Chapter 1: The Still Water's Gaze

Chapter 1: The Still Water's Gaze

The dripping from the faucet was the only sound, each drop a tiny hammer striking the porcelain basin. Liam stared at his reflection, a stranger’s face staring back. The man in the mirror was gaunt, his skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, the healthy, sun-kissed tan of a lifeguard long faded to a sickly, sallow pallor. Dark circles, bruised and deep, pooled beneath eyes that were wide, frantic, and hadn't known a full night's sleep in weeks.

He splashed his face again, the cold water a momentary shock that did nothing to wake him from the waking nightmare. He just needed to get a grip. It was stress. Guilt. Post-traumatic... something. He didn't believe in guilt, not for himself. Guilt was a weakness, a flaw in the design of lesser people. What he felt was... an annoyance. A persistent, infuriating glitch in his otherwise perfect control.

He lifted his head slowly, droplets tracing paths down his hollowed cheeks. He focused on his own eyes in the mirror, willing the image to remain his and his alone. For a second, it worked. Just him, his reflection, and the quiet hum of the apartment building around him.

Then, the glitch returned.

Over his shoulder, a figure wavered into existence. It wasn't a sudden jump scare; it was a slow, seeping bleed into reality, like a water stain spreading on old paper. An old man. His thin, white hair was plastered to a scalp the color of wet parchment. His clothes—a threadbare cardigan over a collared shirt—were soaked, hanging heavy and misshapen on his frail frame. His skin was bloated, wrinkled, and pale with the unmistakable bluish tint of the drowned. But it was the eyes that held Liam frozen, his breath catching in his throat. They were black, hollow pits. Not empty, but filled with a deep, cosmic cold, a patient, knowing intelligence that stripped Liam bare.

Arthur Vance.

Liam’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. He didn't spin around. He'd learned that lesson the first time. There would be nothing there but empty air and the faint scent of stale water. He knew. Instead, he gripped the edges of the sink, his knuckles white, and glared at the apparition in the mirror.

“You’re not real,” he whispered, his voice a ragged rasp. “You’re a memory. A trick of the light.”

The reflection of Arthur Vance did not speak. It simply watched, water dripping from the hem of its soaked trousers onto a bathroom floor that remained perfectly dry.

This was a new level of defiance. Before, the old man had been a fleeting glimpse, a half-seen shape in a shop window, a distorted face in the polished chrome of a doorknob. Now, he was holding his ground, a silent, spectral sentinel in Liam's own bathroom.

A wave of cold fury washed through Liam, eclipsing the fear. He had been so careful. Meticulous. Arthur Vance, the retired librarian with his fading mind, had been the perfect target. Liam had been the friendly lifeguard at the quiet lakeside beach, the one who’d helped the confused old man find his sunhat, the one who’d listened patiently to his rambling stories. He’d cultivated that trust, nurtured it like a precious orchid, all for the final, beautiful bloom of his hobby.

He remembered the day with perfect clarity, replaying it in his mind as a counter-offensive against the phantom in the glass. It had been a quiet Tuesday. He’d coaxed Arthur out for a late afternoon swim, far from the few remaining beachgoers. He’d spoken of the water’s therapeutic qualities, his voice calm and reassuring. The old man, lost in the fog of his dementia, had followed him into the cool, still water.

There was no struggle. Just a moment of surprise in Arthur’s eyes, quickly replaced by a desperate, sputtering panic as Liam’s powerful hands pushed his head beneath the surface. Liam had held him there, feeling the frantic, weakening thrashing against his arms. He wasn’t a monster; he was a god in that moment, dispensing a fate of his own choosing. It was the ultimate expression of power, the silent, perfect crime. He’d held him under until the last bubble of air escaped those pale lips, a final, whispered surrender. He’d left the body to drift, knowing it would be found eventually, a tragic accident, a poor old man with dementia wandering into the water. No one had suspected a thing.

The memory, usually a source of pride and a reaffirmation of his superiority, did nothing to banish the specter. The drowned man in the mirror remained, his hollow eyes seeming to pierce right through Liam's skull, as if he’d heard every self-aggrandizing thought.

“Get out of my head,” Liam snarled, slamming his fist on the counter. The toiletries rattled, but the image was unmoved.

He couldn’t stay here. He backed out of the bathroom, pulling the door shut with a decisive click, not daring to look back. He strode into the living room, the space he’d meticulously kept clean and ordered, a reflection of his own controlled mind. It now felt tainted, violated. He ran a hand through his damp, thinning hair. He needed a distraction.

He reached for the TV remote, aiming it at the large, black screen on the opposite wall. But before he could press the button, he froze.

The television was off. A blank, dark rectangle. A black mirror.

And in its polished surface, Arthur Vance was waiting for him.

He was no longer standing. He was seated in Liam’s favorite armchair, or rather, his reflection was. Drenched, dripping, and patient. His head was tilted slightly, a silent question in his posture.

A choked gasp escaped Liam’s lips. He stumbled back, knocking over a small side table. A lamp crashed to the floor, the bulb shattering with a pop that sounded like a gunshot in the tense silence. His sanctuary was no longer safe. Every reflective surface was a potential window, a stage for his silent tormentor.

He scrambled away from the television, his back hitting the far wall. His wild eyes darted around the room, searching for another betrayal. The picture frames on the wall, the glass of the window, the polished wooden floor. Where else was he hiding?

The setting sun cast a long, sharp shadow of Liam across the floorboards, stretching it up the wall opposite him. He stared at his own silhouette, a stark black cutout of his panicked form. As he watched, breathless, the shadow began to move in a way he was not.

It elongated, the head thinning, the shoulders hunching over. It was like watching ink bleed and reform. With a terrifying, fluid grace, a second silhouette detached itself from his own. It was shorter, stooped, and seemed to tremble, as if shivering from a permanent, spectral cold. The edges of this new shadow seemed to drip, the darkness pooling at its feet before being reabsorbed.

Liam stared in abject horror. His shadow now had a companion. A hunched, dripping, drowned companion.

The phantom was no longer confined to mirrors or reflections. It had broken free. It had latched onto his very being, becoming a second, darker shadow that would follow him everywhere. Arthur Vance was no longer just a ghost in the machine; he was a stain on Liam’s soul, made visible for him, and him alone, to see. The still water’s gaze had given way to the drowned man’s pursuit.