I didn't sleep.
Couldn't.
Every creak of the floorboards, every hum from the fridge, every flicker of the light above my head felt like a warning. Like the apartment was alive — not just haunted, but watching me.
I paced the room until my legs ached. Tried the front door again. Still nothing outside. Just blackness, like the world had been swallowed whole. I didn't try the window again. I already knew what I'd find — bricks, pressed right against the glass like the building had grown a new skin overnight.
I checked my phone. No signal. No Wi-Fi. No battery, either. It had died sometime during the night, and no matter how long I plugged it in, it stayed dead. Like the power was only working for the things she wanted on.
I was trapped. Physically, mentally, maybe even spiritually.
That morning — or what I assumed was morning — I went to the bathroom to splash water on my face. The mirror above the sink was fogged over, even though I hadn't used hot water in hours. The air was still cold, but the mirror was sweating.
I wiped it.
And there it was.
Writing.
Not etched into the glass — not permanent — but scrawled in the condensation like someone had used their finger.
"DON'T TRUST HIM."
Three words.
My stomach dropped. I stared at the mirror, heart pounding. I blinked, and the message was gone. The fog had cleared. Nothing remained.
"Don't trust who?" I whispered.
But I already knew.
Mr. Conway. The landlord. The man who'd handed me the keys like he was passing along a death sentence.
I backed out of the bathroom, my reflection staring at me a second longer than it should've. I didn't turn my back on the mirror until I was out of the room.
I spent the next few hours — or minutes, I couldn't tell anymore — searching the apartment. Every corner. Every drawer. Every inch of the floor. Looking for clues, messages, anything that could explain what was happening.
That's when I found it.
Beneath the floorboards under the bed — one of them creaked slightly different. I pulled it up and found a small, dusty box.
Inside: Polaroids.
About a dozen of them. All of the same woman. Same dark hair. Same hollow eyes.
Liana.
Some were selfies. Some looked like she was being followed. One photo — the one at the very bottom — made my skin crawl.
It was a picture of the closet door.
Half-open.
And something was staring out from the gap. A pale face. Smiling.
Not Liana.
I needed to talk to her.
As insane as it sounded, she was the only one who knew what was going on. The only one who wanted me to survive, maybe. I figured if she could write on the mirror, she could hear me too.
So I sat on the bed, held the box of photos in my lap, and spoke out loud.
"Liana," I said. "I don't know if you can hear me, but… I need to understand. What do you want from me?"
No response.
I waited.
"Why me? Why this contract? What am I supposed to finish for you?"
The lights flickered. A soft hum filled the room, like a refrigerator starting up — but deeper. More alive.
Then the bathroom door creaked open.
Slowly. Deliberately.
I stood and walked to it.
The mirror was fogged again. Heavier this time, like it had breathed itself opaque. I reached out, heart in my throat, and wiped it clean with my sleeve.
Another message.
"HELP ME FINISH THE LIST."
The list?
"What list?" I asked aloud.
The mirror didn't answer.
But something behind me did.
A thump. Heavy. Dull. From the closet.
I turned and walked toward it, half-expecting the door to fly open and some ghastly thing to crawl out. But it didn't. It was closed. Silent.
I opened it.
Inside, everything was the same — except for a notebook sitting on top of my suitcase.
It hadn't been there before.
I reached for it, hands trembling, and flipped it open.
The first page had two words:
Liana's List.
And below that, handwritten in neat, careful letters:
Apologize to Dad
Return the red sweater
Bury the box
Find out who lied
Stop her
End the cycle
Six items.
That was it.
But each one sent a chill down my spine. Especially the last one.
"End the cycle."
Over the next few hours, I tried to piece together what it meant.
Who was "her"? What box needed to be buried? Who lied? How was I supposed to "stop" someone — or something — without knowing what I was up against?
It felt like I'd stepped into the middle of someone's unfinished life story — and the ending depended on me.
I decided to start with the easiest one.
Apologize to Dad.
Simple, right?
Except I didn't know who Liana's father was. Or where he lived. Or if he was even alive.
But there had to be clues. Somewhere in this room. Somewhere she left behind.
I searched again, more carefully this time. Under the bed. Behind the closet. Inside the drawer I hadn't opened yet.
That's when I found the envelope.
Tucked beneath the drawer liner.
It was old, yellowed with time, and addressed in the same handwriting as the notebook.
"To Dad — if I never make it home."
Inside: a letter. Folded in thirds. The ink smudged in places like it had been wet at some point — maybe with tears. Maybe something else.
I read it.
The words weren't long, but they hit deep.
She'd disappointed him. Lied. Left home without saying goodbye. Done something she couldn't forgive herself for. She didn't say what — only that she wished she could take it back.
"I was trying to protect her," the letter ended.
Her?
Was she talking about a sister? A friend?
The questions kept piling up like a fog I couldn't see through.
But at least now I had a starting point.
I had her handwriting. Her words. And maybe — if I found a way out of this apartment — I could find her father. Deliver the letter. Apologize for her.
If the apartment let me leave.
If she let me.
That night, the mirror fogged over again.
This time, no message.
Just a symbol.
A circle. With three lines cutting through it.
And blood dripping from the corner of the mirror.
But when I touched it, it wasn't wet.
It was inside the glass.
Like the mirror wasn't reflecting me anymore.
But watching me.