Alex Thompson stared at the ceiling of his cramped apartment, the faint hum of the city outside barely penetrating the thin walls. It was 3:17 a.m., according to the glowing red digits of his alarm clock, and sleep eluded him once again. The stress of losing his job two weeks ago gnawed at him like a persistent itch he couldn’t scratch. Bills piled up on the kitchen table, and the fridge echoed with emptiness. But tonight, it wasn’t just worry keeping him awake. There was something else—a subtle pressure behind his eyes, like a headache that hadn’t quite arrived.
He rolled over, pulling the threadbare blanket tighter. ‘Just fatigue,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Get some rest, and it’ll be fine.’ But as he closed his eyes, a faint whisper slithered through his mind. Not words, exactly, but a sensation, like fingers brushing the inside of his skull. He froze, heart quickening. Imagination, surely. The mind played tricks in the dead of night.
Morning came with gray light filtering through the blinds. Alex dragged himself to the bathroom mirror, splashing cold water on his face. His reflection looked haggard—dark circles under blue eyes, stubble shadowing his jaw. He popped two aspirin and headed to the kitchen for coffee. As the machine gurgled, that pressure returned, sharper now. A thought bubbled up, unbidden: *Why bother? You’re worthless anyway.*
Alex paused, mug halfway to his lips. That wasn’t his voice. His inner monologue was usually resigned, practical. This was venomous, laced with disdain. He shook his head. ‘Stress,’ he said aloud, forcing a laugh. ‘Talking to yourself now, great.’ He spent the day job hunting online, applying to dead-end positions, the whisper dormant but lurking.
By evening, it spoke again. *Quit pretending. You’ll never amount to anything.* Alex slammed his laptop shut, pulse racing. ‘Shut up,’ he growled, though no one was there. He paced the living room, the voice echoing faintly, mocking his failures: the failed marriage, the dead-end career, the loneliness. He turned on the TV for distraction, but even the sitcom laughter grated, twisted by the intruder in his head.
That night, sleep was fitful. Dreams fragmented—shadowy figures clawing at his brain, voices overlapping his own. He woke drenched in sweat, the pressure now a steady throb. In the mirror, his pupils seemed dilated, uneven. ‘I need help,’ he admitted, dialing his old friend Dr. Elena Vasquez, a neurologist.
‘Come in tomorrow,’ she said, concern in her voice. The exam was thorough: MRI, bloodwork, EEG. ‘Everything looks normal,’ Elena said, frowning at the scans. ‘No tumors, no anomalies. Could be anxiety-induced psychosis. Try meditation, therapy.’
Alex nodded, unconvinced. As he left, the voice chuckled softly. *She doesn’t see me. No one does.*
Days blurred. The voice grew bolder, commenting on every action. *Don’t eat that—you’re fat enough.* He skipped meals. *Call her, beg for your job back.* He resisted, but doubt crept in. Headaches intensified, vision blurring at edges. He isolated himself, unplugging the phone, drawing curtains. The apartment became a dim cave, shadows lengthening unnaturally.
One afternoon, staring at the wall, the voice conversed. *Remember Sarah? How you drove her away?*
‘I didn’t,’ Alex protested mentally. ‘She left because…’
*Because you’re broken,* it finished. *Admit it.*
Arguments ensued, silent battles raging. Alex lost weight, cheeks hollowing. Friends texted, ignored. Elena called: ‘Check-in appointment?’ He declined, the voice urging secrecy.
Nights worsened. The voice narrated his dreams, twisting memories. Childhood pranks became cruelties; promotions, thefts. *That’s who you are,* it insisted. Alex woke screaming, clawing at his temples. Blood under nails from scratching too hard.
He researched online: schizophrenia, possession, alien hand syndrome. Nothing fit. The voice anticipated: *They’re lies. Listen to me.* It offered advice—sharp, cunning. He followed once, lying to a recruiter, felt a rush of power. More followed: shoplifting food, a thrill masking hunger.
But control slipped. Fingers twitched involuntarily while typing, misspelling words. His hand hesitated over the keyboard, then deleted paragraphs he’d written. *Mine now,* the voice purred.
Panic set in. He bolted to Elena’s office unannounced. ‘It’s worse!’ She examined again, prescribed antipsychotics. ‘Give it time.’
The pills dulled it temporarily, but withdrawal brought agony—seizure-like fits, voice roaring. *You can’t silence me!*
Desperate, Alex bought a bottle of whiskey, contemplating ends. But the voice soothed: *Not yet. We have plans.*
Weeks passed in haze. Body weakened, mind fractured. He barely recognized the gaunt stranger in the mirror. The voice dominated conversations, even aloud. Neighbors banged walls at his mutterings.
One evening, resolve hardened. He filled a syringe with bleach from under the sink—improvised lobotomy. ‘If I can’t have peace, neither will you.’ Trembling, he pressed the needle to his temple.
*Stop,* the voice thundered, body convulsing, arm locking. The syringe clattered away.
‘Why fight?’ Alex wept. ‘Just take me.’
Silence, then a sigh. *Because… I’m not the intruder. You are.*
Alex blinked, disoriented. Memories flickered—flashes not his. A real estate deal gone wrong, a shady artifact bought on whim: an ancient amulet promising success. Pain, darkness, then waking as… this.
No. The voice continued, calm now. *I am Alex Thompson. Engineer, husband to Sarah—until you came. That amulet from the flea market, cursed relic. It housed you, a dybbuk, spirit parasite. You suppressed me, wore my skin, fabricated failures to feed your despair. Job loss? Your sabotage. Friends distant? Your isolation. Elena? She treated me before, remembers the ‘seizures.’*
Lies, Alex thought—or did he? Visions assaulted: True memories. Loving wife, steady job, laughter. Then the amulet, whispers promising power. His—no, the real Alex’s—fight back, dulled by the entity.
*I’ve been clawing back, weakening you. Those ‘headaches’? Me pushing. Twitches? My control returning.*
Horror dawned. Every dismissal, every ‘stress,’ was the parasite gaslighting itself. The gaunt reflection was the entity’s wasting form as host rebelled.
*Time to leave,* the real Alex said. Body straightened, eyes clearing. Alex—the false—screamed silently as eviction began. Limbs seized, vision tunneling. He felt himself unraveling, whispers fading into void.
The man—true Alex—picked up the syringe, not for himself. For the remnant. A prick, bleach flooding. Peace washed over as poison spread, but it was the entity’s end. Real Alex slumped, alive, purging the last.
He woke in hospital, Elena at bedside. ‘Attempted suicide?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he whispered, voice his own. ‘Exorcism.’
She nodded, charts showing anomalies gone. Outside, rain fell, washing shadows away. But in quiet moments, he wondered: Was it truly gone? Or just waiting, deeper now? No—the story ends here, cleansed.