Days passed, and he didn't return to school. No one called. No one came to the door. It was as if the entire world had silently agreed to pretend he no longer existed.
He stayed mostly in his room, the curtains drawn tight, the lights left off. The house was quiet, broken only by the occasional creak of old wood, the low hum of distant traffic, and the faint, mechanical clatter of his sister getting ready for school each morning.
His mother spoke less and less. There was a new lock on her bedroom door now, the kind that clicked shut at night. He couldn't blame her. Not after what she'd seen. Not after what he'd done.
Something had changed inside him. It wasn't just a voice anymore—it was a presence, constant and heavy, pressing against his ribs like ancient bones stirring in his blood. Sometimes, it felt like there were two of him in the same body, like something walked beside him wearing his skin. And worse, there were moments when his reflection didn't behave like a reflection at all. He'd catch it staring longer than he had, grinning when his face was still, watching him like it knew something he didn't.
It was a Saturday when they arrived—two men in black coats, clean-shaven and expressionless. They stepped out of an unmarked car parked across the street and walked straight up the driveway without looking around. Their movements were calm, precise, almost rehearsed. He watched them through the narrow slit in his curtains and felt something cold settle in his stomach. They weren't police. They weren't doctors. And whatever they were, they weren't human.
He didn't go downstairs, but they didn't ring the doorbell either. They simply stood there for a while, silent and still, as though they were waiting for something to answer a question they hadn't asked. After several long, breathless minutes, they turned and left—no card, no message, just the sharp sense that their visit had been more of a warning than anything else.
That night, he dreamed again.
The cathedral was darker than before, its arches fractured and gaping, wind slicing through the hollows like whispers dragging along the stone. The air was colder, heavier, almost electric with something unspoken. And this time, the mirror was whole.
He stood in front of it, staring at the figure behind the glass. His reflection smirked, then stepped forward, boots clicking on the marble as it crossed the barrier without hesitation, like it belonged there. Its eyes were sharp, burning faintly with a crimson hue, and there was something terrifyingly regal about the way it moved—like a lion confined to a cage far too small for what it truly was.
"Still pretending?" it asked, voice smooth and familiar.
He said nothing, jaw tight.
The reflection began to circle him, footsteps echoing unnaturally in the stillness. "You can feel it, can't you? The walls thinning. The soul tearing."
"I'm not you," he growled, though his voice lacked conviction.
"You always say that," the reflection replied, amused. "But you're waking up. Bit by bit."
He turned away, but the thing that wore his face didn't let up. It moved with liquid grace, sliding into his path with eyes that burned deeper now.
"You can't stop what's coming. You were never meant to rot in this broken little plane. This world—this sad, soft place—it was just the prelude. You're meant for more."
"I didn't ask for any of this."
"No," it agreed, and its grin widened, eyes gleaming like coals in the dark. "You wanted it."
Silence stretched between them until he blinked—and found himself back in his bed, drenched in sweat, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
Then came the knock.
It echoed softly against the windowpane.
His room was on the second floor.
He pulled the curtain back, hands trembling, and there, standing perfectly balanced on the narrow ledge, was a man in tattered black robes. His face was hidden beneath a deep hood, and in one hand he held a long staff, its surface wrapped in what looked like bone and black leather.
They locked eyes, neither of them moving.
Then, slowly, deliberately, the man raised his free hand and tapped the glass—once, then again.
The message was clear: come outside.
He didn't know why he obeyed. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe fear. Or maybe the voice inside had already made the decision before his conscious mind could catch up. He slipped out the back door, climbed the rusted drainpipe, palms slick and trembling. By the time he reached the ledge, the robed figure had already turned, staring out over the city's lights from atop the roof.
"You're late," the man said, his voice rough, like stone grinding against stone.
"Late for what?" he asked.
The figure turned. For the first time, he saw the man's face—weathered, ancient, a scar tracing a jagged line from temple to jaw. His eyes were black and still, like coal pressed into ice.
"You've been marked," the man said. "Your soul is awake now. It can't go back to sleep."
His throat tightened. "What are you talking about?"
"I came to warn you—and to offer something most never get."
He let out a bitter laugh. "What kind of people are we talking about?"
The man tilted his head. "The cursed."
A gust of wind fluttered his cloak, revealing more of the gnarled staff.
"You have a demon inside you," he continued. "Not a metaphor. Not some psychological diagnosis. A real one—ancient, hungry. The soul of gluttony. It was sealed once, but it's feeding again. Every violent thought. Every twisted urge. It's growing."
His voice dropped. "What do you want from me?"
"Nothing," the man said flatly. "But others will. Soon. Some will come to destroy you. Some to tempt you. Some to complete the awakening."
"Then why warn me?"
"Because you still have time."
"To do what?" he asked, voice barely audible.
"To choose," the man said. He stepped forward, and the staff pulsed with faint light—an energy that felt older than words. "You were never supposed to stay here. This world is too soft for what you are becoming. The gates are thinning. The other side is calling."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "You mean… hell?"
The man let out a low chuckle. "Hell is what humans call it. But the place waiting for you—was once yours."
"That's not true."
"Ask your reflection," the man said, and then without warning, he was gone.
No sound. No flash. Just gone.
Sleep was no longer an option. He sat in the dark, across from the mirror, waiting.
And eventually, it blinked.
Then it grinned.
"You're starting to remember."
Morning brought no relief.
His mother's eyes were bloodshot and distant, her silence louder than any accusation. Later, through the thin walls, he heard her whispering on the phone. The words cut deeper than he expected.
"I don't think we can keep him here anymore."
He already knew it was coming. Still, it stung.
That afternoon, needing to breathe, needing space, he wandered the streets without direction until the city faded around him. He ended up at the old train station—abandoned, rusted, half-swallowed by weeds and graffiti. But it was quiet. Peaceful.
He sat on a weathered bench, closed his eyes, and for a moment… there was stillness.
Then it came.
Not a sound. Not a breeze. Something deeper. A ripple that moved through his bones.
He opened his eyes and stood.
The air shimmered faintly in front of him, like heat rising off pavement, but colder, stranger—like the veil between worlds was bending.
He walked toward it.
With every step, the thing inside him stirred, coiling with anticipation.
Hungry.
Excited.
Awake.