Chapter 4. Where Echoes Go to Die
Through the Looking Flesh
You step toward your father whose sitting in his wheelchair staring into the darkness of the corner, into oblivion.
Just one step. The floor groaned beneath you like it’s warning you to turn back.
His humming stopped.
Your father’s shoulders rose, bones creaking, as if he was sniffing the air. Like he knew you were there.
Then—his wheelchair turned, slowly, like something mechanical was operating it.
His head moved too far, too fast, like it was a creature wearing human skin. The rest of his body creaked around to follow, one vertebrae at a time. The wheelchair groaned beneath him as it rotated, his hands unmoving at his sides.
His face looked… normal. Almost. But his eyes glimmered like glass, and just for a second, you saw it:
A mirror shard. Embedded. Twinkling behind his corneas like glass swallowed long ago.You froze. He blinked.
Suddenly the room bends. Warps. Your father’s face starts to flicker—multiple versions of him glitching in and out of reality.
One version—older, softer—whispers:
“Attic.”
You don’t walk out of the room—you’re pulled. The hallway stretches like taffy. Your vision pulses.
You reach the attic stairs. The ladder to the attic looked different now—less wood, more... vertebrae of ivory .
It gleamed faintly, like it was growing from the ceiling instead of being nailed into it.
And when you climb, each step feels like going down, not up. Like descending into the belly of something ancient.
The attic was waiting. And it had changed. It’s waiting for you.
No more forgotten boxes or decaying insulation. Instead: a chair. Centered. Facing a mirror.
Your reflection was already there. Sitting calmly.
You titled your head, you were still standing, not sitting.
The mirror-you smiled. But you didn’t.
Something in the walls groaned. The attic began to shift, subtly at first—boards rippling like flesh, shadows pooling like blood circling a drain.
Then—they appear.
Demons. Shadows. Grotesque forms stitched together from bones and static.
They crawl down the walls. Emerge from the corners.
They were watching.
Eyes opened where wood knots should be. Claws whispered across the slats.
You collapsed into the corner, breath shallow, sweat ice-cold. You shut your eyes tight.
Just a dream. Just a nightmare. Just a slip in time.
You whispered yourself out of it. Willed yourself back.
And when you opened your eyes—sunlight. Morning.
A birdsong chiping softly dancing along with the gentle beeze coming from the open window.
You’re still in the attic—but it’s normal now. Dusty. Still. Morning light streams through the slats.
You hear footsteps downstairs. The smell of coffee brewing.
Time . . . shifted.
You stumbled downstairs. The smell of breakfast—eggs, toast, a hint of cinnamon—wrapped around you like a hug from a ghost.
The nurse looked up from the table. “You were in the attic all night?” she asked, half-laughing. “Your father had the most peaceful sleep I’ve ever seen since I started here.”
You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice. Still processing whatever had or hadn’t just happened.
The three of you sat at the table. Plates clinked. Coffee steamed. Your father buttered a biscuit like a man who hadn’t been facing the corner in a trance twelve hours ago. His wheelchair squeaked softly as he shifted.
Normal. Too normal.
Your gaze drifted to the dining room mirror.
Your father’s eyes. In the mirror.
Glass.
But when you looked at him directly? Flesh. Blue. Real.
You didn’t say a word.
You took a bite of your eggs.
And the mirror watched back . . .
Option 1: GTFO
You couldn’t imagine spending one more moment in this house, not after last night, not after right now. It’s time to explore the town and take a walk.Option 2: Read the Journal
Perhaps you’re a glutton for punishment, but you can hear the journal beckoning you. Perhaps something new has revleaved itself within.
Finishing up your plate of breakfast, you ask the Nurse “Do you need help with anything?”
She shakes her head no and asks, “What are your plans for the day?”