I sat on the cracked wooden bench at the bus station, cold air cutting through my thin jacket. The morning paper was in my hands, soaked from the rain outside.
I flipped past sports and weather, not caring much. Then I saw it... on page seven, tucked beside a funeral home ad and a dead cat found in an alley. An obituary. Just words in black ink. But something about it made my skin pull tight.
Julie Baker, 28, passed peacefully in her sleep.
Beloved daughter, friend, and teacher at Lincoln Middle School. Miss Baker was known for her kindness, bright smile, and her love of gardening. She will be deeply missed. A private service will be held. No flowers, please. Donations may be made to the local animal shelter.
That was it. Just that. Cold. Clean. Like she was taken away in her sleep like a candle blown out. But I knew better.
Because I saw her body.
Three days ago, I was walking home late. My shift at the diner ended at midnight, and I took the long way through the old neighborhood to avoid the drunks near the bar.
The streetlights blinked like dying fireflies. Halfway down Sycamore, I saw the police tape. Yellow and loud in the dark. A house, small, blue, with peeling paint, surrounded by cops in raincoats.
One cop held a flashlight inside an open window. I slowed down, stupid curiosity pulling me closer.
I shouldn't have.
The flash of light swept across the bedroom wall. And there, smeared in something thick and dark, was writing. Not paint. Not marker. I could smell it even from the sidewalk, coppery, sour. Blood.
The words said: "I didn't do it. She made me."
I froze. My breath stopped.
The cop turned and saw me. "Hey! You! Move along!"
I ran. But I remember everything.
When I read the obituary, I felt sick. "Passed peacefully in her sleep?" No. That wasn't peace. That was screaming frozen into silence.
So yesterday, I went back. The house was quiet. Tape still up. I waited until dark. I climbed the back fence like a kid.
The back door was locked, but the kitchen window was broken, covered in cardboard now. I forced it loose and crawled inside.
The air inside was stifling. Not dust. Something worse. Like old meat left in a closet.
I used my phone light. The floor creaked. I moved slow. The hallway led to a bedroom. Door open. That's where they found her.
The walls were still stained. More than I saw from the street. The blood wasn't just on one wall. It was everywhere. On the ceiling. On the closet door. Drips down the dresser.
I stepped closer. The writing wasn't just one sentence. There was more, scribbled in wild, ragged letters:
"She's still here."
"It wasn't me."
"Julie, stop lying. I know what you did."
And one, written right above the bed: "I didn't WANT to carve her face off but she wouldn't stop talking."
I nearly dropped the phone.
Carved her face off?
I looked at the bed. The sheets were gone, but the mattress was still there. Dark stains soaked through it. I knelt. Something under the bed caught my eye, a small notebook. Leather cover, soaked in brown spots. I pulled it out.
I opened it.
The first pages were normal. Grocery lists. Notes about school: "Parent-Teacher Conf. Thurs. 3 PM. Bring cupcakes."
And, halfway through, the writing changed. Messy. Panicked.
"Day 14. She's getting louder. I hear her in the walls. She says I owe her. I don't know who she is."
"Day 17. I woke up with dirt under my nails. My shovel is missing. I found footprints in the garden. Not mine."
"Day 21. I found a tooth in my soup. Human. Back molar. I threw it out. I didn't eat it. I didn't."
I turned the page.
"Day 23. She has my voice now. I heard her on the phone. Talking to my mom. Saying sweet things. Lies. Mom called today. Said I sounded 'like my old self.' I never called her."
I kept reading.
"Day 28. I locked the doors. Barricaded the windows. She's in the house. I can feel her. In the mirror. In the dark. She says I promised. Promised what? I don't remember. God help me, I don't remember."
Near the end, one line stood out:
"She says I'm not Julie. Says I stole her life. But I AM Julie. I AM."
The last entry was dated two days before her death.
"If you're reading this, she won. Don't believe the obituary. I didn't die in my sleep. I was awake. I saw her. She looked like me. But her eyes… black. No whites. Just black. She held the knife. I begged. She smiled. Said, 'Now you'll be quiet forever.' Then she started cutting. I could feel it. My face. My mouth. My eyes. I couldn't scream. My lips were gone. And the last thing I saw… was my own face… on her."
I dropped the notebook. My breath came fast. The room felt colder. I looked up.
And saw it. In the broken mirror on the closet door, my reflection. But wrong.
My mouth… moved. But I wasn't talking. It smiled. A wide, slow grin. Too wide. Like it was stretching skin that didn't fit.
I stepped back. "No."
The reflection didn't copy me. It tilted its head. Said, in a voice that sounded like mine… but wet, like words through blood:
"You shouldn't have come back."
I ran. I kicked the door, crashed through the kitchen, jumped the fence. I didn't stop until I was two blocks away, leaning on a mailbox, gasping.
I thought I was safe. But this morning, I read the obituary again. And something changed.
Yesterday, it said Julie Baker passed peacefully in her sleep.
Today, same paper, same page, the obit was different. The words were the same… but the photo below it wasn't.
Yesterday, it was a smiling woman. Blond. Kind eyes. Today, the photo was me. Same clothes. Same hair. But my face… stretched. Smiling too wide. Eyes black.
And underneath, a new line added in thin, spidery print:
"She made me promise to write this. Now I'm Julie. And you? You'll be next."
I threw the paper. Burned it in a trash can. But it doesn't matter. Because when I got home, my roommate looked at me strange.
"You okay?" she asked. "You've been… different lately."
I smiled. "I'm fine."
But I could feel it. A pressure behind my eyes. A voice, soft, inside my head.
"Good. Keep smiling. They'll believe you. And when they stop looking… we'll take them too."
I nod. I don't want to. But my body does it for me. I go to the bathroom. Look in the mirror. My face is mine. For now.
But the eyes… they twitch. Just for a second. Black. Empty.
And the reflection whispers:
"You read the book. You saw the truth. Now you carry it. You're part of her now. Part of me."
I shut the light. Sit on the floor. I want to scream. But my mouth won't open. I hear scratching. From inside the walls.
Soft, from the mirror:
"Don't worry. It only hurts the first time."
I don't know how much of me is left. All I know is, tomorrow's paper will have another obituary.
And this time… it'll have my name. And my face. And a lie. Because I won't die peacefully. And I won't be me. Not anymore. She's already here. She's already in. And she's so, so hungry.
- - - - - - - - - -
The next morning, at the bus station, a young girl picks up a soaked newspaper. She flips to page seven. There, beside a funeral home ad and a dead cat found in an alley, is a new obituary:
Mandy Cruz, 22, passed peacefully in her sleep.
Beloved daughter, friend, and waitress at Joe's Diner. Miss Cruz was known for her kindness, bright smile, and her love of reading. She will be deeply missed. A private service will be held. No flowers, please. Donations may be made to the local animal shelter.
Below, a photo of a smiling young woman. Her eyes look dark. Her smile, just a little too wide.
The girl shivers, not knowing why. She turns the page.
And somewhere, in a small blue house on Sycamore Street, a notebook lies under a bed. The last page is blank. But slowly, a drop of dark liquid falls onto the paper. Then another. And another.
Words begin to form.
"Day 1. She's here. She read it. She knows. But she doesn't know… she's already mine."
The writing stops. From inside the walls, a soft giggle.
Followed by silence.