Chapter 5: The Reflection in the Screen

Chapter 5: The Reflection in the Screen

The sofa was a landscape of defeat. Alex had surrendered the battle for her bed after that single, horrifying night. The memory of the scuttling, the intimate scratch of a fingernail just inches from her ear, was a trauma she couldn’t bring herself to face again. Sleep, when it came, was a series of jarring, thirty-minute naps, leaving her in a perpetual state of grey exhaustion. Her eyes were perpetually bloodshot, underscored by deep, bruised-looking shadows.

Her professional life was in a nosedive. The curt email from her biggest client sat unanswered in her inbox, a glowing red flag of failure. She had to fix it. She had to claw back some semblance of her former life, even if it was just for a few hours. Distraction was the only medicine she had left. Work had always been her refuge, a place of order and logic where she was in complete control. She desperately needed that control now.

Tonight, she would work. She would not pace. She would not stare at shadows. She would conquer this deadline.

She brewed a pot of coffee that was practically sludge and settled into her ergonomic chair, the familiar squeak a small comfort. The apartment was dark around her, save for the cool, white glow of her 32-inch monitor. Outside, the city was a distant, silent constellation of lights. Up here, on the twenty-seventh floor, it was easy to feel disconnected, isolated in her bubble of light. It had once felt powerful. Now it felt like being adrift in an empty, black ocean.

She put on her noise-canceling headphones, turning up a pulsing electronic playlist until it was a solid wall of sound, blocking out the apartment’s menacing silence. Her mother’s rule echoed in her mind—Don't even think at it if you can help it. And for Alex, work was the ultimate way not to think. It was pure, immersive focus.

She opened the corrupted project file, the half-finished logo glaring back at her. For the first hour, it was a battle. Her mind kept drifting, her eyes flicking to the dark corners of the room. But slowly, inevitably, the old rhythms took over. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, executing shortcuts with muscle memory. She manipulated vector paths, adjusted Bezier curves, and experimented with color palettes. The chaotic world outside the glowing rectangle of her screen began to melt away. She was no longer a terrified woman in a haunted apartment; she was a designer, a creator, a problem-solver. A flicker of her old self, confident and capable, ignited in her chest.

She was so engrossed, she didn't notice the music in her headphones stutter. A beat skipped, then two. Then, with a faint pop of static, the music cut out completely. She was plunged into an abrupt, profound silence.

Alex frowned, pulling the headphones off. “Cheap wiring,” she muttered, reaching for the cable to jiggle it.

Before her fingers could touch it, the monitor in front of her clicked. The brilliant white of her design software vanished, replaced by an abyss of perfect, reflective black. The only light left was the faint glow of the power button on the tower beside her desk.

She froze, her hand hovering in mid-air. The sudden darkness was a physical shock. Her own reflection stared back at her from the screen—a pale, wide-eyed ghost floating in the void. She could see the room behind her mirrored in the polished glass: the clean lines of her kitchen, the dark shape of the sofa, the faint glimmer of the city lights through the window.

Everything was still. Everything was normal.

It’s a power surge, she told herself, her heart starting to beat a little faster. The building’s electricity probably flickered.

But the power light on her computer was still on. The modem was still blinking. It wasn’t a power surge. The monitor had turned itself off.

She stared at her own terrified face in the reflection, her breath fogging a small patch on the screen. And then she saw it.

A flicker of movement in the reflection, just over her shoulder.

It was so subtle she thought she’d imagined it. But her designer’s eye, trained to notice the slightest inconsistency, latched onto it. She held her breath, forcing herself not to move, not to turn around. Her gaze was locked on the dark mirror.

Behind her reflection, a shape was resolving out of the deeper shadows of the room. A curtain of long, black hair. A sliver of a pale white dress. It was standing. Right behind her chair. Close enough to touch her.

Alex’s blood turned to ice water. This was impossible. The scuttling had been under the bed. The bedroom was its territory. It wasn't supposed to be here.

Slowly, as if savoring the moment, the reflection of the girl tilted its head. A gesture of innocent, bird-like curiosity that was made monstrous by the context. And then, the pale face in the reflection lifted, and Alex saw the grin.

It was wider than she remembered. Wider than seemed physically possible, stretched from ear to ear in a silent, ecstatic rictus. The bloodshot eyes, perfectly round and unblinking, met hers in the reflection. They weren't just staring; they were drinking in her terror. It was enjoying this. The game had escalated, and this was its triumphant new move.

A strangled sound, half-scream, half-whimper, escaped Alex’s lips. The rule—don’t give it attention—was vaporized by pure, animal instinct. She threw herself backward, her chair flying out from under her and crashing into the leg of the kitchen island. She spun around, her arms flailing, ready to face it, to fight it, to do something.

There was nothing there.

The apartment behind her was empty. The air was still and cold, but there was nothing to see. No girl, no dress, no grin. Just the quiet, minimalist space she had once loved.

She stood there, panting, her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest. Her eyes darted from the kitchen to the sofa to the dark hallway, searching for any sign of movement. Nothing.

Her gaze snapped back to the monitor. It remained black, a silent, dark mirror. Her own terrified reflection was the only thing looking back at her.

And in that moment, the full, crushing weight of her new reality fell upon her. The misplaced keys, the open bathroom door—they weren't just random acts of psychological warfare. They were tests. Probes. It had been exploring.

It was no longer the thing under the bed. It wasn't confined to her bedroom, her place of rest. It had crossed the threshold. It was mobile. It was here, in her living space, her creative space, her last remaining sanctuary. It had proven it could get closer than she ever imagined, that it could stand inches away, silently watching her, enjoying her fear.

The hungry thought was no longer waiting for her in the dark. It was now actively hunting her in the light. Her entire apartment was its playground now, and there was nowhere left for her to hide.