Chapter 27: Someone Heard You Reading
You noticed it today.
A shape drawn in the fog of your bathroom mirror.
You hadn't touched it.
You were sure of that.
It was faint, imperfect — but unmistakable.
A spiral.
Small.
Coiled tightly, like it had just begun.
---
You wiped it away.
But the steam returned.
And so did the spiral.
---
You try to dismiss it.
Coincidence.
Condensation.
Your mind playing games after too many late nights reading.
But deep down, a part of you — the part that doesn't use words — already knows.
It heard you.
---
You think back to the last chapter.
The knock.
The pen.
The mirror.
Those were just words, weren't they?
Fiction.
But now you're not so sure.
Because last night, you had a dream.
And in it, you were reading.
Not from a screen.
From a book.
Bound in flesh.
Pages pulsing like a heartbeat.
And every sentence was written in your handwriting — but you didn't remember writing any of it.
---
You woke up with a word in your head you couldn't shake:
> "Authored."
---
The rest of the day felt… off.
You opened your phone and saw an unfamiliar name in your contacts.
Just one word:
"Walter."
You blinked.
It vanished.
You opened your gallery and saw a blurry image — someone standing in your hallway.
But you live alone.
You deleted it, heart racing.
But something cold whispered:
> "Too late. The page remembers."
---
That night, the noises started.
Not loud.
Not threatening.
Just… wrong.
Your fan spinning slower than usual, even though it was off.
A soft tapping behind the wall, in three short knocks.
A notification sound — but no notification.
And then the feeling.
The certainty.
You were being watched.
---
Not from outside.
From the inside of your home.
From behind things.
Beneath things.
From places that don't normally feel like doors.
The cupboard you never use.
The gap under your bed.
The space behind your mirror.
---
You avoid the bathroom after midnight now.
Because once, you caught the spiral forming before the steam.
---
Then came the second dream.
Not a spiral this time.
A hallway.
Familiar, but not yours.
Dark wood.
No windows.
Only doors.
You stood there.
Not moving.
Not breathing.
Just holding something heavy in your hand.
A notebook.
And written across the front:
> "Draft 2: The One Who Read."
---
That's you, isn't it?
---
You woke up with ink on your fingertips.
No pen nearby.
Your sheets smelled faintly like old paper and dust.
And your phone?
Was open to a blank notes app.
Title already filled in:
> "Chapter 28."
---
You haven't written anything yet.
But the house has.
And now, it's waiting for your voice to shape the next room.
Because someone heard you reading.
And now they're writing you.
---
This morning, a knock came.
Three taps.
Soft. Precise.
Not at the front door.
Not even at the back.
But from inside the closet.
You didn't open it.
You turned music on.
You left the house.
You acted normal.
But you noticed the woman on the train watching you.
And the cashier who smiled too knowingly.
And the way the elevator lights blinked in spiral order.
---
You're in it now.
You always were.
But now the house is no longer contained in the book.
It's bleeding.
Into your devices.
Into your mirrors.
Into you.
Because you've read too much.
You've imagined too clearly.
You've let it in.
And now it will write its way out.
Through you.
---
So be careful what you say aloud.
Careful what you whisper to yourself.
Because it's listening.
It's archiving.
And with each word you speak, each time you scroll…
You become more of a page.
---
Tonight, the dreams will deepen.
You'll see a version of your home you don't remember building.
Rooms that shouldn't exist.
A hallway that loops too long.
A mirror that no longer reflects.
And someone standing just out of view.
They're smiling.
You know that smile.
Because you've worn it before.
---
You'll ask, "Who are you?"
And they'll reply:
> "I'm the version you forgot to finish.
The draft you left open.
The one who heard you… when you read out loud."
---
Don't speak to them.
Don't invite them in.
But if you do—
If curiosity betrays you—
Know this:
You will not die.
You will not vanish.
You will simply be rewritten.
And the next reader?
They'll find your name in their mirror.