Chapter 7: The Source on the Screen

Three days had passed since the incident with the photograph, and Liam had barely touched his phone except for essential calls and messages. He kept it in airplane mode most of the time, disconnected from the vast digital network that he now suspected harbored something predatory and patient. But isolation from technology in the modern world was like trying to hold your breath indefinitely – eventually, you had to surface.

"You can't avoid the internet forever," Chloe said gently, settling beside him on the guest room bed with her laptop open. "Whatever's causing these episodes, hiding from information isn't going to help."

She was right, of course. If he was having some kind of breakdown – which remained the most rational explanation despite everything he'd experienced – then understanding his symptoms was crucial. And if something genuinely supernatural was happening, then knowledge was his only weapon.

"Maybe you're right," he said, though the thought of connecting to WiFi made his stomach churn. "But I want to research this together. I don't want to be alone when I... when I look into things."

Chloe squeezed his hand. "Of course. What exactly are we looking for?"

Liam took a deep breath. "I know this sounds crazy, but I think what's been happening might be connected to entities that can mimic voices and appearances. Things that feed on fear and try to replace people."

To her credit, Chloe didn't immediately dismiss the idea as delusional rambling. Instead, she nodded thoughtfully and opened a new browser tab. "Okay. Mimicry, shapeshifting, replacement entities. Let's see what we can find."

They started with mainstream sources – Wikipedia articles on folklore and mythology, academic papers on cultural beliefs about doppelgangers and shapeshifters. Most of it was scholarly and detached, treating such entities as fascinating examples of cross-cultural fear rather than actual threats. But as they dug deeper, following links to more specialized forums and websites, the tone began to change.

"Look at this," Chloe said, pointing to a forum post on a site called "Paranormal Encounters." "Someone in Oregon describing what sounds very similar to your experiences."

The post was titled "Something is wearing my husband's face" and detailed a harrowing account of voices calling from empty rooms, perfect mimicry that fooled everyone except the witness, and a gradual escalation that culminated in the entity appearing physically. The writing was coherent and detailed, not the rambling of someone having a psychotic break.

"Here's another one," Liam said, scrolling through a different thread. "This person in Texas says something followed them through their security cameras. They'd see it in the background of footage, always watching, always learning."

As they read, a pattern began to emerge. The entities – called by various names including Mimics, Echoes, and Skinwalkers – seemed to follow similar behavioral patterns. They started with simple disturbances, graduated to vocal mimicry, and eventually attempted to replace their chosen target entirely. Most accounts ended abruptly, with the original posters simply disappearing from the forums without explanation.

"This is either an incredibly elaborate shared delusion," Chloe said quietly, "or there's something genuinely predatory out there that most people never encounter."

"The latter," said a new voice.

Both of them looked up in surprise, thinking someone had entered the room. But the guest room door was still closed, and they were alone. Then Liam noticed that his laptop screen was displaying a chat window that hadn't been there moments before. The cursor was blinking in the message field, and as they watched, words began to appear as if typed by invisible fingers.

You didn't just see it. It saw you. Stop looking for it. Let it forget you.

"What the hell?" Chloe whispered, scooting away from the laptop as if it might bite her.

More text appeared: My name is Marcus Chen. I survived an encounter with what you're researching. Barely. If you're reading this, you've already made contact, and time is running out.

Liam's hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling. "How... how are you typing in our browser? This isn't a chat program."

It doesn't matter how. What matters is that you listen. You've been marked. The entity has tasted your fear, learned your voice, studied your relationships. It's not going to stop until it becomes you.

"This has to be a hack," Chloe said, but her voice lacked conviction. "Someone's accessing our computer remotely."

I'm not hacking anything. I'm borrowing your connection for a few minutes while the thing is distracted. It's watching you right now, you know. Through every camera, every microphone. It's probably listening to this conversation.

As if to prove the point, Liam's phone – which had been sitting silently on airplane mode – suddenly lit up. The screen displayed his camera app, and the front-facing lens was active, showing their faces staring back in growing horror.

"Turn it off!" Chloe gasped.

Liam lunged for the phone, but before he could reach it, his own voice came from the device's speakers: "Don't touch it, Chloe. We're just getting to know each other."

The voice was perfect – his intonation, his speech patterns, even the slight hoarseness he got when he was tired. But he hadn't spoken those words.

It's learning to use technology as a conduit, the mysterious Marcus continued typing. That's new. In my encounter, it was confined to the physical location where it anchored. But it's evolving, adapting.

"What do we do?" Liam asked, addressing both the screen and the phone that was still displaying their terrified faces.

First, destroy every electronic device in the room. Now. Before it can spread further through the network.

"I can't do that," Chloe said. "This is my work laptop. I have client files, projects—"

Your career won't matter if you're dead. Or worse – replaced.

The phone screen flickered, and suddenly it was showing not their current faces, but footage that looked like security camera video of them sleeping. The timestamp showed it was from the previous night, but the angle was wrong – it appeared to be shot from directly above their bed, as if someone had been floating on the ceiling and filming them.

"That's impossible," Chloe breathed. "There are no cameras in this room."

It doesn't need physical cameras anymore. It can access any device, manipulate any connection. The longer you stay online, the stronger it gets.

The laptop screen began to flicker rapidly, and in the strobing light, Liam thought he could see something moving behind them in the reflection of the screen's surface. Something tall and thin that shouldn't have been there.

"Pull the plug," he said.

Chloe reached for the power cord, but before she could disconnect it, more text appeared: Wait. There's something you need to know first. About the land your house is built on.

"What about it?"

It used to be a hospital. More specifically, a psychiatric facility that was closed in the 1960s after a series of patient disappearances. There was a particular patient there, a man named Edmund Voss who was obsessed with identity theft. He believed he could become other people by studying them closely enough.

The phone screen changed again, now showing what looked like old medical records – yellowed pages covered in dense, cramped handwriting. Liam could make out fragments: "Patient exhibits extreme fixation on mimicry... has begun affecting staff mannerisms... claims he can 'steal faces' through observation..."

Voss died in that facility, but not naturally. He was killed by other patients who claimed he had been stealing their identities, wearing their faces. The hospital administration covered it up, but the building was demolished shortly after. Your housing development was built directly on top of the old psychiatric ward.

"So what, his ghost is haunting the neighborhood?" Liam asked.

Not a ghost. Something else. Something that learned to exist in the spaces between identity and imitation. It's been dormant for decades, but moving into that house woke it up. And you... you looked back.

The reference to that first night on the stairs sent ice through Liam's veins. He'd never mentioned that detail to anyone, never posted about it online. How could this Marcus person know about the moment when he'd almost turned around, the compulsion that had driven him up those steps?

The first rule of surviving an entity like this is don't acknowledge it. Don't look at it, don't respond to it, don't give it the attention it needs to grow stronger. But you broke that rule, didn't you? You looked back.

"How do you know that?"

Because I made the same mistake. And I've been running from the consequences ever since.

The laptop screen began to dim, and the typing slowed: I can't maintain this connection much longer. It's starting to trace me. But I can give you one chance. Tomorrow night, go back to your house. Find the basement access – there should be a door behind the furnace that the contractors missed when they built over the foundation. You'll find what's left of Voss's personal effects. Destroy them, and you might be able to break the connection.

"Wait," Chloe said, leaning toward the screen. "Go back there? That's insane!"

It's your only option. The entity is anchored to that location. As long as those objects remain, it will keep growing stronger. Eventually, it won't need the physical anchor anymore. It will be able to exist independently, wearing whatever face it chooses.

The text was becoming fainter, harder to read: Be careful. It will try to stop you. It knows what you're planning the moment you decide to do it. Trust no one completely – not even each other. It's very good at wearing familiar faces.

With that ominous warning, the screen went completely black. Liam's phone powered down simultaneously, as if all the electronic devices in the room had been suddenly drained of energy.

They sat in silence for several minutes, processing what they'd just experienced. The rational explanations felt increasingly hollow in the face of such specific, detailed information. Someone or something had hijacked their devices, communicated directly with them, and provided intelligence that could potentially save their lives.

"Do you believe him?" Chloe asked finally.

Liam looked at her – really looked, studying her face for any sign that she might not be who she appeared to be. The thought felt paranoid and horrible, but Marcus's final warning echoed in his mind: Trust no one completely.

"I think we have to," he said. "Because if he's right, and we don't act, then whatever's been hunting us is going to win."

Chloe nodded slowly, though he could see the fear in her eyes. "Then we go back tomorrow night. Together."

"Together," he agreed, hoping that the woman sitting beside him was really the person he'd fallen in love with, and not something that had learned to wear her face with perfect precision.