I didn't unpack.
The room felt... wrong.
Not just dusty or old, but off in a way that made my skin itch. Like it had been watching me since I walked in.
The lamp on the nightstand kept flickering. Not the cute vintage kind of flicker, but the kind that says, "Get out now."
Still, I sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to shake the feeling.
Then I saw them.
The picture frames.
Five of them, lined unevenly along the wall across the bed. Each frame contained a photo—black and white, faded, torn at the corners.
People stood in them.
Stiff. Formal. Like portraits you'd find in an old obituary.
But none of them had eyes.
Every face had been scratched out—some lightly, others so deeply the paper had torn.
I stood up.
Moved closer.
The photos weren't just old.
They were changing.
In the center frame…
the figure had my hair.
Then my dress.
Then—my stance.
I stumbled back, heart thudding.
Suddenly—
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
Three loud knocks behind the wall.
Not the door. The wall.
I froze.
Then came the sound—wet, dragging, like something moving through soaked carpet.
"Don't… look… away…"
The whisper came from inside the wall.
Not around it. Inside it.
The air grew thick, humid.
I took a step back, tripped against the bedframe, and—
A loud snap.
Not wood. Bone.
But nothing was broken.
I spun around.
The lamp was off.
The photos were blank.
And then—
a creak beneath the bed.
Low. Slow. Like someone shifting their weight on wooden slats.
I dropped to my knees.
Nothing at first. Just darkness.
Then I saw it:
A mirror.
Shoved halfway under the bed, flat on the floor, covered in dust.
And on the glass—
a single, perfect handprint.
Pressed from inside.
For a moment, I couldn't move. I just crouched there, staring.