I don’t remember sending it. That’s the problem. I remember everything else—what I ate that night, the show I half-watched, the exact moment I decided I was too tired to
It started as a thought that wasn’t mine. Not loud. Not obvious. Just… wrong. I was brushing my teeth when it first happened—standing in front of the bathroom mirror, half-awake,
I never believed in darkness being alive. Light off meant light off. Nothing more. Nothing less. That’s what I told myself every night when I turned off the hallway switch
I don’t go into the basement anymore. I used to, all the time. It wasn’t scary back then—just a low-ceilinged space with concrete walls, a single flickering bulb, and the
It started with the clock. Not broken—just… wrong. Marcus first noticed it after moving into his new apartment, a quiet unit tucked above a closed-down convenience store. The digital clock
The mirror came with the apartment. It was already mounted to the wall when Lina moved in—tall, narrow, framed in tarnished silver that had begun to blacken at the edges.
Nobody remembered when the door first appeared. It wasn’t part of the original house plans. Old blueprints showed a blank wall at the end of the narrow hallway—just peeling paint