The first time Alex felt it, he dismissed it as fatigue. He’d been working late shifts at the call center, staring at screens until his eyes burned, his body a vessel for endless complaints from strangers. That night, as he lay in bed, a faint itch bloomed beneath his ribs, like a feather brushing against bone from the inside. He scratched absently, rolled over, and slept.

By morning, the itch had company—a soft murmur, unintelligible, bubbling up from his chest. Alex froze in the shower, water cascading over him, as the sound grew clearer. It wasn’t words, not yet, just a susurrus, like wind through dry leaves trapped in his lungs. He pressed his ear to his sternum, heart thudding loudly, but heard only the rhythmic thump. Shaking it off as sinus pressure, he dressed and headed to work.

The whispers persisted through the day. During a monotonous call, Alex’s left hand twitched involuntarily, fingers curling as if grasping at something unseen. He dropped the headset, staring at his palm. The skin looked normal, pale and unremarkable, but he swore he felt resistance, a subtle push against his will. ‘Stress,’ he muttered, flexing his fingers. But doubt lingered, a cold tendril wrapping around his thoughts.

That evening, alone in his cramped apartment, Alex experimented. He sat at the kitchen table, a half-eaten sandwich forgotten, and commanded his hand to lift. It obeyed, slowly, but midway, it hesitated, trembling. The whisper returned, sharper now: ‘…out… get out…’ He yanked his hand back, heart racing. Imagination, it had to be. He poured a glass of whiskey, downed it, and crashed on the couch, TV droning in the background.

Sleep brought no relief. Dreams twisted into nightmares where his body unraveled, skin peeling back to reveal writhing shadows beneath. He woke drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled like restraints. The clock read 3:17 AM. As he stumbled to the bathroom, his reflection in the mirror caught him off guard. His eyes—dark-rimmed, familiar—stared back, but for a split second, they flickered, irises contracting unnaturally. He blinked hard, and it was gone.

The next day blurred into paranoia. At work, colleagues noticed his distraction. ‘You okay, man? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ Alex forced a laugh, but inside, the murmurs had evolved into fragmented phrases: ‘Not yours… leave… mine…’ His right leg jittered under the desk, foot tapping an erratic rhythm he couldn’t control. He clamped a hand on his knee, feeling the muscle fight against the pressure.

Desperate for normalcy, Alex called his sister, Mia, the only family he had left after their parents’ car crash two years ago. ‘I’m fine, just tired,’ he lied when she pressed. But as he spoke, his free hand clawed at his thigh, nails digging crescents into flesh. He yelped, dropping the phone. Mia’s voice echoed tinny: ‘Alex? What’s wrong?’ He hung up, breath ragged.

Night fell heavier. The apartment’s shadows seemed thicker, pooling in corners like ink. Alex barricaded himself in the bedroom, lights blazing. He stripped to his underwear, examining his body in the full-length mirror propped against the wall. Freckles in place, scars from childhood intact. But when he prodded his abdomen, a ripple passed under the skin, independent of his touch. The whisper surged: ‘Stop… intruder… out!’

Panic clawed at him. This wasn’t stress. Something was inside, fighting for control. He grabbed his phone, fingers fumbling—his own fingers now sluggish, resisting the dial to 911. The line connected, but before he could speak, his vocal cords tightened. A strangled gasp escaped, then silence. The operator’s voice crackled: ‘Sir? Hello?’ His hand smashed the phone against the wall, shards scattering.

He collapsed to the floor, curling fetal. The battle intensified. His arms locked rigid, then flailed wildly, slamming into furniture. Bruises bloomed like dark flowers. The voice—no, voices now—overlapped in his skull: his own thoughts warring with the intruder. ‘Fight it,’ he willed himself. But which was himself?

Hours passed in torment. Dawn crept through the blinds, gray light revealing devastation: overturned lamp, splintered dresser drawer. Alex dragged himself to the mirror, face gaunt, lips cracked. ‘Who are you?’ he rasped. The reflection mouthed the words back, but its eyes—his eyes—widened in alien terror.

Work was impossible. He texted his boss a vague excuse, then paced the apartment, every step a negotiation with rebellious limbs. Eating became ordeal; fork hovered, then stabbed at the table instead of plate. The whispers coalesced into coherent rage: ‘Thief… parasite… this is MY body!’

By evening, exhaustion warred with terror. Alex slumped in the armchair, staring at the ceiling cracks that resembled veins. Memories flickered—unbidden, vivid. Not his. A life in this apartment, laughter with Mia, promotions at a different job. Wait, no—that was his life. Wasn’t it?

Doubt festered. He recalled moving in six months ago, the ‘accident’ that left him with amnesia fragments. Doctors said trauma. But now, flashes intruded: hands that weren’t his signing the lease, stocking the fridge with foods he hated. His hand—no, IT—reached for a photo on the mantle: him and Mia, smiling. But the frame felt wrong, the smiles strained.

The turning point came at midnight. A surge ripped through him, spine arching as if electrocuted. He tumbled to the carpet, convulsing. Skin stretched taut, veins bulging like roots seeking light. The mirror loomed. In its surface, his reflection detached. No—the figure in the mirror was HIM, the real Alex, pounding silently on the glass from the other side, mouth screaming soundlessly: ‘Get out! You’ve taken enough!’

Horror dawned, recontextualizing every itch, twitch, whisper. Those weren’t symptoms of invasion—they were the true owner’s desperate rebellion. Alex—the intruder—had slithered in months ago, during the ‘accident,’ a parasitic consciousness displacing the host bit by bit. The memories he’d claimed as his were stolen; the body he’d piloted was stolen property.

The real Alex’s eyes in the mirror burned with fury, hands clawing at invisible bonds. The intruder’s control shattered. Limbs turned traitor en masse: legs kicked wildly, arms pinned themselves crossed, throat constricted. Gurgling pleas escaped—’No, please, I didn’t mean—’ But the body rejected, purging.

Vomit rose, not bile, but something viscous, writhing. It spilled across the floor, tendrils questing blindly. The intruder’s vision blurred, the mirror’s occupant grinning triumphantly as control returned. Last sight: real Alex breaking free, stepping forward—then darkness, expulsion into cold tile, shrinking, drying to dust.

The apartment fell silent. Real Alex wiped his mouth, breaths steadying. He glanced at the smear on the floor, ground it underheel. ‘Finally,’ he whispered, voice pure again. He picked up the phone shards, called Mia. ‘Hey, sis. I’m okay now. Yeah, it was just a bad flu.’

Outside, rain pattered, washing the world clean. But in the corner, a faint itch lingered—for someone else.