This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/DivineAnime1 on 2024-11-13 14:18:42+00:00.

The first time I set foot in the old house, I felt an inexplicable shiver, like an unseen gaze was fixed on me. My parents said it was just the chill of an empty house, but something else felt… off. It was a grand, old Victorian manor, with narrow staircases, tall windows, and a silence that settled thickly in every corner, as if the house itself was holding its breath. My parents couldn’t believe their luck finding a place like this for such a low price. “It has character,” they said. “It’s charming.”

But I could feel that weight, an unspoken presence that seemed to linger just beyond sight.

It wasn’t long before we’d unpacked the ground floor and our bedrooms, but the attic was left for last. From the moment we moved in, I was drawn to it, though I couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the idea of the unknown, of the forgotten things stashed up there by the previous owners. My parents warned me to be careful on the stairs; they were narrow and steep, twisting up to the attic like they were designed to keep people away.

One chilly afternoon, while my parents were out running errands, I finally decided to explore the attic on my own. I climbed the narrow stairs, the wood creaking under my weight, and slowly opened the attic door.

The air was stale, thick with the smell of dust and decay, and the shadows seemed deeper, more oppressive than the rest of the house. Faint shafts of light filtered through a tiny window, casting long shadows over old trunks and covered furniture. The silence felt alive, thick and heavy, like it was listening. And then, nestled in the far corner, I saw it.

The box was small but ornate, covered in carvings that seemed to writhe under the dust, as if they were alive. Strange symbols, almost like twisted vines, wove across its surface, and though I’d never seen markings like these before, they looked disturbingly familiar, like something I’d glimpsed in a half-remembered dream. The wood was dark, stained, almost black, with a faint reddish sheen that reminded me of dried blood.

I stepped closer, feeling an odd compulsion to touch it, to know what secrets it held. As I approached, the air around me grew colder, as if the box itself was pulling the warmth from the room. My skin prickled, a tingling that grew sharper with each step. Every instinct told me to leave, to shut the door and go back downstairs, but I couldn’t look away. My hand moved almost on its own, reaching out, fingertips brushing the carved lid.

A wave of dread washed over me as I lifted it open, a feeling so intense it took my breath away. Inside, lying on a bed of faded, ancient fabric, was a mirror. It was small, maybe the size of my hand, and framed in tarnished brass with the same twisting patterns carved along the edges. But it was the glass itself that held my attention. Even through the dust, I could see that it wasn’t just a reflection. It seemed deeper, like I was looking into an endless void, a space that could swallow me whole.

I stared at my reflection, feeling an odd, uncomfortable pull, like something in that mirror wanted to reach out, to wrap itself around me and pull me inside. My fingers tingled where they touched the edges of the mirror, and the air grew thick, pressing in on me until I felt I couldn’t breathe. I set the mirror back down, closed the box, and stepped back, a shiver crawling down my spine.

The attic was colder now, silent except for a faint creak, like something shifting in the darkness. I backed away, my heart racing, and stumbled down the stairs, forcing myself to put as much distance as I could between me and that box. I told myself it was just an old relic, something left behind by the previous owners, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d woken something up, something that had been waiting.

That night, as I lay in bed, I heard it—the faintest scratching sound, almost too quiet to be real. I held my breath, straining to hear, and after a moment, it stopped. I convinced myself it was nothing, but when I drifted off to sleep, I was haunted by dreams of shadows crawling along the walls, of cold hands reaching out to touch me, to drag me back to the attic.

I woke up with a start, feeling eyes on me, but the room was empty, the shadows still. Just as I was drifting back to sleep, I caught a glimpse of something in the corner of my room. There, half-buried in the shadows, was the box from the attic. My blood went cold. I knew I hadn’t brought it down. Heart pounding, I reached out, fingers trembling, and pulled it toward me.

The mirror was there again, its surface dark and bottomless. As I picked it up, I saw my face reflected in the glass—my own features twisted, stretched, as if something was looking back at me from beneath my own skin. And then, behind me in the mirror, I saw a figure—a tall, dark shape, its face obscured but its eyes bright, piercing. I spun around, but my room was empty. When I looked back at the mirror, the figure was gone, but I could still feel it, watching me.

The following days were a blur of shadows and whispers. Every night, the scratching grew louder, and the figure became clearer in the mirror. It no longer hid in the shadows; it stood right behind me, close enough that I could feel the cold radiating from its body. I couldn’t escape it. It was there when I closed my eyes, when I looked into any reflective surface, waiting for me to turn my back.

One night, when the scratching was so loud I could barely think, I went back up to the attic, carrying the mirror with me, determined to put it back where I found it. But as soon as I set it down, I heard a whisper, soft and mocking, right in my ear.

“You can’t hide from me,” it said, the voice low and gravelly, like two stones grinding together.

I stumbled back, heart racing, but the voice followed me. Shadows shifted around the box, twisting into shapes—faces, bodies, hands reaching out. I scrambled down the stairs, locking myself in my room, but the voice was still there, a soft humming that grew louder and louder until it was all I could hear.

From that moment on, the entity was with me, an unshakable presence haunting my every step. I’d see it in reflections, lurking at the edge of my vision, always watching. I began to lose sleep, the whispers and scratching invading my dreams until I was afraid to close my eyes. My parents still didn’t believe me, and I was too scared to press the issue. They didn’t hear it. They didn’t see it.

But I did. And I knew, deep down, that it wasn’t going to stop.

One night, in a moment of desperation, I went back to the attic, hoping to destroy the mirror, to break whatever curse I’d awakened. I smashed the mirror to the floor, shards scattering across the room. For a moment, the scratching stopped, the whispers fell silent, and I felt a sense of relief.

Then, slowly, the shards began to shift, pulling together, forming into a shape. The shadows coalesced, rising from the fragments, tall and impossibly thin, its eyes like burning coals. It smiled at me, a grotesque, mocking grin, and I felt a cold hand press against my shoulder.

“You can’t get rid of me,” it whispered, voice filling my head. “I’m part of you now.”

I screamed, stumbling back, but it followed me, its face twisted into that terrible smile. And that’s when I knew—I would never be alone again. It had claimed me, and there was no escaping it.

After that night, I tried to go back to normal. I went through the motions—school, conversations with my parents, pretending. But I could feel it there, a dark presence lurking just behind my thoughts, watching, waiting.

At first, it was subtle. Shadows moved differently around me, my reflection seemed to hold something deeper, something… gleeful. I’d find myself staring into mirrors too long, studying my own face like it was a stranger’s. The scratching sounds never left, now echoing from within, scraping at my mind until I was awake, alone in the dark.

Over time, the whispers started, twisting my thoughts, making people look like shadows in masks, urging me toward things I would never have done. Sometimes I’d feel myself let go, letting it take over just to ease the pressure, feeling that dark satisfaction flood me until I was sickened by what I’d become.

Each day, I feel it grow stronger, its desires becoming mine. I don’t know where I end and it begins. I know now that there’s no escape; it’s part of me, a silent, laughing passenger, twisting my thoughts, consuming me piece by piece.

I am no longer alone… No… WE are no longer alone.