The rain pattered relentlessly against the windowpanes of Alex’s small apartment, a monotonous rhythm that had become the soundtrack to his recovery. It had been three weeks since the car crash—a slick road, a momentary distraction, and then the world spinning into chaos. The doctors had called it a miracle. Broken ribs, a concussion, internal bruising, but nothing permanent. ‘You’re lucky to be walking,’ they said. Alex didn’t feel lucky. He felt… off.

It started with his left hand. A faint tingling, like pins and needles after sleeping on it wrong. He flexed his fingers, watching them curl and uncurl under the dim light of his bedside lamp. Normal enough. He chalked it up to nerve damage, popped another painkiller, and drifted into uneasy sleep. Dreams came in fragments: shadows lurking at the edges of his vision, a sense of being watched from inside his own skin. He woke sweating, heart pounding, but the hand felt fine in the morning light.

By evening, the tingling had spread to his forearm. He was making coffee when it happened—his hand hesitated over the mug, trembling not from weakness but as if resisting his command. ‘Come on,’ he muttered, forcing it down. The cup clattered against the counter, spilling dark liquid. He stared at the stain, a vague unease settling in his gut. Shaking it off, he cleaned up and called his sister, Mia. ‘Just post-crash stuff,’ she assured him after hearing his complaints. ‘Rest up. It’ll pass.’

But it didn’t. The next day, his reflection in the bathroom mirror lagged. He turned his head left; the image turned a fraction slower, eyes locking onto his with an intensity that wasn’t his own. Blink. It blinked after him. Heart racing, he smashed his fist into the glass, shards exploding outward. Blood dripped from his knuckles, warm and real. The pain grounded him. ‘Hallucinations,’ he told himself. ‘Concussion side effects.’ He bandaged the hand and avoided mirrors.

Nights grew worse. He’d wake to the sound of scratching—not outside, but inside. From his bones, it seemed, a faint skittering like insects burrowing through marrow. He lay rigid, listening, willing it to stop. Once, his arm lifted of its own accord while he slept, hovering above his chest like a predator assessing prey. He yanked it down, pulse thundering. ‘Stop it,’ he whispered to the darkness. No answer, but the air felt thicker, charged with silent observation.

Desperate, he visited Dr. Harlan, his neurologist. Scans were clean. ‘Psychosomatic,’ the doctor said, prescribing anti-anxiety meds. ‘Your mind’s playing tricks after the trauma.’ Alex swallowed the pills dry, staring at his hands as if they might betray him mid-conversation. On the drive home, his foot slipped on the brake pedal—no, pressed it harder than intended, jerking the car to a halt inches from a truck. He gripped the wheel, knuckles white, whispering, ‘Not now.’

The whispers began that night. Faint at first, like radio static from far away, murmuring words he couldn’t catch. He pressed his ear to his arm, feeling the vibration under skin. ‘What?’ he hissed. The static cleared slightly: ‘…mine… get out…’ He recoiled, stumbling back from the bed. His own voice? No, deeper, angrier. A stranger’s timbre echoing from within his flesh.

He stopped sleeping. Coffee and fear kept him wired. By day, he paced the apartment, shadows lengthening unnaturally as dusk fell. His legs grew heavy, refusing steps, forcing him to drag them. Eating became ordeal; fork trembling, food spilling as if his muscles rebelled. Mia visited, concern etching her face. ‘You look awful, Alex. Like you’re fading.’ He wanted to tell her, but words stuck. Instead, he smiled weakly. ‘Just tired.’ She left takeout and a hug that felt like pity.

Alone again, he stripped to examine his body. Pale skin stretched taut over unfamiliar contours—the crash had changed him, or so it seemed. Pressing fingers into his thigh, he waited for the echo pain, but felt detachment, as if touching someone else. The scratching intensified, now audible to his ears, rhythmic: tap-tap-tap, like Morse code. He grabbed a notebook, watched his right hand seize the pen without permission. It scribbled jagged letters: G E T O U T.

Terror clawed his throat. He tore the page, lit it in the sink, flames devouring the accusation. But the hand cramped, fingers locking into claws. He pried them open with the other, sobbing quietly. ‘This isn’t real. Can’t be.’ Yet the mirror in the hall caught him—his reflection smiling while his face twisted in fear.

Dawn brought fragile calm. He resolved to end it. Loaded his old hunting knife, blade glinting. If the body rebelled, he’d cut the rebellion out. Starting small: slice along the forearm where tingling began. Skin parted easily, blood welling. No bugs, no parasites—just meat and tendon. Relief flickered. But as he stitched clumsily, the wound pulsed, sealing faster than natural, leaving pink scar.

Emboldened, he went deeper next time, carving into thigh. Pain screamed, but underneath, a thrumming, like a heartbeat not synced to his chest. The knife slipped—guided?—slicing too far. He passed out in a pool of red.

Woke to Mia’s screams. Ambulance. Hospital again. ‘Suicide attempt?’ doctors probed. He babbled about possession, body betrayal. Sedatives flowed. Clean bill: ‘Exhaustion, delusions.’ Discharged with psych referral.

Home, bandaged, he collapsed. Whispers roared now: ‘You don’t belong. Thief. Murderer.’ Murderer? The crash—he’d swerved to avoid a deer, but memory flickered: no deer, just rage, acceleration into the guardrail. Intentional? No.

That night, full moon bled through curtains. Body convulsed. Arms pinned legs; hands choked throat. He fought, gurgling, vision spotting. Fingernails dug into neck—his own nails. Blackness.

Surfaced gasping. Dawn. Body his again, bruises blooming like accusations. He crawled to bathroom, mirror intact now. Stared. Reflection stared back, but eyes—wrong shade, familiar…

Mia’s eyes.

Memory crashed: not his crash. Hers. Mia’s car, her road. He’d borrowed it, argued, shoved her out. ‘Stay here.’ Drove off drunk, furious. Crash. Died. Woke in morgue? No.

Flashes: surgery table, not his. Heart stopped, defibrillator. But he wasn’t Alex. During crash, dying, something latched—parasite? Spirit? Slipped into veins during chaos. Took control as medics revived ‘him.’ Alex’s body, but Alex gone. Whispers? Alex’s soul, trapped, clawing back.

Now, body rebelled fully. Limbs twitched violently. His right arm—no, Alex’s—grabbed knife from drawer. Turned blade inward. ‘No!’ he screamed. Arm plunged into belly, twisting. Guts spilled, hot agony. Left hand clawed face, gouging eyes.

Voice erupted, not his: ‘My body. Mine!’ Alex’s voice, triumphant. He—the intruder—fought fading control, vision blurring red. Last sight: mirror, reflection grinning with Mia’s eyes—no, Alex’s true face emerging, peaceful.

Silence. Body slumped, still. Alex blinked through bloodied sockets. Free. But pain eternal? No, peace. Intruder gone, expelled in gore. He smiled, reaching for phone. Mia answered: ‘Alex?’ ‘It’s me,’ he whispered. Finally me.