The first sign came subtly, as these things often do. Daniel stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror that morning, toothbrush in hand, and for a split second, the eyes looking back blinked out of sync with his own. He paused, foam at the corner of his mouth, and laughed it off. ‘Long night,’ he muttered, rinsing his mouth. The office had kept him late again, debugging code until his eyes burned. At thirty-four, the grind was wearing on him, but the promotion was close. He dressed in his usual button-down and slacks, grabbed his keys, and headed out into the crisp autumn air.
The drive to work was uneventful, save for a peculiar itch under his skin, like static electricity dancing along his nerves. He scratched at his arm absentmindedly, watching the traffic crawl. By the time he reached the parking garage, the sensation had faded, replaced by the familiar hum of fluorescent lights and keyboard clacks. His cubicle mate, Sarah, greeted him with a coffee-stained smile. ‘You look like hell, Dan. Rough night?’
‘Yeah, something like that,’ he replied, booting up his computer. As the screen flickered to life, he felt a faint tug at the corner of his vision, as if something peripheral was watching. He shook his head, diving into emails. The day dragged on, punctuated by moments of disorientation—his fingers hovering over keys they didn’t intend to press, words stumbling on his tongue during the team meeting. ‘Sorry, brain fart,’ he joked when he misnamed a client. Laughter rippled through the room, easing the knot in his chest.
Lunch was a sandwich from the deli downstairs, eaten at his desk. Midway through, his left hand trembled, dropping the half-eaten turkey club. Ketchup smeared across the keyboard. ‘Clumsy today,’ he grumbled, wiping it up. Sarah glanced over. ‘You sure you’re okay? You seem… off.’
‘Just tired,’ he assured her, forcing a grin. But as he chewed, a whisper slithered into his ear—not from the office chatter, but from inside his head. *Mine.* It was faint, like wind through cracks. He froze, glancing around. No one nearby. Paranoia, he thought. Stress.
The afternoon blurred. Code that usually flowed now resisted, syntax errors piling up as if the computer rebelled against him. His reflection in the darkened monitor showed pale skin, shadows under eyes. When he looked away, the image lingered a beat too long in his periphery. By five, he was packing up, eager for home.
The apartment was quiet, the kind of silence that amplifies creaks and distant sirens. Daniel kicked off his shoes, poured a whiskey, and sank into the couch. The itch returned, sharper now, crawling from his fingertips up his arms. He rolled up his sleeve, inspecting the skin. Normal. But as he watched, a faint ripple passed beneath the surface, like a muscle twitching involuntarily.
He stood abruptly, heart quickening. In the bathroom mirror, he examined his face. Pupils dilated unevenly. ‘What the hell?’ He leaned closer, and there it was again—the reflection’s mouth curved into a smile while his remained straight. Panic flickered, but he blinked hard, and it synced.
Sleep that night was fitful. Dreams of mirrors shattering, shards embedding in flesh, voices chanting *intruder*. He woke drenched in sweat, throat raw from unspoken screams. The clock read 3:17 AM. Thirsty, he shuffled to the kitchen, but paused at the hallway mirror. His silhouette stood still, but something shifted within the glass— a subtle lean forward that he hadn’t made.
‘Imagination,’ he whispered, but his voice echoed strangely, layered. Back in bed, he lay rigid, listening to his own breathing. It grew uneven, as if contested. A pressure built behind his eyes, thoughts fragmenting. *Not yours. Get out.*
Morning brought denial. He called in sick, blaming a migraine. The apartment felt smaller, walls pressing in with their faded paint and peeling wallpaper. He paced, coffee mug shaking in his grip. The whispers persisted, now clearer: *Thief. Pretender.*
To distract himself, he cleaned. Dusting the bookshelf, his hand knocked over a photo frame—him and his ex, Lisa, smiling at the beach. The glass cracked. As he picked it up, his fingers lingered, tracing her face unnaturally. ‘Stop,’ he hissed, flinging it away. But the compulsion returned, stronger, pulling his limbs like puppet strings.
By noon, the battle intensified. Sitting at the kitchen table, he tried to eat toast, but his jaw clenched shut. Force it open— it resisted. Panic surged. ‘What’s happening to me?’ Tears welled as his right arm lifted without command, slamming fist into the table. Pain shot up, but the arm raised again, poised to strike his face.
He wrestled it down with his left, muscles straining. Breathing ragged, he stumbled to the bathroom, splashing water. Mirror-Daniel watched impassively, eyes gleaming with malice. ‘Fight it,’ he told himself. But the reflection whispered, lips unmoving: *You don’t belong.*
Hours crawled by in torment. He bound his right arm with a belt, but it strained against the restraint, veins bulging. The left leg kicked sporadically, bruising his shin against furniture. Paranoia bloomed— was it a stroke? Tumor? He googled symptoms: ‘body parts moving on their own.’ Forums buzzed with possession tales, schizophrenia, neurological disorders. None comforted.
Dusk fell, shadows lengthening like fingers. The whispers coalesced into a voice—familiar, yet alien. *Daniel? No. That’s my name. You stole it.* Memories flickered, not his: a different life overlaying his. Childhood in Ohio, not California. Lisa’s face sharpened—wait, her name was Emily? Confusion roiled.
Night deepened the horror. Strapped to the bed with sheets and belts, he fought sleep. But exhaustion won, plunging into nightmares where he clawed at his skin, peeling it back to reveal another face beneath.
He awoke to agony. Dawn light filtered through blinds, casting stripes across his body. His right hand had freed itself, nails digging into his cheek, blood trickling. ‘No!’ He scrambled up, racing to the mirror.
There, the truth fractured. His reflection stood calm, uninjured, while his real face bled. But as he watched, the glass figure stepped forward—out of sync again. It mouthed words: *You’re the intruder. I’ve been waiting.*
Flashback assaulted: not his memory. Waking in a body not his, disoriented, pushing down the original consciousness. Days ago—no, weeks? The ‘long night’ at work was the takeover. Sarah’s concern was for the real Daniel surfacing.
The body convulsed, real Daniel’s essence surging back. Limbs flailed under dual control, slamming into walls. He—no, it— collapsed, vision tunneling. The mirror showed the true owner staring out, triumphant.
In the final moment, as control slipped entirely, the impostor realized: every ‘glitch’ was the host awakening, piece by piece. The promotion, the apartment, the life—stolen. Now reclaimed.
Silence fell. The body rose smoothly, wounds already clotting unnaturally fast. It smiled at the mirror—now perfectly synced. ‘Welcome back, Daniel.’ But the eyes held no recognition, only cold possession resolved.