The Mark That Follows

The key lay on my pillow like it had always belonged there—silent, metallic, cold. I didn't want to touch it, but I couldn't stop myself. My fingers reached for it as if they had a mind of their own. The moment my skin made contact, a chill ran up my arm and gripped my chest like a fist.

It's just a dream. It has to be, I told myself.

But dreams don't leave behind artifacts. Dreams don't whisper your name long after you're awake. Dreams don't follow you into the sunlight.

I stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. The light was harsh, but real. I splashed cold water on my face and looked into the mirror.

That's when I saw it.

A mark—faint, but unmistakable—burned into the side of my neck. A small, circular symbol with jagged edges and what looked like tiny hands reaching out from the center. I ran my fingers over it. It didn't hurt, but it felt… wrong. Like it didn't belong on this side of the world.

I backed away from the mirror, heart racing. My phone buzzed again. I grabbed it. A message from an unknown number:

"Don't ignore it. The door opened for a reason."

I dropped the phone.

Panic set in fast. I needed air. I grabbed a hoodie, shoved the key into my pocket, and ran outside. The street was normal—quiet, the way mornings usually were. People walking dogs. Cars idling. Nothing out of place.

Except for me.

I felt like I was still dreaming. Or maybe I never really woke up.

At the corner of my street, an old man sat on a bench I'd never noticed before. He was watching me—staring, really. His eyes weren't blue, but gray. Pale and almost lifeless. He raised one bony hand and pointed at my pocket.

"Careful with that," he croaked as I passed.

I stopped. "What?"

He grinned—too wide, too many teeth. "It doesn't like being ignored."

Before I could speak, he was gone. Just like that. Vanished.

My pocket suddenly felt heavy. I pulled out the key. It was warm now. Almost pulsing.

I turned around and went home, locking every door behind me. I dropped the key on the kitchen table and stepped back. But the key didn't stay still—it rolled on its own, spinning slowly like a compass searching for direction.

It stopped. Pointed toward the hallway.

My hallway.

I followed it.

Each step felt like walking through thick fog, even though everything around me looked perfectly clear. I reached the end of the hall where the attic door was. It had been sealed for years. We never used it.

But now, the pull was unmistakable.

My hand lifted toward the latch.

No. No way.

And yet… I opened it.

Dust spilled out like smoke. The wooden stairs creaked louder than they should've. I climbed. The key in my hand burned brighter with every step.

The attic was small. Empty.

Except for a mirror.

A mirror that hadn't been there before.

I approached it slowly, my breath shallow.

In the reflection, I didn't see just myself.

I saw the dream version of me.

The one that replaced the demon.

He was smiling.

Behind him stood the two women from the key—the old and the beautiful, both weeping blood, pointing at me through the glass.

I tried to turn away but my feet wouldn't move. My reflection lifted its hand and held up the same key. Except his was covered in veins, pulsing like it was alive.

Then, the glass cracked.

A voice echoed around the attic.

"The mark means you've been chosen. Sleep again, and the door opens wider."

The attic began to shake. Dust rained down from the ceiling. I screamed and ran, slamming the door behind me.

Back in my room, I threw the key across the floor. It clanged, then went still.

I collapsed onto the bed, trembling.

I looked at my phone again.

Another message:

"You have three nights. After that, the door closes forever—or you stay inside."