Blair Bathory

Hospital shrugged. My mother, exhausted, moved me downstairs to the cold den, the one with the sunken floor and heavy curtains. She said I needed space to sleep. I think she just didn't want me in the room anymore. I don't remember falling asleep. I remember the shadows.

Hospital shrugged. My mother, exhausted, moved me downstairs to the cold den, the one with the sunken floor and heavy curtains. She said I needed space to sleep. I think she just didn't want me in the room anymore. I don't remember falling asleep. I remember the shadows.

At 3.08 a.m., I woke to the sound of my dog barking, pacing in frantic circles, whining like she'd seen something she couldn't unsee. I pulled her onto the couch beside me and closed my eyes. But I felt something. Not the dog. Not a draft. A presence. Thick. Watching. When I opened my eyes, I saw someone at the foot of the couch. Someone shaped like me. Same pajamas, same posture, same face.

At 3.08 a.m., I woke to the sound of my dog barking, pacing in frantic circles, whining like she'd seen something she couldn't unsee. I pulled her onto the couch beside me and closed my eyes. But I felt something. Not the dog. Not a draft. A presence. Thick. Watching. When I opened my eyes, I saw someone at the foot of the couch. Someone shaped like me. Same pajamas, same posture, same face.

At 3.08 a.m., I woke to the sound of my dog barking, pacing in frantic circles, whining like she'd seen something she couldn't unsee. I pulled her onto the couch beside me and closed my eyes. But I felt something. Not the dog. Not a draft. A presence. Thick. Watching. When I opened my eyes, I saw someone at the foot of the couch. Someone shaped like me. Same pajamas, same posture, same face.

Except she looked older, and her smile stretched too wide, like it had been carved into her skin. Her eyes didn't blink, just stared. I tried to speak... Hello? But no sound came out. I ducked under the blanket like kids do, because fairy tales tell us blankets are safe. But they lie. Because when I peeked again, she wasn't at the foot of the couch anymore. She was beside me.

Except she looked older, and her smile stretched too wide, like it had been carved into her skin. Her eyes didn't blink, just stared. I tried to speak... Hello? But no sound came out. I ducked under the blanket like kids do, because fairy tales tell us blankets are safe. But they lie. Because when I peeked again, she wasn't at the foot of the couch anymore. She was beside me.

Except she looked older, and her smile stretched too wide, like it had been carved into her skin. Her eyes didn't blink, just stared. I tried to speak... Hello? But no sound came out. I ducked under the blanket like kids do, because fairy tales tell us blankets are safe. But they lie. Because when I peeked again, she wasn't at the foot of the couch anymore. She was beside me.

Her face inches from mine, watching, smiling. I couldn't breathe, couldn't scream. I tried reaching for my iPad on the table, anything to feel real. But the second I reached out, she touched my arm, eyes cold fingers, rigid, unhuman. I blacked out. When I woke, my mother was shaking me awake for breakfast. Sunlight spilled through the curtains like none of it had happened.

Her face inches from mine, watching, smiling. I couldn't breathe, couldn't scream. I tried reaching for my iPad on the table, anything to feel real. But the second I reached out, she touched my arm, eyes cold fingers, rigid, unhuman. I blacked out. When I woke, my mother was shaking me awake for breakfast. Sunlight spilled through the curtains like none of it had happened.

Her face inches from mine, watching, smiling. I couldn't breathe, couldn't scream. I tried reaching for my iPad on the table, anything to feel real. But the second I reached out, she touched my arm, eyes cold fingers, rigid, unhuman. I blacked out. When I woke, my mother was shaking me awake for breakfast. Sunlight spilled through the curtains like none of it had happened.

But the bruises on my arm, five round indentations, told a different story. I showed them. She dismissed it. You probably rolled off the coffee table. I told them everything. My parents smiled that tight smile adults do when they think you're just being dramatic. They said I had an overactive imagination. They never mentioned it again.

But the bruises on my arm, five round indentations, told a different story. I showed them. She dismissed it. You probably rolled off the coffee table. I told them everything. My parents smiled that tight smile adults do when they think you're just being dramatic. They said I had an overactive imagination. They never mentioned it again.

But the bruises on my arm, five round indentations, told a different story. I showed them. She dismissed it. You probably rolled off the coffee table. I told them everything. My parents smiled that tight smile adults do when they think you're just being dramatic. They said I had an overactive imagination. They never mentioned it again.

But she came back, not every night, just when I started to forget her. She'd watch from corners, behind glass, in the dark blur between waking and dreaming, always smiling, always waiting. By the time I was nine, I'd learned not to tell anyone, not when I saw her outside my school window, not when she mirrored my movements in the bathroom mirror, but a beat too late. Like she was lagging behind.

But she came back, not every night, just when I started to forget her. She'd watch from corners, behind glass, in the dark blur between waking and dreaming, always smiling, always waiting. By the time I was nine, I'd learned not to tell anyone, not when I saw her outside my school window, not when she mirrored my movements in the bathroom mirror, but a beat too late. Like she was lagging behind.

But she came back, not every night, just when I started to forget her. She'd watch from corners, behind glass, in the dark blur between waking and dreaming, always smiling, always waiting. By the time I was nine, I'd learned not to tell anyone, not when I saw her outside my school window, not when she mirrored my movements in the bathroom mirror, but a beat too late. Like she was lagging behind.

Not when she stood at the edge of my bed whispering things that weren't in my voice. Things like, you are the copy. You're the one who doesn't belong. She started mimicking people I knew. My mother calling my name from outside the door while I heard her actually washing dishes in the kitchen. My brother asking to play games from the hallway even though he was asleep. Then never noticed her.

Not when she stood at the edge of my bed whispering things that weren't in my voice. Things like, you are the copy. You're the one who doesn't belong. She started mimicking people I knew. My mother calling my name from outside the door while I heard her actually washing dishes in the kitchen. My brother asking to play games from the hallway even though he was asleep. Then never noticed her.

Not when she stood at the edge of my bed whispering things that weren't in my voice. Things like, you are the copy. You're the one who doesn't belong. She started mimicking people I knew. My mother calling my name from outside the door while I heard her actually washing dishes in the kitchen. My brother asking to play games from the hallway even though he was asleep. Then never noticed her.