The first sign was the twitch. A subtle jerk in my right eyelid as I stared at the computer screen, tallying spreadsheets in the dim glow of my cubicle. I blinked hard, rubbed it away, blaming the fluorescent lights or too much coffee. But it happened again that evening, while cooking pasta in my cramped kitchen. The twitch spread to my hand, fingers fumbling the knife, nearly slicing into my thumb. ‘Just tired,’ I muttered to the empty apartment, flexing my digits until they obeyed.
I’m Elena, thirty-four, divorced, scraping by as an accountant in a city that chews people up and spits them out. My life was routine: work, gym, microwave meals, sleep. Predictable. Safe. Until the twitches became tremors.
By the third day, my left leg dragged slightly on the walk home. It felt heavy, like wading through molasses, while my mind screamed to lift it higher. I stumbled into a lamppost, drawing stares from passersby. ‘Clumsy me,’ I laughed it off, but inside, unease coiled like smoke.
That night, sleep brought no relief. Dreams of shadows slithering under my skin, pressing against ribs from within. A voice, soft and insistent, echoing in the cavern of my skull: ‘Let me out.’ I woke sweating, heart hammering, convinced it was a nightmare. But the sheets were soaked with more than perspiration—tiny red pinpricks from nails dug too deep into palms.
Morning routine shattered when my hand refused to grip the toothbrush. It hovered, trembling, then slowly curled into a fist, knuckles whitening. I watched in horror as it rose, unbidden, toward my face. ‘Stop!’ I commanded, willing every muscle. It paused, quivered, then dropped. Relief flooded me, short-lived.
At work, it escalated. Midway through a meeting, my head turned sharply to the right, eyes scanning empty air. Colleagues frowned. ‘Elena? You okay?’ I nodded, cheeks burning, but felt eyes on me—not theirs, something peering from the corners of my vision, lurking in the periphery.
I called in sick the next day. Doctor’s office: wait times, sterile smells, assurances of ‘nerves’ and prescriptions for anxiety. ‘Could be early Parkinson’s or MS,’ the doc said vaguely, ordering tests. I filled the script, popped a pill, but the voice returned stronger that evening.
‘You’re not alone, Elena.’ It was my voice, but laced with a rasp, like wind through dry leaves. ‘I’ve been waiting.’
Panic clawed my throat. I slammed cabinets, tore through drawers for anything to fight it—a cross? No religion. Salt? Absurd. I barricaded the bedroom door, huddled under blankets, whispering prayers to gods I didn’t believe in.
Dawn brought false calm. But as I showered, the water running hot over skin that no longer felt mine, my arm lifted without thought. It traced the veins on my wrist, pressing, probing, as if mapping territory. ‘Mine,’ the voice purred.
I fled to my ex-husband’s place. Mark answered the door, bleary-eyed. ‘Elena? What’s wrong?’
Words tumbled out: twitches, voice, loss of control. He listened, skeptical, offered coffee. As we sat, my hand—against my will—reached across the table, fingers brushing his cheek. Tender. Intimate. Like old times. Mark froze, eyes widening. ‘Elena…’
I yanked it back, horrified. ‘It’s not me! Something’s inside!’
He drove me to the ER. Tests: MRIs, bloodwork, neurologists poking and prodding. ‘No tumors. No lesions. Stress-induced psychosomatic.’ They released me with sedatives.
Back home, isolation bred terror. Mirrors became enemies. My reflection lagged—lips moving after mine stopped, eyes darting when mine stared straight. One night, unable to sleep, I confronted it. ‘What do you want?’
The face in the glass smirked. ‘You.’ Then, seamlessly, it was me again.
Days blurred. Eating became ordeal; fork lifted to mouth sans hunger. Walking: legs veered toward windows, heels scraping dangerously close to edges. The voice narrated: ‘Fight all you want. This shell is perfect.’
I scratched symbols on walls—wards from half-remembered horror movies. Bound limbs with duct tape. But flesh rebelled, muscles bulging, snapping restraints like thread.
Desperation peaked. I grabbed scissors, aimed at the twitching arm. ‘If I cut it out…’ Blade bit skin, blood welled, but hand wrenched away. Pain exploded, yet underneath, glee. ‘No escape.’
Weak from loss of blood, I bandaged clumsily, collapsed on floor. Hallucinations? Or real? Footsteps—not mine—padded across linoleum. No. My feet moved me to the desk, pulled out journal. Hand scrawled, ink smearing: ‘Elena died two years ago. Car crash. I took her place. Memories implanted. Now you’re waking. The real one. Get out before I end us both.’
I recoiled. Impossible. But flashes: screeching tires, shattering glass—not dreams, memories suppressed. The divorce? Mark’s face in hospital, grief-stricken. Work promotions? Fabrications.
The imposter had lived my life flawlessly. Until now. The real Elena’s soul, trapped, stirring, causing glitches. Fighting back.
Rage surged. ‘Give it back!’
Body laughed through my lips. ‘Too late. You’re the intruder now.’
It forced me to the bathroom, mirror gleaming. Reflection split: half me, half decayed visage—rotting flesh, empty sockets. The parasite’s true form, decaying host.
Knife from drawer. Raised. I screamed as it plunged into chest, twisting. Blood sprayed mirror, shattering illusion.
Darkness. But in final gasp, clarity: I was the parasite. Real Elena died that night two years ago. This ‘waking’ was my essence fraying, memories bleeding through as host rejected invader.
No escape. Body slumped, eyes glazing. Whispers faded: ‘Mine forever.’
Silence.