Londoner

I record this not out of vanity, but necessity. Something unnatural has begun to plague my nights. Each time I close my eyes, I am drawn into the same wretched nightmare. It is unlike any dream I have known—a waking nightmare that grows more real with each passing night. I stand before a mirror, the air thick with an oppressive silence, and though I know it is my own reflection that should greet me, it is his face that I see.

At first, it is subtle. I step toward the glass, and my reflection mimics the movement. But there is something wrong, a slight delay, as though the image does not truly belong to me. The face—his face—watches me. His features are hollow, the skin taut over high cheekbones, eyes sunken and devoid of any life. His gaze, so fixed, so unblinking, sends a chill deep into my bones. Then, he begins to change.

His expression twists into a mocking grin. Slowly, his lips peel back, revealing teeth sharp and stained, and the skin around his mouth seems to tear as if stretched beyond its limit. I try to turn away, but my body is rooted to the spot. My reflection is no longer mine—it is his, and he is more than just a shadow in the glass.

He begins to emerge.

I stand there, paralyzed, as his hand pushes through the surface of the mirror. First the fingers, then the whole arm, until his entire form is spilling out of the glass, reaching for me. His grin widens as he crosses the threshold between his world and mine. I want to scream, to run, but my legs refuse to move.

It is then that I wake, gasping for air, drenched in cold sweat. I pray each night that this horror will end, but each night it returns.

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