[Fear System Log: 2:04 A.M.]
Current Arc: The Shadow
Task Progress: 71% — Psychological Threshold Surpassed
Role: Mary Caldwell | Assigned Form: Protagonist | Status: Deteriorating
Mary stood barefoot in the hallway, still clutching the note that had slid under the door:
"Come see what I made of you."
The paper was thin, slick, and warm—almost as if it had been freshly printed from inside a body.
She didn't want to move. She didn't want to see what "it" meant. But the Fear System didn't care what she wanted. It pulsed behind her eyes like an infection, whispering.
"You need to look. Looking makes it real."
The hallway was colder now, the air thick with mildew and something sharper—formaldehyde maybe. Or rot. The silence was a liar; it pressed against her skull with the weight of a thousand words unsaid.
She stepped forward.
Her phone was still dead. The camcorder had vanished. The apartment smelled wrong—like the shadows had exhaled into it.
Mary's body moved ahead of her mind, drifting toward the living room, where the laptop had sat untouched since she found the corrupted files.
Except now, it was open.
And playing.
The video wasn't hers.
It was footage from a week ago—the same angle she'd used when she tried recording herself. The screen showed her apartment, dimly lit, silent. Then: movement.
Someone entered from the right side of the frame. At first glance, it looked like Mary—same messy bun, same pajama pants. But the face was wrong. Blurred. Like a deepfake gone bad. The eyes were too round. The smile didn't blink.
The mimic.
Mary—the real Mary—watched it walk through the space like it owned it. It moved differently than a person. Too smooth. Too quiet. The footage made no sound.
Then it turned to face the camera.
And waved.
The screen glitched—twitched once, then resumed.
The mimic walked out of frame. Five minutes passed.
Then the door to the bathroom opened.
And Mary's sleeping body was dragged into view by its ankles.
She gasped.
She remembered that night.
She had fallen asleep in the tub.
This… this was from then?
The mimic stood over her limp body.
And began to peel back her face.
She scrambled away from the laptop, bile rising.
The system chimed in her mind.
[System Analysis: Fear Spike Detected. Heart rate elevated.]
[Emotional saturation optimal. Progress +4%.]
[Entity designation: Doppel-Class 3 — Behavioral Mimic with Psycho-Spatial Instability.]
[Threat Level: Adaptive.]
Mary barely registered it. She curled into the corner of the room, dry-heaving.
The video kept playing.
The mimic wore her skin like a robe, stepping into it, adjusting it, practicing her smile in the dark window reflection. Then, it walked into her bedroom. Laid in her bed.
And slept.
Mary shook violently.
This wasn't a haunting.
This was a replacement.
She crawled toward the laptop and closed the screen, shivering.
Then she noticed something new:
A USB drive sticking out from the side.
It hadn't been there before.
On it was one file:
"ME.WMV"
Mary hesitated.
Then clicked.
The video started mid-sentence. Her own voice. But… wrong.
"Hi. I'm Mary. This is my apartment. I don't feel safe anymore, and I'm… I'm ready."
The camera panned to a version of Mary sitting at the edge of the bed.
The mimic.
She smiled, then started laughing—hard, sudden, wheezing like something trying to remember how lungs worked.
"I'm doing better than she ever did," it said. "Eating. Sleeping. Socializing. I even called her mother yesterday. She cried, but it was nice. People love me more than her. Maybe… I always was her. Just waiting to come out."
Mary slammed the laptop shut.
She was going to lose her mind if this went on.
If she hadn't already.
She needed evidence. She needed proof. Something tangible to hold and say, "I'm real. This is real."
She pulled the mattress off the bed.
Ripped open the seams.
Dug through old drawers, through forgotten boxes under the couch. She found the last thing she expected:
A second phone.
Identical to hers. Same lock screen. Same case.
It vibrated in her hand.
One notification:
"1 New Recording Saved – 2:47 A.M."
She pressed play.
The screen went black. Audio only.
First silence.
Then breathing.
Then, her own voice:
"Stop recording. Stop—please—don't—no—"
Then another voice, lower, raspy, hollow:
"You already said yes. You just don't remember."
Then the sound of something being unzipped.
Mary dropped the phone and screamed.
She ran to the bathroom.
The mirror was gone.
Not covered.
Gone.
Ripped from the wall, bolts and all.
In its place, a message scrawled in lipstick:
"CHECK THE CLOSET."
She turned.
The apartment's main hallway seemed longer than before—warped, stretched like a tunnel. At the far end: the closet door.
Closed.
Something moved behind it.
She stepped closer.
Every step sounded distant, muted.
By the time she reached it, her breath came in shallow gasps. She reached for the handle. Stopped. Rested her forehead against the wood.
It was cold.
Then something knocked.
From inside.
Three times.
She flung the door open—
And found a TV.
Old. Static-filled. Plugged into nothing.
On the screen: her apartment. A live feed.
From now.
She waved.
The feed waved back.
But her hands didn't move.
It waved first.
Mary collapsed to her knees.
She had to get out.
There was no escape task listed.
No weapon, no clue, no exit sign.
Only the footage.
Maybe that was the way out.
Proof.
She grabbed the USB, the phone, the second phone, and bolted into the stairwell. She didn't stop until she reached the building lobby.
The front desk clerk wasn't there.
The lobby lights flickered.
And then went dark.
She heard it.
Footsteps.
Slapping wet on tile.
Coming closer.
She turned around.
Nothing.
But her reflection in the lobby glass stood still—smiling.
She reached the street.
Rain poured down in sheets.
Mary ran.
People passed her. Blank faces. No one looked her way. No one saw her screaming. No one cared.
Was she even visible anymore?
The Fear System whispered:
"You are being erased."
She found herself back in front of her building minutes later, breathless, drenched. Her shoes squelched. She stared up at her window.
Someone was looking down.
From inside.
From her apartment.
Wearing her face.
And waving.
Mary stumbled back inside, climbing the stairs like a drunk. Her knees trembled. Her teeth chattered.
She needed answers.
Not just to survive.
But to know what she was now.
Because she was no longer sure.
She returned to the bathroom.
The door was cracked open.
Inside: the mimic.
Sitting on the edge of the tub, combing its hair. Her hair.
It looked up.
Smiled.
"Did you like the show?" it asked.
Mary froze.
"You're not supposed to be here," it continued, calm. "You're the footage now. I'm the one who lives."
Mary didn't answer.
She stepped into the room slowly.
"If I'm footage…" she said carefully, "then you're still in the system."
The mimic tilted its head.
"Maybe. Or maybe you are."
Mary lunged.
The mimic caught her wrists—ice-cold skin—and slammed her back against the tile.
It leaned in close.
"You should've stayed asleep."
[Fear System Alert: Confrontation Initiated. Survival Task — In Progress.]
[Entity strength: Superior. Strategy: Outlast. Stall until system breach.]
Mary gritted her teeth.
It was stronger.
But it wasn't real.
She screamed and brought her knee up, catching the mimic in the gut. It didn't cry out—but it loosened its grip just enough.
She grabbed the hairbrush from the sink and drove the bristles into its eye.
It howled.
She ran.