The first test was small.
A pinprick.
Literally.
I stood in front of the mirror in the hallway—ordinary now, square, silent. I held a sewing needle I'd found in the drawer and poked my finger.
Tiny drop of red.
I watched it form.
Felt the sting.
Then looked at my reflection.
My face was still. My eyes focused. But my finger in the mirror—
No blood.
---
I pressed my finger against the glass.
The blood smeared.
But on the other side—
Nothing.
The reflection hadn't followed.
---
I wiped it away and stepped back.
Okay. Maybe it was a delay.
Maybe I was overthinking.
But the longer I stared, the more it sank in.
My reflection was lagging.
Half a second behind.
Blinking just after me.
Breathing just after me.
Like it was watching... and waiting.
---
The notebook was gone now—burned, scattered, buried in the mirror corridor.
But something new had appeared in its place.
A journal on the nightstand.
Leather-bound. Blank pages.
And a pen.
The kind that scratched when it wrote.
A tag tucked inside the cover read:
> "Final Version – For Maintenance Only."
---
I flipped to the first page and wrote:
> My name is Ian Foster. I live in Apartment 4B.
The pen resisted for a second, like the ink was thick.
But the words stayed.
Didn't vanish.
Didn't twist.
Didn't bleed.
---
That night, I slept for the first time in what felt like years.
Deep. Unbroken.
And I dreamed of roots.
A tree growing from under the apartment. Cracking tile. Splitting wood. Pushing up through the floor.
Whispers in the branches.
Names caught in the bark.
One voice louder than the rest:
> "You may live here, Ian—but you're still renting."
---
I woke with a dry mouth and a name in my head that didn't belong to me.
Dr. Isabelle Sayer.
I didn't know who she was.
Didn't know why the name made me nauseous.
But it was stuck.
Like a tooth lodged behind my ear.
---
The hallway was longer this morning.
Not physically. Just... felt longer.
Like I had to blink twice to reach the end of it.
I opened the front door—
And the hallway outside wasn't the same.
Dimmer.
Longer.
Apartment numbers now went up to 4G.
They didn't yesterday.
---
I knocked on 4E. No answer.
Tried 4F. Locked.
4G opened before I touched it.
And inside stood a woman in her late fifties, wearing a crimson bathrobe, hair pulled back too tightly.
She stared at me like I was already expected.
> "Maintenance?"
> "...No. I live next door. 4B."
Her expression didn't change.
> "They always send one of you after a seal breaks."
> "What?"
She reached forward—fast—and gripped my wrist.
Eyes wide. Fingers cold.
> "Has it started bleeding yet?"
---
I yanked away.
Her door slammed.
Locks clicked.
Dead silence.
And my wrist stung where she touched it.
I looked.
No cut. No mark.
But my skin had a bruise pattern…
A spiral.
Faint, like frost on a window.
---
I stumbled back to my apartment.
Closed the door.
Turned on every light.
Nothing hummed.
No flickers.
But when I looked in the mirror—
My reflection had something new.
A small crack beneath the right eye.
Hairline.
Spreading.
And worse—
He was smiling.
---
I dropped the journal.
Wrote quickly:
> "Saw neighbor. She knew something. Said 'seal' broke. Reflections are cracking."
As soon as I finished the sentence—
The lights dimmed.
TV turned on by itself.
Static.
Volume rising.
And behind the noise… a voice.
My voice.
Repeating:
> "Final Version must repair the breach."
> "Final Version must repair the breach."
> "Final—"
---
I unplugged the TV.
It stayed on.
The reflection laughed.
I ran to the kitchen—splashed cold water on my face.
The faucet sputtered and choked—
Then spewed ink.
Black. Warm. Clinging.
I wiped it away, heart racing.
The water cleared.
But the mirror?
Now two cracks.
One on either side.
Like it was spreading open.
---
I grabbed my phone.
Tried to take a picture of the reflection.
Screen glitched.
Camera app refused to open.
Then, just before the phone died—
The screen flashed a photo of the hallway mirror.
Someone was inside it again.
Not me.
Not the version I'd erased.
A woman.
Smiling.
Face wrapped in gauze.
Hands dripping ink.
And I knew—without knowing how—
That was Dr. Isabelle Sayer.
---
I flipped back through the journal pages.
Somehow—
Without writing anything—
A new line had appeared:
> "Tenant Log: 4B – Final Version incomplete. Reset imminent."
And beneath that:
> "Backup Restoration Protocol: 4A now awakening."
---
I dropped the journal and turned toward the wall that connected 4A.
Pressed my ear against it.
Nothing.
Then—
A knock.
Not from my side.
From inside the wall.
Rhythmic.
Five beats. Then three.
Then five again.
Like a code.
Like a heartbeat.
---
I stepped back.
Whispers now.
From the floorboards. The vents.
Faint, like music just beneath perception.
And that scent again:
Burnt paper. Wet flowers.
Like something had been exhumed and decorated.
---
My name is Ian Foster.
But the house is starting to forget again.
And this time, I think it's bleeding from the inside.