Amyra woke up with a start, her heart hammering against her chest. The room was stiflingly cold, even though she was drenched in sweat. The soft hum of the ceiling fan had stopped, and the air around her felt heavy. She glanced at her clock. It blinked 3:03 AM in crimson light. She tried to shake the feeling of unease, convincing herself it was just another bad dream.
She sat up, reaching for the glass of water on her bedside table. As she drank, a faint tapping sound came from the window. Tap. Tap. Tap. It wasn’t aggressive—just persistent. Amyra turned toward it slowly, dreading what she might see.
The curtains billowed slightly, even though there was no breeze. Beyond them, she could make out a shape—a face pressed against the glass, its pale, distorted features illuminated by moonlight. Its eyes were empty sockets, and its mouth stretched unnaturally wide into a smile that tore at the corners of its lips. Amyra froze, clutching the glass so tightly it shattered in her hands.
The sound startled her, and when she looked back, the face was gone. She scrambled out of bed, blood dripping from her cut palm, and turned on the lights. Nothing happened. The room remained shrouded in darkness, save for the faint glow of her clock.
"Amyra..."
A voice, low and rasping, whispered her name from behind her. She spun around, but the room was empty. Her breath hitched as the wardrobe creaked open on its own. The mirror on the inside of the door revealed her reflection—or what should have been her reflection.
The figure in the mirror wore her face, but it was wrong. Its eyes were too wide, the whites bloodshot and the pupils mere pinpricks. Black veins crawled up its neck and across its face like roots of a dying tree. It smiled at her, teeth sharp and jagged like broken glass.
"You’re not awake," it hissed, stepping closer inside the mirror. Amyra backed away, trembling, as the figure pressed its hands against the glass, clawing to get out. Its fingers splintered and bled as they scraped against the surface.
Amyra screamed as the mirror shattered, pieces flying everywhere.
She bolted upright in her bed, gasping for air. Her hands flew to her chest, feeling the rapid thump of her heart. “It was a dream,” she whispered. “Just a dream.” The morning light streamed through her curtains, and the comforting hum of her fan filled the room.
Relieved, she stepped out of bed, her feet sinking into something wet. She froze and looked down. The floor was covered in thick, black sludge. It clung to her skin, cold and slimy, as she stumbled back onto her bed. The walls began to drip with the same substance, oozing like sap from an infected wound.
The sludge pooled in the center of the room, rising and forming a shape—a distorted figure with elongated limbs, its head tilted unnaturally to one side. It had no eyes, but it seemed to see her. Its grin stretched across its entire face, showing row after row of jagged, rotting teeth.
Amyra tried to scream, but no sound came out. The figure tilted its head the other way, as if amused by her terror.
"You’ll never wake up," it rasped, its voice layered with hundreds of whispers.
The bed beneath her began to sag as blackened hands burst through the mattress, grabbing her ankles. They were cold, bony, and wet, pulling her down as she clawed at the sheets. Her cries echoed, but there was no one to hear her.
Amyra woke up again, this time in complete darkness. The air was heavy, suffocating, and the metallic scent of blood filled her nostrils. Her hands groped around, feeling walls on either side of her. They were damp and rough, closing in on her.
She was in a coffin.
Panic surged as she kicked and screamed, her nails scraping against the wooden lid. Her fingers splintered as she clawed, warm blood dripping down her arms. Then, there was silence.
The lid creaked open, and Amyra was blinded by pale, flickering light. A hand reached down to her—a hand made of rotted flesh and bone. It dragged her out, dropping her onto the cold, wet ground.
She looked up.
She was surrounded by dozens of figures, all with her face, but each one more grotesque than the last. Some had their jaws hanging by threads of sinew, others had empty, bleeding sockets where their eyes should have been. Their heads twitched erratically as they stared at her.
"We told you, Amyra," they said in unison, their voices echoing unnaturally. "You’ll never wake up."
She tried to run, but her legs wouldn’t move. The figures closed in, their hands reaching for her, tearing at her skin as she screamed—
Amyra opened her eyes to the sound of her alarm. It was morning. The sun streamed through the window, birds chirped cheerfully, and everything seemed... normal.
She sat up, laughing shakily. “Just a dream,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Her laugh died when she saw her reflection in the mirror.
'It' smiled at her with jagged teeth Amyra froze, her breath caught in her throat as the reflection stared back at her. Its smile widened unnaturally, stretching beyond the limits of her own face. She blinked hard, convinced she was still dreaming.
When she opened her eyes, the reflection was gone.
Relieved, she sighed and stood up, walking cautiously to the mirror. Her reflection now looked normal—tired, but normal. She reached out to touch the glass, her fingers trembling as they met the cold surface.
Then, she noticed it.
The reflection’s lips moved. Slowly. Soundlessly.
Amyra stumbled back as her reflection mouthed one word:
"Run."
A loud creak echoed through her room. The wardrobe door had swung open. Inside, darkness stretched infinitely, pulsating like a living thing. From within, a voice called out—a low, guttural whisper:
"You should have never woken up."
Amyra’s scream was cut short as the shadows reached for her, pulling her into the abyss.
The room returned to silence, the only movement the faint sway of the curtains in the morning breeze.
On the mirror’s surface, written in frost, were two chilling words:
"Wake up."