He sat on the floor.
Back against the wall.
Eyes staring into the dark.
The crack in the mirror had grown.
At 3:12 AM, the lights went out.
Not just in his room.
The whole hospital.
He reached for his emergency lamp.
When it flickered on, something on the wall caught his eye.
A handprint.
Child-sized.
Bloody.
But only visible in the lamp’s light.
He followed it.
Each hallway turn had another handprint.
Leading him away from his room.
Away from safety.
Then… a door.
Wooden. Not part of the hospital’s modern design.
It looked like it belonged to a nursery.
Above it:
A sign.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Room 214 – Closed Since 2004”
But... Mark was in Room 214.
He pushed the door.
It opened with a soft creak.
And what he saw inside made his knees tremble.
It was a child’s room.
Dust-covered toys.
Burnt teddy bears.
Peeling wallpaper that once had clouds and angels.
On the far wall:
A mirror.
Not cracked.
But covered with drawings.
Childish scribbles.
Names.
“Marky.”
“Elijah.”
“Mama.”
“Don’t open the door.”
He turned. The door behind him had vanished.
He was trapped.
Then came the voice.
But it wasn’t on tape.
It was inside his head.
And louder than ever.
“This is where you locked me, Mark.”
“You left me here to burn. You ran.”
“I screamed. You sang lullabies to cover the noise.”
“But now… I remember.
And so will you.”
The room began to shake.
The mirror trembled.
Then—
his reflection moved on its own.
It smiled. But Mark didn’t.
His reflection spoke:
“Let’s finish what we started.”
Suddenly, Mariam’s voice pierced through the madness.
“MARK!”
She was shaking him awake in his hospital bed.
“You were screaming. Thrashing.”
He blinked.
Back in bed.
No blood.
No handprints.
No mirror crack.
Except…
The music box was still playing.
Later that day, Father Youssef returned.
He brought something.
A burnt journal.
Recovered from the church fire site.
On the cover:
“Property of Mark Fawzy – Age 9.”
Mark opened it.
Page One:
“Elijah is my best friend.
But sometimes he says scary things.
He says I’m weak.
He says he’ll protect me… forever.”
Mark slammed the journal shut.
His voice shook:
“He’s not a ghost.
He’s not a demon.
He’s me.”
Mariam stood beside him.
“If that’s true… then you’re the only one who can stop him.”
Mark stared at the cracked mirror again.
“Then I’ll go back.
And I won’t run this time.”
To be continued...