What Scares You is published and available on Amazon. I have a link to it here. As promised, here is the tease chapter.
Chapter Six: The Wrong Reflection
Abby moved through the apartment with deliberate care, whispering numbers under her breath to steady herself. The cadence was fragile, a thread she clutched to keep from unraveling. The air was heavy, saturated with silence that clung to her skin. Saturday should have felt lighter, but the day pressed down with a density she couldn’t shake. The walls seemed to lean inward, as though listening.
The apartment was ordinary in shape, yet tonight it felt like a labyrinth. Shadows pooled in corners, stretching longer than they should. The kitchen light flickered once, then steadied. Abby’s pulse quickened. She whispered again: One, two, three, four, five. The syllables were her anchor, her ritual, her defense against the silence pressing back.
She poured cereal into a bowl. Flakes scattered unevenly, some clicking against porcelain, others dissolving into milk with a muted hiss. Each sound was magnified, distorted, as though the apartment had become a chamber designed to amplify the ordinary. The refrigerator hummed, but the sound seemed distant, muffled, as though it came from another room—or another world.
She counted each spoonful—five. But the echo gave back seven, hollow and delayed, mocking her rhythm. Her breath caught. She whispered the cadence again, fragile but intact. One, two, three, four, five. The silence absorbed it, then returned something else—an echo that wasn’t hers.
Her hand hovered above the counter, the spoon already set down, but the reflection refused to obey. It stuttered, glitching like a broken reel of film. Her face shimmered, then faltered, movements jerking out of sync with her own.
At first, it was only a delay—her lips twitching a fraction too late, her eyes blinking after she had already closed them. But then the reflection began to change.
Abby’s breath caught. Fatigue. Just fatigue, she whispered inside her head, clinging to the thought like a lifeline. I’m tired. I’m imagining this. That’s all. But another voice rose beneath it, quieter, insistent: What if it isn’t?
The skin rippled, folding in on itself, wrinkles deepening as though decades of decay collapsed into seconds. Cheeks hollowed, jawline sagged, and the mouth stretched wider, wider still, until it seemed to split across the face.
Stringy black hair seeped down over the forehead, strands sticking to warped flesh, sliding across the eyes. The eyes bulged grotesquely, pale and swollen, with only a pinprick pupil floating in their centers. They protruded from the skull, wet and trembling, staring back with a gaze both vacant and predatory.
The grin widened, stopping just short of the ears, a grotesque fissure carved into the face. Razor‑sharp fangs jutted from the gums, uneven and jagged, each one glistening with saliva. Drool spilled from the corners of the mouth, dripping down the chin, splattering against the counter in her imagination though the steel remained dry.
Her chest tightened. She whispered the cadence again, desperate, fragile: One, two, three, four, five. The syllables trembled in the air, fragile as glass. The reflection mouthed something else, lips stretching around teeth, syllables distorted, unrecognizable.
The silence pressed harder, until it felt like the apartment itself was leaning in, listening. The creature’s grin trembled, then steadied, mocking her ritual. Its eyes rolled in their sockets, pupils shrinking to pinpoints, then dilating into voids. The hair swayed as if underwater, framing the face in a curtain of shadow.
She leaned in, drawn forward despite herself, as though the reflection had hooked invisible threads into her body. The steel shimmered faintly, catching the dim kitchen light, but what stared back was no longer her.
The reflection jerked forward, movements broken—like a corrupted reel skipping frames. Her own face seemed to fast‑forward through gestures she hadn’t made, lips twitching, eyes blinking out of sync, head tilting at angles she hadn’t chosen. Each movement was wrong, fractured, as though time itself had splintered inside the glass.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. Each beat stretched into eternity, a drum echoing through the silence. Seconds elongated, swollen, until they felt like minutes. She could taste metal in her mouth, coppery and sharp, as though fear itself had a flavor.
The reflection’s hand lifted. Not hers. Not Abby’s. A hand inside the steel, pale and trembling, fingers twitching like broken marionette strings. Nails lengthened, curling into claws. They scraped against the steel with a sound she could hear—high, shrill, metallic.
Her stomach lurched. Fatigue. Just fatigue. But the sound was undeniable. The claws dragged downward, leaving no mark, yet the screech vibrated in her teeth.
The silence was no longer silence. It was pressure, a weight filling the room. Her ears rang with it, a high‑pitched whine that made her jaw ache. The floor vibrated faintly beneath her bare feet, as though something massive stirred below.
The air smelled wrong. Damp, metallic, tinged with rot. She swallowed, gagging on the taste of copper. Her tongue felt heavy, coated. Her skin prickled, gooseflesh rising along her arms.
She whispered again, louder, forcing the cadence into the air: One, two, three, four, five. The reflection mouthed something else, syllables warped, unrecognizable.
Drool dripped from its mouth, strands stretching from jagged teeth, breaking, falling into a void that wasn’t there. She could hear it—drip, drip, drip—though the counter remained dry.
Her heartbeat slowed, each thud a paragraph. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Her breath scraped her throat, shallow, insufficient. Each inhale felt like drowning. Each exhale like surrender.
The reflection leaned closer, its grin stretching impossibly wide. Teeth glistened. Eyes bulged. Hair swayed.
Seconds fractured. Time bent. She felt trapped inside the moment, unable to move forward, unable to look away.
Her mind spiraled. Hallucination. Stress. Fatigue. But the reflection had moved independently. The hand had scraped the steel. The sound had vibrated in her teeth.
It isn’t real. But what if it is?
She tore her gaze from the steel, chest heaving, only to find another set of eyes waiting. Mr. Wuffles sat rigidly on the chair by the table, stitched smile unchanged, black button eyes reflecting the dim light like twin drops of tar. The fabric of his body sagged with age, seams frayed at the edges, yet he seemed to watch her with a patience that was not his own.
Abby’s throat tightened. It’s just a toy. Just fabric. Just silence. She whispered the cadence again, fragile but intact: One, two, three, four, five. The syllables clung to the air, brittle as glass.
But the shadow beneath him stretched unnaturally across the floor, bending toward the hallway like spilled ink creeping toward a drain. It was too sharp, too deliberate, as though the light itself had conspired to carve it into being.
Her breath caught. She reached for him, fingers brushing the worn fabric, the familiar texture of childhood comfort. The seams were rough, the stuffing uneven, the stitched smile frozen. Comfort. Familiarity. Safe.
The shadow twitched.
It rippled across the floor, a shiver of darkness, then stretched farther, elongating into shapes—figures, almost human, almost moving. Abby’s pulse slammed against her ribs. She blinked, but the figures remained, silhouettes half‑formed, limbs twitching as though trying to step free.
Fatigue, she told herself. Just fatigue. Shadows don’t move. They don’t breathe. They don’t reach. But the thought rang hollow.
The silence pressed harder, heavy as stone. Her ears rang with it, a high‑pitched whine that made her jaw ache. The air grew colder near the shadow, as though the hallway itself exhaled frost.
She whispered again, louder, desperate: One, two, three, four, five. The syllables cracked in her throat. The silence swallowed them whole.
The shadow pulsed. It clung to the floor, stretching farther, bending toward the hallway until it seemed to reach beyond the walls. Abby’s eyes followed its length, her pulse quickening. The hallway was darker than it should have been, the edges blurred, as though the shadow had bled into it.
Her heartbeat slowed, each thud a paragraph. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
The cadence echoed inside her skull, fragile but intact. Yet the shadow remained unmoved, its figures twitching, limbs jerking like marionettes caught in invisible strings.
Mr. Wuffles sat unchanged, stitched smile frozen, but Abby could not shake the sense that the shadow was no longer his. It had detached, claimed its own existence, bending toward the hallway like a path she was not meant to follow.
Her skin prickled. Gooseflesh rose along her arms. The floor vibrated faintly beneath her bare feet, as though something massive stirred below. She gagged on the taste of copper in her mouth, fear itself turning metallic.
It isn’t real, she whispered. Hallucination. Stress. I’m tired. That’s it! That’s all. But another thought intruded: What if it is? What if the shadow is alive?
The figures in the shadow twitched again, limbs jerking, heads tilting at impossible angles. One shape seemed to lean forward, stretching toward her, its outline sharp against the floor. She stumbled back, breath hitching.
The silence quivered, then steadied, waiting. Abby whispered once more, voice breaking: One, two, three, four, five. The words carried her forward, fragile but intact, into the waiting dark
At first they looked like cracks, but the longer she stared, the lines shifted. They weren’t fractures in paint at all—they were marks, deliberate, etched into the surface like faint glyphs. Numbers. Always numbers.
Her breath fogged faintly against the wall. Five. Always five. The lines bent, multiplied, fractured into patterns she couldn’t follow—like equations written in invisible chalk, dissolving before she could solve them. Each blink rearranged them, mocking her attempts to understand.
Her chest tightened. The air felt thinner, as though the apartment had inhaled and forgotten to exhale. Each breath scraped her throat, shallow and insufficient. The silence pressed harder, a weight against her ribs, then thinned, stretching like elastic about to snap.
She whispered the cadence again, fragile but intact: One, two, three, four, five. The syllables trembled in the air, clinging to the walls like dust motes. For a moment, the silence recoiled, shivering at the intrusion. Then it surged back, swallowing the numbers whole.
The walls seemed to pulse, their pale streaks glowing faintly, bending into spirals that threatened to draw her in. She reached out, fingertips grazing the surface. The paint was cool, but beneath it she thought she felt movement—like veins shifting under skin.
Her vision blurred. The numbers multiplied, overlapping, collapsing into impossible equations. She tried to follow them, but they dissolved before she could grasp their meaning, leaving only fragments: five, always five, never more, never less.
Her heartbeat slowed, each thud a paragraph. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
The cadence echoed inside her skull, fragile but intact. Yet the silence pressed back, heavier, thicker, swallowing the numbers whole.
She pulled her hand back, trembling. The wall seemed to breathe, inhaling as she exhaled, exhaling as she inhaled, mocking her rhythm.
“I’m just tired," she whispered. “Just fatigue.” But another thought intruded, sharp as a blade: What if it isn’t? What if the apartment is alive?
Her heartbeat slowed again, each thud stretching into eternity. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Seconds fractured. Time bent. She felt trapped inside the moment, unable to move forward, unable to look away.
The walls pressed closer. The paint rippled, bending into spirals that pulsed like veins. The silence thickened, pressing against her ears until she could hear nothing but the rush of her own blood.
She whispered again, louder, desperate: One, two, three, four, five. The syllables cracked in her throat. The silence swallowed them whole.
Her mind spiraled. Hallucination, gotta be! But the walls had breathed beneath her hand. The numbers had rearranged themselves. The silence had pressed back.
It isn’t real. But what if it is?
The apartment felt alive, breathing in tandem with her, waiting for her to falter.
She whispered once more, voice breaking: One, two, three, four, five. The words carried her forward, fragile but intact, into the waiting dark.
The walls did not stop. They pressed closer, their surfaces rippling as though the apartment itself had grown lungs. Each pulse was a breath, each tremor a heartbeat. The paint bulged outward, veins swelling beneath it, shifting in patterns she could not follow.
Abby staggered back, but there was no space left to retreat. The hallway narrowed, the ceiling dipped, the corners folded in on themselves. Geometry bent, angles wrong, the room collapsing into a shape that defied reason.
She whispered again, voice breaking: One, two, three, four, five. The cadence fractured, syllables splintering in her mouth. The silence swallowed them, then exhaled something else—an echo that was not hers, a rhythm that belonged to the walls.
Her skin prickled. The air was damp, metallic, tinged with rot. She gagged on the taste of copper, fear itself turning to blood in her mouth. Her ears rang with silence, a high‑pitched whine that made her jaw ache.
The numbers multiplied across the walls, spiraling into fractals, collapsing into themselves, then stretching outward like veins. She tried to count them, but they multiplied faster than she could speak. Five. Always five. Never more. Never less.
Her heartbeat slowed, each thud a paragraph.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
The cadence echoed inside her skull, fragile but intact. Yet the walls pressed closer, mocking her rhythm, breathing in tandem with her, waiting for her to falter.
The silence quivered, then steadied, patient, predatory. Abby whispered once more, voice breaking: One, two, three, four, five. The words clung to the walls, fragile but intact, before dissolving into the waiting dark.