Blair Bathory

Only me. That was the worst part. I was alone. When I turned 11, I asked my grandmother Nana about it. She was the only one who took me seriously. She didn't laugh. She didn't tell me it was a dream. Instead, she looked me dead in the eyes and said, If you see yourself, you must never speak it, never follow it, and never ever believe what it says.

Only me. That was the worst part. I was alone. When I turned 11, I asked my grandmother Nana about it. She was the only one who took me seriously. She didn't laugh. She didn't tell me it was a dream. Instead, she looked me dead in the eyes and said, If you see yourself, you must never speak it, never follow it, and never ever believe what it says.

Only me. That was the worst part. I was alone. When I turned 11, I asked my grandmother Nana about it. She was the only one who took me seriously. She didn't laugh. She didn't tell me it was a dream. Instead, she looked me dead in the eyes and said, If you see yourself, you must never speak it, never follow it, and never ever believe what it says.

When I asked why, she crossed herself and whispered, Some mirrors don't know reflections. They show replacements. That year, I started wearing the red cord she gave me. Blessed, she said. Protection. I wore it to bed, in the shower, to school. And for a while, things were quiet. Until the cord snapped. It didn't fray. It tore like something had bitten through it.

When I asked why, she crossed herself and whispered, Some mirrors don't know reflections. They show replacements. That year, I started wearing the red cord she gave me. Blessed, she said. Protection. I wore it to bed, in the shower, to school. And for a while, things were quiet. Until the cord snapped. It didn't fray. It tore like something had bitten through it.

When I asked why, she crossed herself and whispered, Some mirrors don't know reflections. They show replacements. That year, I started wearing the red cord she gave me. Blessed, she said. Protection. I wore it to bed, in the shower, to school. And for a while, things were quiet. Until the cord snapped. It didn't fray. It tore like something had bitten through it.

That night, I saw her again, in the hallway, staring at my bedroom door, not moving, just waiting. When I tried to close the door, it was stuck, not jammed, held. I couldn't sleep, couldn't even blink without seeing her wide, static smile burn into my eyes. I prayed, not because I believed, but because I had nothing else left, and something answered, not in words, in dread.

That night, I saw her again, in the hallway, staring at my bedroom door, not moving, just waiting. When I tried to close the door, it was stuck, not jammed, held. I couldn't sleep, couldn't even blink without seeing her wide, static smile burn into my eyes. I prayed, not because I believed, but because I had nothing else left, and something answered, not in words, in dread.

That night, I saw her again, in the hallway, staring at my bedroom door, not moving, just waiting. When I tried to close the door, it was stuck, not jammed, held. I couldn't sleep, couldn't even blink without seeing her wide, static smile burn into my eyes. I prayed, not because I believed, but because I had nothing else left, and something answered, not in words, in dread.

The next morning, there was a note slid under my door, torn notebook paper, shaking, handwriting I didn't recognize, and it said, You're getting blurry. Let me help. And it was signed, Me. I tried to tell myself someone was playing a trick. That this was all a long nightmare I hadn't woken from. But that day at school, my teacher asked why I kept staring blankly into space. Except I hadn't.

The next morning, there was a note slid under my door, torn notebook paper, shaking, handwriting I didn't recognize, and it said, You're getting blurry. Let me help. And it was signed, Me. I tried to tell myself someone was playing a trick. That this was all a long nightmare I hadn't woken from. But that day at school, my teacher asked why I kept staring blankly into space. Except I hadn't.

The next morning, there was a note slid under my door, torn notebook paper, shaking, handwriting I didn't recognize, and it said, You're getting blurry. Let me help. And it was signed, Me. I tried to tell myself someone was playing a trick. That this was all a long nightmare I hadn't woken from. But that day at school, my teacher asked why I kept staring blankly into space. Except I hadn't.

She said I spoke to her in class and acted strange, but I don't remember any of it. That night, I stared into the mirror for a long time. I wanted to catch her behind me, but when I blinked, she was in front of me instead. We locked eyes. She smiled, whiter than before, and mouthed the words, ready to trade. I screamed, smashed the mirror, bloodied my hand.

She said I spoke to her in class and acted strange, but I don't remember any of it. That night, I stared into the mirror for a long time. I wanted to catch her behind me, but when I blinked, she was in front of me instead. We locked eyes. She smiled, whiter than before, and mouthed the words, ready to trade. I screamed, smashed the mirror, bloodied my hand.

She said I spoke to her in class and acted strange, but I don't remember any of it. That night, I stared into the mirror for a long time. I wanted to catch her behind me, but when I blinked, she was in front of me instead. We locked eyes. She smiled, whiter than before, and mouthed the words, ready to trade. I screamed, smashed the mirror, bloodied my hand.

My parents found me sobbing, surrounded by glass. They said I was sleepwalking, that I needed therapy. They said my mind was making it all up, but they were wrong. Because after that night, the world felt different. My reflection stopped syncing with me entirely. It lagged. It blinked when I didn't. Sometimes it would just stare frozen while I moved.

My parents found me sobbing, surrounded by glass. They said I was sleepwalking, that I needed therapy. They said my mind was making it all up, but they were wrong. Because after that night, the world felt different. My reflection stopped syncing with me entirely. It lagged. It blinked when I didn't. Sometimes it would just stare frozen while I moved.

My parents found me sobbing, surrounded by glass. They said I was sleepwalking, that I needed therapy. They said my mind was making it all up, but they were wrong. Because after that night, the world felt different. My reflection stopped syncing with me entirely. It lagged. It blinked when I didn't. Sometimes it would just stare frozen while I moved.

I stopped looking in mirrors, stopped trusting them. And then one morning, I saw my brother watching me eat breakfast. Only my real brother was still asleep. The one watching didn't blink. I ran. I don't know when the real world stopped, or if it ever existed. All I know is I'm 13 now, and sometimes, I feel like I'm her. Sometimes I laugh without meaning to.

I stopped looking in mirrors, stopped trusting them. And then one morning, I saw my brother watching me eat breakfast. Only my real brother was still asleep. The one watching didn't blink. I ran. I don't know when the real world stopped, or if it ever existed. All I know is I'm 13 now, and sometimes, I feel like I'm her. Sometimes I laugh without meaning to.