Chapter 2: The Blank Canvas

Chapter 2: The Blank Canvas

The silent scream died in Liam’s throat, leaving behind a raw, gaping emptiness that mirrored the space in the glass before him. His mind, an architect's mind built on logic and solid foundations, fractured. He stumbled back, his hand flying to his chest, needing to feel the solid thump of his own heart to prove he was still there. It was there, a panicked bird trapped in his ribcage.

He was real. He was breathing. But the mirror, an impartial judge of reality, had declared him absent.

A wave of vertigo washed over him. He slammed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his hands against them as if he could physically push the image away. This was a hallucination. A trick of the light, of grief, of a mind pushed past its breaking point. That had to be it.

He opened his eyes again, slowly, forcing himself to look. The guest bathroom was still there, rendered in perfect, sterile detail. And he was still missing. The space where a haggard, terrified man should have been was nothing but a blank canvas of white tile.

Panic, cold and sharp, sank its teeth into him. He lurched out of the bathroom, leaving the light on, and careened into the hallway. He needed another surface, a second opinion.

His gaze fell on the collection of framed photos on the wall. He ripped one from its hook—a picture of him and Elena in Florence, smiling, the sun catching the life in her eyes. He ignored the happy memory, turning the frame over and staring into the small pane of glass. He saw the dim hallway stretching behind him, the open door of the guest bathroom spilling light onto the floor. He saw his own trembling fingers gripping the wooden frame. But his face, his body? Erased. Gone.

“No,” he whispered, the sound thin and reedy. “No, no, no.”

He dropped the frame, the clatter of wood and glass loud in the oppressive silence. He scrambled into the kitchen, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. He yanked open a silverware drawer, his hand closing around the cool, smooth metal of a large spoon. He held it up, his breath held tight in his chest. The convex surface reflected a distorted, fish-eye version of the kitchen, the cabinets curving, the ceiling light a warped star. A kitchen occupied by no one.

He threw the spoon. It clanged into the sink. He was a ghost. A phantom haunting the wreckage of his own life.

His phone. He fumbled in his pocket, his thumb swiping across the dark screen. It remained black. He angled it, catching the faint light from the streetlamp outside. He could see the faint outline of the kitchen window, the silhouette of the trees in the yard. He could see the phone in his hand. But the reflection of the man holding it was not there. He was a vampire, a creature of folklore, and the thought was so insane it almost made him laugh, a hysterical bark of sound that caught in his throat.

Desperate, he staggered to the living room window. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, his breath fogging a small patch that quickly dissipated. He looked out into the pre-dawn gloom of the backyard, at the skeletal branches of the old oak tree. Then, he focused on the reflection. He saw the living room behind him—the sofa where he and Elena used to curl up together, the lamp on the end table, the stack of her favorite art books. The room was perfectly replicated, a ghostly diorama in the glass. He was the only piece missing from the set.

He backed away, a low moan escaping his lips. He had been erased from the world. The entity in the mirror, the one that wore his wife’s face, hadn’t just shown him a horror. It had stolen something from him. It had stolen him.

Where could he go? What could he do? He was trapped in a nightmare where the fundamental laws of physics had been rewritten just for him. His frantic search for an answer, for anything, led him down the hall to the one room he had sealed off in his mind, the door kept firmly shut since the day he’d come home from the hospital alone.

Elena’s art studio.

His hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob. Pushing it open felt like breaking a sacred vow. The air that drifted out was stale, but it still held the faint, familiar scent of turpentine and her lavender perfume. It was a gut punch of memory and loss. Canvases in various stages of completion were stacked against the walls. Her easel stood in the center of the room, holding a half-finished painting of a storm over the ocean.

He wasn’t looking for a reflection here. There were no mirrors. He didn’t know what he was looking for. A clue. A message. A reason. Something to anchor him to a reality that was rapidly dissolving around him.

His eyes scanned the organised chaos of her workspace—jars bristling with brushes, palettes smeared with dried oils, stacks of sketchbooks. Tucked beside a stack of art history books on her desk was her journal. It was a simple, leather-bound book, one he’d given her for their anniversary. He’d often see her writing in it, a small, private smile on her face.

With a reverence that felt like a prayer, he picked it up. The worn leather was warm, as if she had just set it down. He sank into her desk chair, the worn cushion sighing under his weight. He opened it, his fingers tracing her elegant, swirling script. The early pages were filled with joy—notes about the baby, sketches of nursery ideas, happy little anecdotes about his own fussing over her. He had to skip forward, the words blurring through a sudden film of tears. He turned to the last few pages, to the days leading up to the end.

Her handwriting changed. The confident loops became tight, jagged.

October 12th,

Such a strange feeling today. I keep thinking someone is watching me. It’s silly, I know. Liam says it’s just third-trimester jitters. But it’s more than that. When I’m driving, I keep catching a glimpse of something in the rearview mirror. A flicker in the reflection. Like a smudge on the glass that moves.

Liam’s blood ran cold. He read on, his heart pounding in a slow, heavy rhythm.

October 14th,

It’s worse at home now. I was washing my face this morning and for a split second, I saw a man standing behind me in the bathroom mirror. He was tall… and thin. Wrong, somehow. Like a charcoal sketch that had been rubbed out and drawn over, all blurred lines and sharp angles. I spun around and there was nothing there. I didn’t tell Liam. He’s so stressed with the new project. He’d think I’m losing my mind. Maybe I am.

He could barely breathe. The final entry was dated the day of the accident. The day they were driving home from their final check-up with the doctor.

October 16th,

He’s not just in the reflections anymore. I feel him. It’s a cold spot in the room, a weight in the air. I see him in the reflection of the car window, just a distorted shape keeping pace with us. Liam doesn’t see it. He’s humming along to the radio. I want to tell him to pull over, to just get out and run, but how do I explain it? How do I tell my husband, the most rational man I know, that we are being followed by a distorted man who only exists in reflections? He’d look at me with such worry. I’ll tell him when we get home. I just need to be brave for a few more miles.

Liam dropped the journal. It hit the floor with a soft thud. The pieces clicked into place, forming a picture of such profound horror that it eclipsed everything else.

It wasn't his fault. Not entirely. He hadn't just fallen asleep.

The creeping dread, the paranoia, the thing in the mirror—it hadn't started for him two nights ago. It had started for Elena, days, maybe weeks, before the crash. She had been living with this terror alone, trying to protect him from it. And that thing, that distorted man in the reflection, it had followed them from the road. It had been with them in the car that night.

The suffocating weight of his guilt didn't vanish. It mutated, twisting into something new, something sharper and more terrifying. It was no longer the guilt of a man who made a fatal mistake. It was the guilt of a man who had been blind, who had failed to see the monster stalking his wife until it was far, far too late.