflection should have followed. It should have been instant.
But it wasn't.
It lagged.
Then, finally, it moved.
Too late.
And before it caught up—it smiled.
Lucas jerked back, his heart slamming against his ribs.
That wasn't possible. He hadn't smiled.
He could still feel the weight of the reflection's gaze, pressing against him. His hands trembled at his sides.
Slowly, carefully, he turned away from the glass. The candles still burned—motionless, wrong. The air felt tighter now, like the church was closing in.
He needed to go.
Now.
But then—he heard it.
A whisper.
Soft. Delicate.
"Lucas."
His head snapped back to the glass.
His reflection had spoken.
Lucas stumbled away, his legs nearly giving out beneath him. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as he backed toward the door.
This wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening.
But as he took one last glance at the glass, his reflection did something even worse.
It winked.
And this time, the candle flames flickered.
The first movement they had made all night.