1. The hallucinations

The first time Claire saw the dead man, she sipping coffee at her kitchen table, the steady drip of rain against the window the only sound in the quiet morning.

Then—

He stood outside.

Motionless.

Watching.

At first, she thought he was just another shadow in the storm, the kind that tricks the eyes. But then lightning flashed, and she saw him clearly.

Tall. Unnervingly still. His sharp features were gaunt, like a man who had forgotten how to live long before death claimed him. His hollow eyes—dark, endless pits—locked onto hers, empty yet somehow knowing. A black coat hung from his broad frame, rain rolling off the fabric in thin rivulets. He didn't blink. Didn't move. Just stood there.

Claire swallowed, gripping her mug tighter. She had always been told her eyes were striking—deep green with flecks of gold—but now they reflected only fear. Her auburn hair clung to her face in damp strands, the heat of her coffee contrasting the cold knot forming in her stomach.

Who was he?

Or rather—what was he?

His eyes—vacant, abyssal—locked onto hers, his face a pale mask of something between sorrow and warning.

His lips moved, shaping words the glass refused to let through. Claire's pulse stuttered. Before she could even process what she was seeing—he was gone.

The mug slipped from her hands, shattering on the floor. A jagged gasp escaped her lips as she stumbled back. It wasn't real. It couldn't be.

But the next day, he returned...

Claire barely had time to process the reflection before terror seized her.

He was behind her—closer than before, his lips still forming silent pleas. The light flickered. The air thickened, pressing against her skin.

She spun around.

Nothing.

But the space behind her felt occupied.

The hallucinations tightened their grip, slipping into every shadow, every reflection, every heartbeat of Claire's day.

The dead man followed her like a silent omen—at work, on the subway, even in the fractured remnants of her sleep. Each time, his face twisted with urgency, his lips forming words she still couldn't hear.

She sought help. A psychiatrist, calm and clinical, dismissed it with a practiced nod. "Stress-induced hallucinations, Claire. Your mind is creating an illusion. Try to rest."

Rest? Impossible.

Because the night had other plans.

Claire jolted awake, her breath strangled in her throat, sweat chilling her skin. The room was dark—except for him.

He stood at the foot of her bed.

Too close.

Too real.

This time, she heard him. A whisper, barely more than a breath—yet it sliced through her like ice.

"Find me."

The words burrowed into her skull, lodging deep in the space where reason and fear blurred together. Find him? What did that mean?

Desperation clawed at her. She spent the next day buried in missing persons reports, scrolling through faded faces, half-forgotten names. And then—she found him.

Adam Lorne.

Reported missing three months ago.

Last seen near an abandoned house on the outskirts of town.

Claire's pulse drummed against her ribs. The hallucinations weren't random. This wasn't her mind playing tricks.

The dead man was real. And he wanted to be found.

Claire's heart pounded like a war drum as she drove, the road stretching endlessly toward something she wasn't ready to face. The house loomed ahead—silent, skeletal, its windows shattered like hollow eyes watching her approach.

The moment she stepped inside, the air thickened, pressing against her lungs. A sudden wave of dizziness hit her, making the walls tilt, the darkness pulse.

Her breath hitched. Knees crashing to the ground, she clawed at the loose planks, splinters digging into her fingers. The wood groaned, resisting. But she had to see... Had to know...

Her breath came in short, ragged gasps as she tore at the floorboards, her nails splintering against the rotting wood. The planks groaned in protest, but she wrenched them free, one by one, until the stench hit her—thick, putrid, suffocating.

And then—she saw him.

Adam Lorne's body lay twisted beneath the floor, his flesh a grotesque tapestry of decay and violence. His skin, mottled with deep shades of black and green, clung to his bones in sickly patches. Maggots wriggled in the torn flesh of his cheeks, burrowing deep where his lips had once been. But his eyes—or what remained of them—were the worst. The sockets gaped, hollow and dark, as if something had chewed through them. His mouth hung open in a soundless scream, jaw unhinged, dried blood crusted along his chin.

His fingers—or what was left of them—were nothing but snapped bones and shreds of muscle, the ligaments peeled away as if he had tried to claw his way out. Rusted wire still cut deep into his wrists, the flesh beneath it swollen and split, frozen in eternal agony.

The room spun. Claire gagged, bile rising in her throat. The walls seemed to close in, the shadows deepening, pressing against her.

And in that suffocating silence, she swore—just for a second—she saw his ruined lips move. The horror of his final moments bled into the air, thick and suffocating.

The hallucinations stopped.

But the nightmares began.

Because now, when Claire looked in the mirror—she was still there.

But something was wrong.

Her reflection stood frozen, her face pale as if drained of life, her eyes vast and hollow like windows into a place she couldn't escape. Shadows clung to her skin like fingerprints of something unseen, something watching. Her lips moved, slow and desperate, shaping words she didn't remember speaking.

"Find me."

The whisper wasn't just in the glass. It was in the walls. In the silence. In the cold air curling around her spine.

Claire reached out, fingertips trembling.

So did her reflection.

But the moment their hands should have touched—the mirror shuddered. A ripple, dark and endless, spread across the surface, distorting her face into something almost human. Almost her.

And then, the whisper came again—closer this time, curling around her like breath against her ear.

"Find me."

To be continued....