When Elias Gray returned home from the festival, the sky was already bleeding into night. The town square was silent, but he could still hear faint echoes — laughter without voices, music that had no rhythm. It clung to him like smoke, whispering in the folds of his coat.
The cobblestone street beneath his boots seemed longer than before. He passed the same lamppost three times, though he was certain he hadn't turned. When he finally reached his home, something about the door unsettled him — it was slightly ajar, though he remembered locking it that morning.
Elias pushed it open, the hinges groaning like a sigh.
The air inside was different. The smell of old wood and dust had been replaced by something metallic, sharp, faintly sweet — like rust mixed with rain.
He shut the door behind him, and the echo of it closing seemed to take too long to fade.
"...Hello?"
His voice disappeared into the dark hallway. He felt foolish immediately — no one ever came to his house. No one even visited each other in Hollow's End, not really.
Still, he moved carefully, lighting the oil lamp by the stairwell. The flame flickered weakly at first, then steadied, casting long, thin shadows that seemed to bend just a little too sharply at the corners.
He tried to convince himself it was exhaustion. The festival, the whispers, the sense that every smiling face was wearing a lie — it was enough to fracture anyone's nerves.
But then he saw it.
The portrait.
It hung crooked on the wall across the living room — an old painting he'd found in the attic when he moved in. It had always depicted an empty field under a gray sky. But now… now there was a figure standing in the field.
A small, black silhouette.
At first, Elias thought it might be a trick of the light. He leaned closer. The figure's head was tilted slightly upward — as though looking directly at him.
He stumbled back, knocking into the chair. His breath hitched.
The lamp flame wavered. For a heartbeat, all the shadows shifted, and Elias swore he saw eyes glint in the dark wood of the walls.
He blinked hard. When he looked again, the eyes were gone — the house still, patient.
He backed away, chest tight.
I'm just tired.
But as he turned toward the stairs, something upstairs creaked — slow, deliberate.
One footstep. Then another.
It stopped above him.
The landing.
Right outside his bedroom.
He clenched his jaw, grabbing the lamp. "If someone's there…" His voice cracked. "I'll call the sheriff."
He didn't believe that. No one ever answered the sheriff's door after dusk.
The stairs groaned under his weight as he climbed. Every step echoed louder than it should have, as if the house were amplifying his fear.
When he reached the top, the hallway stretched longer than he remembered — the shadows breathing at the edges of the light.
His bedroom door was open. He hadn't left it that way.
"Who's there?" Elias demanded.
Silence.
The light from his lamp spilled into the room — and froze on the bed.
Someone was sitting there.
At least, it looked like someone. The figure was hunched, its face buried in its hands. The clothes were torn, soaked dark with something that gleamed under the flicker of the flame.
"Are you—"
The figure raised its head.
Elias's voice died in his throat.
It was him.
The same face. The same hair, same terrified eyes.
The man on the bed looked like a mirror version of Elias — except for one difference: his left eye was missing, an empty socket that pulsed faintly with light, like something alive inside it.
Elias stumbled backward. The lamp shook in his hands.
"Who are you?"
The doppelgänger tilted his head, smiling faintly. "You should've never left the house, Elias."
The voice was soft, almost kind — but carried that same cold echo he'd heard beneath the church bells during the festival.
"I—what do you mean?"
"You keep leaving. You keep forgetting. And every time you do, we have to start again."
Elias's stomach dropped. "What are you talking about?"
The other Elias stood, his movement unnatural — like a puppet tugged too hard by invisible strings.
"You think this place is outside of you," the voice whispered. "But it's not. It's your reflection. Hollow's End isn't a town, Elias."
The walls began to tremble. The portrait downstairs crashed to the floor, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot.
"It's you," the figure said. "And I'm what's left of you when you stop remembering."
The light of the lamp flickered wildly — then burst.
Darkness swallowed the room whole.
Elias gasped and reached out blindly. The floor beneath him felt wrong — soft, damp. He stumbled forward, his hand brushing against something cold and smooth.
A mirror.
His reflection stared back at him — pale, hollow-eyed, mouth open in a silent scream. Behind his reflection stood the doppelgänger, one hand resting on his shoulder.
Elias spun around — nothing. Empty air.
The mirror cracked.
And from somewhere deep within the house, the whisper came again.
"We'll remember for you."
To be continued…
If you're enjoying the story, want to read more, and wish to support me in creating future chapters, you can check out my Patreon here:
https://patreon.com/LucienDio
Every bit of support means a lot and helps me keep writing. Thank you for reading.