The thing on the trunk finally lost its grip and was flung off, tumbling into the violet fog behind them.
Aurora hyperventilated, her chest heaving for air. "What is happening? What are those things?"
Ben didn't answer right away. He was white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his eyes jumping between the road and the rearview mirror. The blood from his nose had dried into a dark, rusty smear on his face.
"I don't know," he finally said, his voice ragged. "But I saw… in your room? When I looked up from the courtyard? I saw something standing behind you."
Aurora felt a fresh wave of cold dread. "You saw it?"
"It looked like… a hole," Ben struggled to explain. "Like a hole in the world shaped like a person."
He reached for the radio dial, his hand trembling. "I need noise. The silence is… it's getting into my head."
He twisted the knob. What sounded was a static, piercing noise that made Aurora's teeth ache. He tried again.
"…don't trust the reflection…" a voice cut through the radio, perfectly clear and crisp.
Ben froze. "What was that?"
He spun the dial.
"…subject 44 marked… twilight protocol initiated…"
"Turn it off," Aurora pleaded, shrinking deeper into her seat.
"…Ben is lying…"
The voice was hers. Aurora's voice, coming from the car speakers.
Ben slammed on the brakes. The car skidded to a halt in the middle of the road. Aurora's seatbelt dug into her collarbone.
"What did it say?" Ben whispered, turning to look at her.
The air in the car thickened. It grew heavy, smelling faintly of copper and ozone.
Aurora stared at him. "It's not real, Ben. It's trying to mess with us. Like the dorm, like Karen."
"Is it?" Ben asked. His expression was completely blank. The warmth was gone from his brown eyes, replaced by a flat, empty gaze. He tilted his head. "Or maybe you're the one doing it, Aurora? You're the one with the mark."
Aurora's breath hitched. She looked at his hands on the steering wheel. His knuckles were bruised, but there was something else. On his right wrist, peeking out from under the sleeve of his flannel shirt, was a black line.
"Ben," she whispered, inching her hand toward the door handle. "Roll up your sleeve."
He blinked, and for a split second, the confusion, the humanity, rushed back into his face. "What? Why?"
"Show me your arm!"
Ben frowned, looking down at his wrist. He pulled the sleeve back. There was nothing there. Just pale skin and a cheap watch.
"Aurora, you're hallucinating," Ben said, his voice gentle and concerned again. "You haven't slept, you're seeing things."
Aurora pressed her back against the door. Has she really seen it? Or was the paranoia a virus, seeping in and infecting her mind? She rubbed her eyes. The violet sky outside was deepening to a dark, bruised indigo.
"Look," Ben said softly. "We're almost off campus. We'll go to the hospital. Or the police. Okay?"
He pressed the gas and the car started moving again. Aurora looked out the window. They were on University Avenue. The bare trees lining the road looked like claws scraping the sky.
She recognized the intersection coming up. The library was on the corner.
They passed it. Two minutes later, they passed the library again.
Aurora sat bolt upright. "Ben."
"Yeah?"
"We just passed the library."
"So?"
"We passed it two minutes ago. We're driving in a straight line."
Ben let out a brittle, nervous laugh. "Don't be ridiculous, it just looks similar."
They kept driving. The road stretched ahead, gray asphalt swallowed by the fog. Three minutes later, the library appeared again on the right. The same cracked sidewalk, and the same flickering streetlamp.
"Stop the car," Aurora ordered.
"We can't stop," Ben said, his voice flat, monotonous. "We have to keep moving."
"Ben, we're in a loop! Stop the car!"
"We can't stop," he repeated. He wasn't looking at the road anymore. He was staring straight ahead, eyes unblinking. His foot pressed harder on the gas. The speedometer needle climbed: 60. 70. 80.
"Ben!" Aurora lunged for the steering wheel.
Ben didn't resist. He was stiff, rigid, like a mannequin. His skin was freezing cold under her hands.
She grabbed the wheel and yanked it hard to the right. The car swerved violently, jumped the curb, tires shrieking, and smashed through a wooden fence. They hurtled into what should have been a field. But instead of grass or dirt, the car slammed into a wall of thick, viscous gray mist.
The impact was like hitting high-speed water. The windshield instantly shattered, showering them in glass pebbles. The airbags stayed flat.
The car spun, sliding across a surface that felt utterly frictionless, before finally screeching to a stop. Silence returned.
Aurora coughed, batting away mist and dust. Her head pounded. "Ben?"
She looked at the driver's seat. It was empty. The driver's door was closed. The seatbelt was still buckled across the vacant chair. Ben was just… gone.
"No," Aurora whimpered. She clawed at her door handle, kicking it open. She fell out onto the ground.
But it wasn't the ground. She was standing on glass. Aurora scrambled to her feet, looking down. Beneath her boots, stretching out endlessly in every direction, was a gigantic mirror. It reflected the bruised sky above, creating an endless sphere of indigo and violet. She was walking on the reflection.
"Ben!" she screamed, spinning around.
The Honda Civic was gone, too. She was completely alone in the void.
Buzz.
Her pocket vibrated.
She pulled out her phone. The screen was cracked, but the message was readable.
UNKNOWN: You crossed the threshold.
UNKNOWN: Rule #1: Don't wake up.
Aurora stared at the text. A sound echoed across the mirrored plain. A low, rhythmic thump-thump. Footsteps. Massive, heavy footsteps approaching from the fog.
She looked down at her reflection on the glass floor. Her reflection wasn't looking at her. It was looking up, behind her, and it was screaming.