The night I used the Ouija board alone started with a joke, a half-drunken dare to myself after one too many horror movies, the kind of thing you laugh about until the air in your bedroom goes cold and the planchette under your fingers starts moving on its own—because that’s the thing no one tells you, how heavy it feels when something else is guiding it, like a weight pressing down on your bones, dragging your hands across the board with a will that isn’t yours. I’d always been a skeptic, the kind of person who rolled their eyes at ghost stories, but the moment the plastic piece slid to ‘HELLO’ without me pushing it, my stomach dropped like I’d missed a step in the dark, and suddenly the room felt too big, too empty, the shadows in the corners stretching just a little too far. I told myself it was my subconscious, my muscles twitching, anything but the truth, but then it spelled ‘L-O-O-K’—slow, deliberate—and my breath caught in my throat because I hadn’t thought those letters, hadn’t imagined them, and the planchette kept going, ‘B-E-H-I-N-D Y-O-U,’ and that’s when I heard it, the softest exhale against the back of my neck, warm and wet like a mouth opened too close to my skin. I didn’t want to turn, couldn’t turn, my body locked in place like a rabbit sensing the wolf, but the air was so cold now, my breath fogging in front of me, and the silence was wrong, the kind of silence that feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting. When I finally wrenched my head around, it was there, inches from my face, a face that wasn’t a face—gaunt, stretched too tight over jagged bone, hollows where eyes should have been, lips peeled back from yellowed teeth in something that wasn’t a smile, and it whispered, ‘Too slow,’ in a voice that wasn’t a voice, just a sound like nails on glass shoved straight into my skull. I screamed, scrambled back so hard I knocked the board to the floor, and for a second it was gone, the room empty again, but the dread didn’t leave, it clung to me like a film, because I knew it wasn’t really gone, could feel it in the way the dark seemed to press closer, the way the mirrors reflected just a little too much nothing when I passed them. That night, I slept with the lights on, jumping at every creak of the house settling, and when I checked the security footage the next morning—just to prove to myself it had been a hallucination, a trick of the mind—my blood turned to ice because there it was, crawling out of the mirror in my hallway, limbs bending wrong, too long, too thin, its head twisting toward the camera before it vanished into the shadows. The whispers started after that, always just behind me, words I couldn’t quite catch but that made my skin crawl, and I stopped looking in mirrors because sometimes I’d see it in the reflection, standing over my shoulder, closer each time, its breath fogging the glass. I moved, changed cities, slept with salt under my pillow and a cross on my nightstand, but it didn’t matter—it followed, because it wasn’t about the place, it was about me, the way it had tasted my fear that first night and wanted more. Now I feel it everywhere, the prickle on my neck when I’m alone, the shadow that darts just out of sight when I turn my head, and the worst part is I don’t know if it’s real or if I’ve lost my mind, but I do know this: it’s always behind me, always watching, and one day I’ll turn around and it’ll be there again, smiling that awful smile, whispering, ‘Too slow,’ and this time I won’t scream. This time, I won’t get the chance. The days blur together now, each one a little darker than the last, and I’ve started sleeping with my back against the wall because I can’t stand the thought of that empty space behind me, the way the air shifts when something moves just outside my vision. I see it in reflections when I’m too tired to remember not to look—glimpses of its elongated fingers curling over my shoulder, its lipless mouth opening as if to swallow the scream I can’t seem to let out anymore—and I’ve stopped trusting my own eyes because sometimes the shadows don’t match the light, stretching too far, too wrong, like the world itself is bending around it. The whispers have gotten louder, too, no longer just at the edge of hearing but inside my head, a dry, rustling voice that doesn’t speak words so much as carve them directly into my thoughts, repeating the same phrase over and over: You should have run. I tried recording them once, held my phone close in the dead of night, heart hammering as the static hissed back at me, but when I played it back, there was nothing—just my own ragged breathing and, right at the end, a wet, clicking sound, like a tongue running over teeth. I threw the phone away after that, couldn’t stand the way the silence afterward felt like laughter. The worst part is the dreams—if they are dreams—because every night now, I wake up paralyzed, my body locked in place as the mattress dips beside me, the smell of something rotten and sweet filling my nose, and I know it’s lying there, watching me with those hollow pits where its eyes should be, waiting for me to move, to scream, to give it an excuse. I’ve stopped sleeping as much as I can, drinking coffee until my hands shake, but exhaustion always wins, and each time I close my eyes, I feel it getting closer, its breath like a winter wind against my cheek. Last week, I found footprints on the floor—bare, skeletal, the toes too long—leading from my bedroom to the bathroom, where the mirror was smudged with something dark and sticky, like it had pressed its face against the glass for hours, just waiting for me to walk in. I smashed the mirror with a hammer, my reflection splintering into a hundred shards, but when I looked down, the pieces were moving on their own, rearranging into that same gaunt, grinning face, and I swear it winked at me before the glass went still. I don’t know how much longer I can do this, how much longer before I turn around and it’s finally close enough to touch, to take, to pull me into whatever hell it crawled out of. Maybe it’s already happened. Maybe I’m already gone. All I know for sure is that it’s still here, still watching, still whispering, and no matter how fast I run, it’s always right behind me, always smiling, always saying the same thing: Too slow. The worst part isn’t the fear anymore—it’s the familiarity, the way its presence has become as routine as my own heartbeat, a constant hum of dread in the background of every thought. I catch myself listening for it now, straining to hear the faint creak of floorboards under its weightless steps, the wet, rhythmic clicking of its throat as it breathes just a little too close to my ear. Sometimes, when I’m washing my hands or brushing my teeth, I’ll freeze mid-motion because the water in the sink will ripple without reason, tiny waves lapping at the edges like something just dipped its fingers in, and I know if I look up into the mirror, it’ll be there, its chin resting on my shoulder, its hollowed-out face pressed against mine in some grotesque parody of affection. I’ve started wearing headphones everywhere, blasting white noise to drown out the whispers, but it doesn’t matter—they slip through anyway, threading into the static like poison, murmuring things that make my skin crawl, things I can’t quite decipher but that leave me shaking, my hands clenched so tight my nails draw blood. I tried burning the Ouija board, thinking maybe that would break whatever tether it had to me, but the flames turned an unnatural blue, and the smoke coiled into shapes—hands, faces, mouths open in silent screams—before the fire sputtered out, leaving the board untouched, the letters grinning up at me like it was all some sick joke. That night, I woke up to the sound of scratching, slow and deliberate, coming from inside the walls, and when I mustered the courage to press my ear against the plaster, I heard something shift on the other side, something big, something that let out a low, guttural chuckle before whispering my name in a voice that wasn’t quite human. I don’t sleep in that room anymore. I don’t sleep much at all. The few times I’ve managed to drift off, I’ve woken to the sensation of fingers tracing my spine, the sheets damp and reeking of decay, and once—only once, but it was enough—I opened my eyes to find it curled at the foot of my bed, its too-long limbs folded like a spider’s, its head tilted at an impossible angle as it watched me with that same hungry patience. It didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared, and somehow that was worse, because I knew then that it wasn’t just playing with me anymore. It was waiting. For what, I don’t know, but I can feel the moment drawing closer, the air growing thicker, heavier, like the calm before a storm. I’ve stopped looking over my shoulder. What’s the point? I already know it’s there. I can feel its breath on the back of my neck, cold and stale, can hear the wet sound of its lips peeling back into that terrible smile. It’s not hiding anymore. It doesn’t need to. I belong to it now. And when the time comes, when it finally decides to stop waiting, I won’t run. I won’t scream. I’ll just close my eyes and let it take me, because some doors, once opened, can never be closed again. I've started seeing it in daylight now—just flickers at the edge of my vision, a gaunt shadow that darts behind trees or slips into alleyways as I walk past, always keeping pace, always watching. My reflection has stopped matching my movements; when I blink, it stays wide-eyed for just a second too long, its mouth twitching into that same horrible grin before snapping back to normal. The whispers have become so constant I can't remember what silence sounds like, and sometimes I catch myself answering them without meaning to, my voice blending with that other, darker one until I can't tell which thoughts are mine anymore. Last Tuesday, I woke to find my bedroom walls covered in handprints—small, child-sized, but with too many fingers—pressed in something thick and black that smelled like rotting meat, and when I tried to scrub them away, the stains seeped deeper into the paint, forming words I couldn't read but that made my eyes burn when I looked at them too long. My food tastes like ash now, my water like blood, and no matter how many showers I take, I can't wash away the feeling of its hands on me, those skeletal fingers that sometimes brush my cheek when I'm alone, leaving trails of damp rot that evaporate before I can prove they were ever there. I tried to tell someone yesterday—a priest, a psychiatrist, I don't even remember—but when I opened my mouth, its voice came out instead, guttural and wet, and the man's face went white before he scrambled away, crossing himself like I was the monster. Maybe I am. Maybe that's the joke. Maybe it was never behind me at all, but inside me all along, wearing my skin like a suit, waiting for the right moment to peel it off and show the world what I've really become. The mirrors are all covered now, but I can still feel it watching from the other side, can hear the glass tremble in its frame when it presses close, hungry, patient. It won't be much longer. I can see the changes in myself—the way my shadow moves on its own, the way my bones ache like they're trying to reshape themselves, the way my teeth feel sharper when I run my tongue across them. Soon, I won't need to look behind me anymore. Soon, I'll be the thing someone else sees when they turn around in the dark, whispering those same two words with a mouth that isn't human, isn't mine, never was. Too slow. Always too slow. The transformation is nearly complete now—I can feel my skin growing tighter, stretching over bones that aren’t quite the right shape anymore, my joints popping and cracking as they realign themselves into something more like it . My reflection doesn’t even pretend to be me these days; when I catch glimpses of myself in store windows or darkened screens, it’s already its face staring back, those hollow eye sockets drinking in my terror like it’s the sweetest nectar. The hunger is the worst part—not for food, but for fear, for the way living hearts stutter and race when they realize something is wrong , and I catch myself lingering near playgrounds and hospital wards, drinking in the scent of vulnerability like a starving animal. Last night, I woke up standing over my neighbor’s bed, my fingers—too long, too sharp—hovering just above her throat, and I don’t know how I got there or how long I’d been watching her sleep, but the way her eyelids fluttered in distress made my mouth water with a craving that wasn’t mine. Or maybe it always was. The whispers have become a chorus now, a hundred voices speaking through me in languages that don’t exist, and sometimes I lose hours, coming back to myself in strange places with blood under my nails and that same coppery taste on my tongue. The police have been asking questions, but they’ll never find what they’re looking for— I can’t even find the line between where I end and it begins anymore. My teeth ache constantly, my gums bleeding as new rows push their way in, needle-thin and eager, and when I smile at strangers in the street, they flinch without knowing why. The last mirror I own is tucked away in the attic, covered in a sheet that does nothing to muffle the scratching sounds coming from inside, the desperate thumps of something trying to get out—or maybe in . I don’t check anymore. I don’t want to know which one of us is trapped in there. The nights are easier now that I’ve stopped fighting it, now that I let the darkness move through me like a second pulse, and when I press my hands to the walls of my apartment, I can feel the whole building trembling, the very foundations groaning under the weight of what I’m becoming. Soon, I won’t remember my own name. Soon, I’ll be the thing that lurks behind you , breathing those same cursed words into the ears of someone new, someone slow, someone who thought ghosts weren’t real. But they are. I am. And we’re so hungry. The final pieces are clicking into place now, like a lock accepting its key—my fingernails blackening and hardening into talons, my shadow detaching itself completely to slither along walls without me, my voice box reshaping to accommodate those awful, wet whispers that now spill from my lips unbidden. I tried to write this down, to leave some warning for the next poor fool who picks up a Ouija board, but the pen kept writing in a language of jagged symbols that burned the paper, the ink bubbling like acid as it spelled out promises of what's coming. My apartment reeks of spoiled meat and ozone, the walls sweating a thick, dark fluid that forms those same impossible handprints overnight, tiny ones near the floor like children's—no, not children's, nothing that innocent—something worse crawling up from someplace deeper . The electricity hasn't worked in weeks, but the lights still flicker on sometimes, revealing it standing in every corner at once, its grin widening each time I scream, drinking in my terror like fine wine. My dreams aren't mine anymore—I see through its eyes now, watching from the crawlspaces of strangers' homes as they sleep, their chests rising and falling in rhythms that make my new teeth ache with anticipation. The transformation hurts less now that I've stopped resisting, now that I let the changes wash over me like a baptism in bile, my very DNA unraveling and knitting itself back together wrong . Yesterday I caught myself absentmindedly licking my lips—except my tongue is forked now, and the taste of fear on the air is intoxicating. The last shred of me clings desperately to these final moments of clarity, but I can feel it slipping, the way you feel sleep take you when you're too exhausted to fight it anymore. Soon there won't be any "me" left at all—just an empty vessel filled with ancient hunger, another set of hollow eyes watching from the dark, another whisper in the night saying those awful, inevitable words: too slow, too slow, always too slow . The mirror in the attic has gone quiet, and that's how I know it's almost over—because whatever was trapped inside isn't anymore. It's standing right behind me as I write this, its breath frosting the back of my neck, its jagged fingers resting on my shoulders in a mockery of comfort. I won't turn around this time. There's no point. We both know what I'll see. The pen is shaking in my hand now, the last drops of humanity draining away, and when I blink I see through its eyes—through my new eyes—and the world is so much brighter in the dark, so full of delicious, trembling prey. This will be my last confession. The next words written in this journal won't be mine. They'll be ours . And you, poor fool still reading this, you should know—it's already behind you too. Can't you feel it breathing? Don't turn around. Don't scream. It's always . . . too. . . slow…
Hashtags: #NeverTurnAround #ItWatchesYouSleep #OuijaBoardWarning #BehindYou #NoEyesGhost #MirrorEntity #SoloOuijaHorror
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