Edward was mistaken.
He stood in the middle of the living room, his gaze sweeping across the distance, waiting for something—or someone—to materialize. The house felt colder, walls creaking inward toward him, breathing along with his own fear. There was a presence in the air he couldn't explain.
The shadow lingered, that dark, looming mass out of reach, a smudged movement at the edge of his vision. Not heard. Not felt, something he could touch or even sense. And there, and causing the hairs to rise on the back of his neck.
He put it down to the tension. To the isolation. His own brain playing tricks on him with emptiness to justify.
But deep down in his head, he knew it wasn't.
He'd been bitten.
And now the virus coursed through his blood.
He crept into the kitchen, his gaze scanning suspiciously about the room. The cabinets were closed. The floor was clean. Everything was so neat. He was not going to allow himself to relax. Too much stillness. Too much calmness. It was smothering.
He yanked open the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, the chill within slapping him in the face for an instant's relief. He swallowed hard, throat choked, but only made him even angrier. Too quiet. Too quiet.
The TV buzzed quietly in the background of the space, still repeating the same news broadcast it was repeating. The anchors' voices were distant, muffled noises through glass. He couldn't hear what they were saying. White noise, an echo to accompany him in the void in his head. His own face on TV glared back at him, white and eyeless, his features somehow more delineated in the flicker.
The doorbell had been ringing.
Edward's hands held the bottle so hard it creaked. His heart skipped a beat, and he stayed there, frozen, not being able to take a step ahead for a second.
Who was it at the door?
He hadn't seen anyone since Kyle left. He hadn't heard a car, no traffic on the road. But the bell started ringing again, persistently. Frantically.
He snuck across the room, heart thudding in his ears. The house was devouring him, walls closing in from all sides, calling out his name.
Not now. Not now.
He stood in the doorway. His hand hovered above the handle. He considered not opening it for a moment—making the someone on the other side of the door believe that no one dwelled there. That was safer.
But then there was another doorbell, ringing louder. Hum of chime vibrating deep inside his chest.
Edward swallowed and opened the door.
There was no one standing there.
Just a light sound of movement, a gust of wind, and nothing. But still—he could feel being watched.
Before he was able to shut the door, someone flung themselves into his line of vision, running in the corner of the room, too fast to catch. A flash—a shape, a silhouette—but before he was even able to turn his head to catch a glimpse, it was gone.
His heart pounding.
He shut the door behind him and shoved on it, slapping his hands over his face.
Get a grip, Edward. It's nothing.
But he couldn't get rid of it. He'd had it before, as well. The air had shifted.
Something was watching him. Something that wasn't there.
He spun around to look at the living room once more. The face on the TV monitor still glared at him—his own eyes, but warped. The smile was again there, that same warped version of himself, just behind his own eyes.
No… no, no, no…
He yanked his hand back from his face, and when his eyes cleared, the reflection changed.
It wasn't a reflection. It was. alive.
The face of himself on the TV screen moved closer to him, its smile widening impossibly, the white light pouring out of its eyes growing brighter by the second.
"You should've opened the door." The voice was soft—too soft—and filled with a thousand others, layered and whispering, like a choir of demons crawling under his skin. "We're all here now, Edward. Watching you. Waiting."
Edward's blood ran cold. His chest constricted, and his legs shook as he backed away from the screen, the bottle of water slipping from his hand and shattering on the floor.
The TV smile widened further still, teeth shining in that direction unnaturally, and then it crossed the screen.
No.
It did not cross the screen—it simply stayed there. The thing in the corner, there, next to the couch.
Edward turned around, coughing more desperately, fear constricting tightly around his neck.
The creature—it wasn't him. It wasn't anyone he knew. It was some twisted reflection, a perversion of his own face, that smiled at him with too many teeth.
"You're so close now, Edward. Don't be afraid."
He stumbled back against the wall, shaking his head, trying to breathe.
"You can accept it. We're already inside of you." The thing reached out, fingers long and pale, creeping toward him. "You're one of us. Let us help you."
Edward's mind spun, his thoughts disintegrating, a fog of terror choking him.
"Let it in. Let it take over." The voice was all around him now. All the voices. All at once. His own voice twisted, blended with others, scraping under his skin.
He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe.
"It's inevitable." The voice shattered in his ear. "The change is already here. You don't have to fight. You'll see it—let it consume you. You're already one of us."
The air itself came alive, buzzing, crackling. He couldn't separate the voices from his own mind.
"Don't fight. Let us in."
The walls around him shifted. They were no longer solid. The room seemed to warp—stretching, expanding, closing in at the same time.
He screamed.
A scream that felt like it would tear him apart. His vision blurred, and all he could hear was the voice.
"We're waiting, Edward. It's already inside."
And the eyes—those glowing, white eyes—were all he could see now.