The Man Who Forgot Himself

Morning came sluggishly.

The clouds hung low over Duskmoor, heavy and pale like a smothered breath. Elias stood in front of his bathroom mirror again, the condensation wiped away, but the message still burned into his mind:

"You left me there."

His reflection didn't look angry. Just tired.

But it wasn't just his reflection anymore, was it?

He turned away.

The drawing he'd picked up from Vale House sat on the table. It was childish — crude. Two stick figures, labeled "ME" and "HIM." But the implication behind the words had gnawed at him all night.

Who had he left behind?

And why didn't he remember?

---

Dr. Vale called him mid-morning.

"I want you to come in," the psychologist said. "I've found something in the St. Aurum archives you need to see."

Elias didn't hesitate. He was already putting on his coat.

---

The office felt colder than usual. The waiting room, dimly lit and oddly empty, hummed faintly with the static buzz of the overhead lights. A subtle unease accompanied Elias as he stepped in.

Vale didn't greet him with small talk this time. Instead, he gestured to a file spread across his desk — black-and-white photos, half-redacted reports, and a single name circled in red:

"E. Cross (Subject #713)"

"This isn't from your personal record," Vale said, pushing the file toward him. "It's from an internal experiment file labeled 'Mirror Phobia Sub-Study.' One that was supposed to be destroyed after funding was pulled."

Elias leaned in. The pages smelled faintly of old paper and dust, and his fingers trembled slightly as he scanned the first document.

There were notes scribbled in the margins — sharp, uneven handwriting:

"Subject exhibits third-person dissociation."

"Responds to mirrored stimuli with disassociation event."

"Reports presence of 'the Other' — self-identified as protector."

"Another name appears in late sessions: Elian."

Elias looked up sharply. "Elian?"

Vale nodded. "That's what stopped me."

"I don't remember ever using that name."

"You didn't." Vale tapped the page. "But he did."

"He?"

"The version of you that appeared under deep hypnosis. The one who wouldn't answer to Elias."

A strange chill rippled down Elias's spine.

"And this… Elian. What did he say?"

Vale hesitated.

Then he read aloud from the bottom of the page:

"They keep calling me Elias. But that's not me. He's the one who lied. He's the one who left."

"He promised he'd come back for me. But he didn't."

The words felt like a blade drawn from memory.

Elias leaned back, his breath shallow. There was a pressure behind his eyes, like tears trying to find a path but unable to form.

---

The rest of the day passed in a fog.

Elias drifted through it, not really seeing the world around him. The city looked greyer than usual. More muted. Like it, too, was holding its breath.

Was Elian real?

Or was he a fractured part of Elias, born from the crucible of trauma?

He walked for hours. Through the fog-heavy streets of Duskmoor, past shuttered stores, crumbling underpasses, and the pale flicker of dead neon signs. Somewhere along the way, a child on a tricycle stared at him with unblinking eyes. The child didn't speak.

Neither did Elias.

He stopped at a bench outside the old train station. Watched the pigeons fluttering and the tired people going nowhere fast.

Was he like them?

A shell of movement. Hollow.

His thoughts spiraled as evening came.

---

That night, Elias stood again in front of the hallway mirror — the one that had cracked, then healed.

He stared at it for what felt like hours, waiting for something to shift.

And finally… it did.

His reflection blinked out.

Replaced by a corridor. Endless. Shadowed. Lit only by faint flickers of lightbulbs that buzzed overhead like dying bees.

From within the mirror, the hallway stretched toward a single door at the far end. Black wood. Iron hinges. A child's handprint in blood across the surface.

He didn't question it.

He reached out.

And this time — the glass let him through.

---

The sensation was like falling into warm water. His ears popped. His breath hitched. Everything dimmed.

Then: silence.

He stood inside the corridor from his dreams.

Except this wasn't a dream.

He could feel the floor under his feet. Smell the mildew in the air. Hear the hum of ancient lights overhead.

And far down the corridor, the black door pulsed — as if it were breathing.

He moved toward it.

Step by step.

His heartbeat echoed in the walls. The air grew heavier with each step.

Then a voice whispered behind him:

"You're not supposed to be here yet."

Elias spun around.

No one.

But the mirror behind him had sealed shut.

He was inside now.

And he wasn't alone.

---

As he reached the black door, something shifted in the air — cold, electric. The kind of static that precedes memory.

The kind of silence that drowns you.

He touched the handle.

Cold.

He turned it slowly, expecting resistance.

But the door opened like it had been waiting for him.

The room beyond was dark.

Only one light flickered above — illuminating a small metal chair, and sitting in it—

A boy.

The same boy from the mirror. Thin. Barefoot. Pale. But now, his eyes were open.

Watching Elias.

Studying him.

"You came back," the boy said.

Elias tried to speak — but no words came.

"I waited," the boy continued. His voice was soft. "You promised you'd take me away. That we'd leave together. But you didn't."

Elias swallowed hard. "I don't remember…"

"Because he made you forget."

"Who?"

The boy pointed to the mirror behind Elias — now shimmering with fog.

"The one who wears your face."

---

Before Elias could ask more, the boy stood.

"You shouldn't be here yet. It's not time."

"What time?"

The boy walked past him, toward the door. But before vanishing into the hallway, he paused.

Then, without turning around, he said:

"When you remember what you did, you'll understand why you broke."

The door slammed shut behind him.

And Elias was alone again.

---

The mirror returned him to his apartment.

Same hallway. Same silence.

Only one thing had changed.

On the table where he'd left the crayon drawing, another had appeared.

This one showed three stick figures.

The same "ME" and "HIM" from before.

And now, a third figure, drawn in red — eyes wide, mouth open, arms outstretched like he was screaming.

Labeled:

"The One Who Watched"

And under it, in tiny, trembling letters:

"He never left."

To Be Continued in Chapter 4 –The Hallowing begins