I ran.
Or tried to.
But in Laurel House, running didn't mean escape. It meant circles. Spirals. Labyrinths with wallpapered walls that shifted when you weren't looking. And mirrors. So many mirrors. Each one whispering lines from a script I hadn't read—but my double had.
Every corner I turned, the lights dimmed just enough to remind me I was being lit, not rescued. Every room I entered carried the hush of an audience waiting for something terrible to begin.
And I was already in the third act.
---
The glass stretched behind me like smoke. Each step left footprints on the floor that weren't mine. Or maybe they were once, long ago, before I forgot how to belong in my own body.
Somewhere behind me, a voice echoed:
> "Exit… stage left."
And I knew what came next.
The disappearance.
Not death. That would be too kind.
Laurel House didn't kill you.
It rewrote you.
---
The dining room table was set.
For me.
A perfect meal—my favorite from childhood. Chicken pot pie. The kind only my dad used to make. Except… he'd been missing for six years.
And there he was.
At the head of the table. Silent. Smiling.
Eyes too wide.
Voice too calm:
> "Sit down, kiddo. Dinner's getting cold."
My hands trembled. I stepped back.
He stood.
Still smiling.
His head tilted like it wasn't quite attached.
> "The scene calls for family. You don't want to ruin the moment, do you?"
---
I fled.
Past the kitchen. Past the room that used to be mine. Every door I passed was now a stage, every frame dressed like a memory.
My first birthday.
The time I broke my arm.
Mom teaching me to tie my shoes.
Only… I wasn't in them.
He was.
The reflection.
Acting out my life.
Polished.
Perfect.
Applauded.
---
The theater room was new.
A long chamber filled with empty chairs, all facing a red curtain. The moment I entered, the lights dimmed and a spotlight fell on me.
I wasn't supposed to be there.
That much was clear.
The audience hissed.
No faces—just outlines. Shadows of watchers. Whisperers. Beings that only existed to judge the scene.
I backed toward the curtain.
It parted.
And there he stood.
Me.
In costume. In character. In control.
> "You've missed every rehearsal."
> "You're off-book."
> "You're ruining the show."
I shook my head. "You're not me."
He laughed.
> "I'm who you should've been."
> "Obedient. Grateful. Worth watching."
He stepped closer. I stepped back.
> "Why resist?" he whispered. "This is your standing ovation."
---
I turned and ran through the curtain, deeper into the false backstage that pulsed and shifted like the inside of a nightmare.
Behind me, the audience clapped.
Slow. Rhythmic.
Like a countdown.
Or a warning.
Thirteen claps.
Then silence.
---
I found a small room, lit by a single bulb.
No mirrors.
No scripts.
Just a desk.
On it: a photograph.
Me.
But younger. Seven, maybe eight.
Standing in Laurel House's hallway.
Smiling.
And behind me—barely visible—a hand resting on my shoulder.
A mirror hand.
Grayscale.
Painted from reflection.
The back of the photo read:
> You've been cast since birth.
---
I didn't remember this.
Not the moment.
Not the picture.
But the fear was real. It bloomed under my skin like heat.
Someone had always been watching.
Grooming.
Waiting for their version of me to arrive.
---
I tore the picture.
The lights buzzed.
The house groaned.
A voice screamed through the walls:
> "Improvisation is treason."
And the floorboards beneath me gave way.
---
I fell.
Through stories and scenes and sets built from memory.
I crashed into the lobby of the house—a room we'd never used.
The chandelier hung above me, flickering like a dying star.
Below it, a table.
A script.
My name on the cover.
Final Draft.
I opened it.
Blank pages.
All except one:
> Exit. Stage Left.
I dropped it.
And the chandelier above snapped loose.
---
I didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Let it fall.
But it didn't hit me.
The light blinked out.
The room turned black.
And then… applause.
Thunderous. Relentless.
For him.
The double.
Stepping into the room.
Taking a bow.
Taking my life.
---
Only one way out.
Only one rule left to break.
No more stage.
No more audience.
I turned. Faced the last mirror.
And shattered it with the script.
Glass rained.
The lights died.
And for the first time since arriving in Laurel House…
I was off the stage.