The shift began quietly.
Tyler stopped showing up to class. He let calls go unanswered, texts ignored. Even Jackson's patience—steady, stubborn—was starting to fray. Meals went untouched. Curtains stayed drawn.
But the thing inside him thrived in the dark.
Each day, Tyler's memory grew patchier. Sometimes he'd wake up in his own bed with bruises he didn't remember earning. Other times, he'd find objects in his room misplaced: books stacked in strange patterns, knives laid out on the floor like offerings. Once, he woke with black ink covering his palms, spirals and words scrawled in the jagged handwriting that wasn't his.
He'll leave you soon, the voice whispered, a cruel lullaby. Then you'll have only me. And isn't that easier?
Tyler pressed his hands to his temples. "Shut up—just shut up."
But his reflection didn't shut up. It laughed.
---
That evening, Jackson tried one last time. He knocked, firmer this time.
"Ty. I can't keep pretending nothing's wrong. Talk to me. Please."
For a heartbeat, Tyler almost opened the door. He could see it—Jackson's face, maybe pale with fear, but still there. Still trying.
But when his fingers brushed the knob, another hand pressed over his from inside the mirror. Cold. Claiming.
And in the back of his skull, a new voice emerged, deeper, hungrier.
Open the door, Tyler. Let me greet him~.
Tyler ripped his hand away like it had been burned. "No!"
The laugh that followed was thick and guttural. It echoed in the dark even after Jackson gave up and walked away.
For the first time, Tyler realized—he wasn't just hearing a voice.
He was sharing his body with it.