r/libraryofshadows

I realized it just now. Nothing has happened and maybe that’s part of the problem. Everything feels wrong, slightly off-center. I glance at the pen in my hand and it’s red just like it had been a moment before, but it’s like the color I’m looking at doesn’t match my memory of what red is supposed to be.

I stand up, pushing the chair back and pace around the room, counting my steps and estimating it’s around six-by-eight. I stop at the window. It’s dark outside, but it’s snowing, the night nests atop an expanse of white.

I have no idea what makes me think that it has always been snowing and that it shall never cease, but it strikes like a clapper against my bones, resounding throughout my body. I shiver as if I’m in that dark cold, rather than swaddled in this cell of comfort and warmth.

Books line all four walls. I don’t believe I’ve ever read any of them, but somehow I know what they’re about and can even recite specific pages. There’s a threshold with a door directly to my right that wasn’t there a moment ago. If I grasp the knob and turn it, something will begin on the other side before I pull it open.

I stroke my face and surprise myself with the fuzzy sensation of a beard graining against my fingertips. It makes me wonder about the rest of my face and I turn back to the window, looking for my reflection in the glass.

The hollow man with unfinished eyes staring back looks gaunt and older than I imagined myself to be. The reflection isn’t mine, but one that has been lent to me. I look down at my smooth, dry hands. Yes, these have been lent as well. They are well-manicured, but a memory, worn until nerve-exposed, echoes up from the throat of a well. Pinching fingernails with the corner of my teeth and tearing the ends to leave them ragged and spitting out the free edge like the shells of pumpkin seeds.

Not sunflower seeds. Not pistachios. Pumpkin seeds, specifically.

I could open my mouth and call to someone not here. But she, if I were to designate her so, would be pinned to this nebulous place just as I am. She would be doomed to exist in this non-space as easily as if I’d spoken, “Let there be light.”

The idea of my voice terrifies me. To cast words into this space would begin a new wicked creation. Every thing here is cursed. To exist is to imply eventual destruction. Deconstruction. All the elements that compose me, the walls, the books, papers, windows--disassembling at a rate of an unknowable amount of molecules at a time until we are all washed away like sandcastles.

The only difference is time. Time is the only constant. Although I have no idea where else it also spreads its unyielding disease.

I look outside the window again. The man who is allegedly me stares back, those holes for eyes capturing fat flakes of snow slicing through cold, loaf-thick air.

I retreat to the wheel-creaking chair, flattening myself into it, depriving myself of some foreign dimension. I feel exceeded purpose in these few moments, like a balance of me is outside my body, every vein cored with hot irons.

I hover my eyes over my manuscript. The words seem to squiggle, sentenced to a horrifying order, a pattern that teases and mocks me. The universe winks in confirmation of a secret it will not yield. My rough tongue peels away from the roof of my mouth and I keep it caged behind teeth to discourage the scream coming to a boil in the pit of me. 

Despite my panicked mind, I read letters, then words, slowly submerging myself back into context, like a warm, bloody bath with open wrists. I combat the internal gravity seeking to propel me out of the chair and into a million directions. I surrender to this abysmal routine and pick up the red pen, rolling it between index and thumb, balancing the weight in my grasp while steadying my glance on the page.

I read until I stumble across another imperfection. I carve another red mark. Somewhere distant, something is made right, or at least, a placeholder stroked over something wrong.

I continue editing. It is the only thing that is real now.

It started on a random Thursday night. I had just moved into the apartment a week prior. It was small and run-down, but it was the first place I could finally call my own. I was lying in bed, mindlessly scrolling through my phone while a rhythmic scraping and pounding echoed from inside the drywall right next to the mattress. It had happened every single night since I unpacked.
"Just ol' plumbin' in an ol' buildin', kid. Whaddya expect for this kinda rent?" my landlord had rasped with a phlegmy shrug when I brought it up on move-in day, squinting his yellowed eyes like I was trying to cheat him out of a dime.
I let out a tired sigh. I went back to my screen, scrolling past Instagram posts showcasing the glamorous, sun-drenched lives my old classmates seemed to be living, trying to numb myself to the noise.
Then, the scraping abruptly stopped.
A second later, a cold, sudden pressure brushed against my leg. A small, pale human finger had poked clean through a gap in the drywall—and it was resting against my bare thigh.
"WTF!"
I scrambled off the mattress, heart hammering violently against my ribs. I backed into the center of the room, staring at the wall, but the finger had already vanished into the dark slit. Adrenaline and sheer disbelief pushed me forward. I crept back toward the wall, switched on my phone's flashlight, and pressed the beam and my eye close to the jagged opening.
Through the narrow ray of light, there was no empty wall cavity. Instead, illuminated by the harsh glare, a smooth, pale mass of human-skin-like flesh pressed against the opening, heavy and unmoving.
Suddenly, the skin twitched. A horizontal seam tore itself open right across the flesh, stretching into a wide, jagged mouth that split into a silent, cavernous laugh.
I recoiled in horror, dropping my phone. Before I could even run for the bedroom door, the tiny hole in the wall began to change. The solid plasterboard didn't crack or shatter; instead, the edges of the opening began to liquefy and dissolve, turning softer and wider by the second. The wall warped like melting wax, expanding into a gaping, impossible void right next to my bed.
From the center of that dissolving darkness, a head with long, black, oily hair slowly pushed forward.
As it tilted out into my room, the greasy hair parted to reveal that it had no eyes or nose. It was just that same smooth, tight skin stretched over bone, dominated by the wide, jagged mouth I had just seen through the drywall. My legs completely locked up, and I collapsed onto the floor, paralyzed with fear.
The blank face snapped in my direction, and the muscles beneath its surface began to ripple and twitch violently.
I watched in paralyzed horror as my own nose, my own jawline, and my own exact eyes ballooned and pushed outward through its blank skin like wet clay. Once the transformation was complete, a wicked smile spread across its face.
With my exact features fully formed, it tilted its head, delivering my own voice back to me with a hollow, mechanical cadence: "Thank you for taking my place."
Its wicked grin widened, stretching the stolen skin to its absolute limit.
Before I could even move, its hand shot out with blinding speed and wrapped around my ankle. The moment those cold, unyielding fingers clamped onto my skin, a wave of paralyzing dizziness hit me, and my vision instantly went black.
***
When I finally opened my eyes, I was engulfed in absolute, suffocating darkness.
I was standing trapped in a narrow, empty space, choked by dust and old insulation. I reached out in a panic, my hands immediately hitting solid wooden studs and cold plasterboard on either side of me. The drywall in front of me was completely sealed, except for one tiny exception—there was a tiny hole left behind, one that perfectly fit a single finger.
Panicking, I tried to scream for help.
Nothing came out. My jaw wouldn't move. In sheer terror, I frantically ran my hands over my own face. My nose felt flat, melting back into my skull. My eyelids were fusing together, and a terrifying layer of smooth, tight skin was rapidly spreading over my lips, sealing my mouth completely shut.
Hopeless and locked in, I could only pound and scratch at the dark structure. I poked my finger out through the slit from time to time, but no one noticed me.
I didn't know how much time had passed. Days? Weeks? I just pounded, scratched, and poked. Pound, scratch, poke. Pound, scratch, poke. When I ran my hands over my head, I realized my hair had slowly grown from shoulder-length to my waist. I must have been trapped there for months, yet I never felt thirsty, hungry, or even tired. I was just a ghost in the drywall, aimlessly repeating the cycle. Pound, scratch, poke.
Then, one quiet night, the familiar, rhythmic scrolling sound of a smartphone echoed from the other side of the drywall.
I froze. I realized someone was finally here.
With the last of my humanity, I poked out my finger, and there was some nice, warm human flesh.
Finally, someone is here to take my place.

The night hangs over the sky with absolute authority. The ground is wet from a storm that swept through during the day, and a strong breeze kicks leaves and trash across the dead city street. Dane Miller leans out the window of his decrepit apartment. Not a soul moves on the pavement below, but I observe.

He’s tired. He leans too heavily into the window frame for someone who acts jovial during the day. He sighs, blowing another cloud of smoke from his lips; it no longer stings his eyes. There is no emotion left on his face, but I know he wants to go to bed and never wake up. He looks at his watch—it's 2 AM. I know he always stays up late.

He finishes his cigarette and goes to close the window. His apartment is cramped: just a single room with a dresser and a television. His bathroom is a communal setup at the far end of the hall. This sad space practically leaks with self-doubt. Another restless night comes and goes, but he still does not see me standing right here.

The alarm on the floor next to his bed is going off, but it didn’t wake him. He’s already been lying in bed, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. It’s 6 AM, and Dane has heard his neighbors fighting through the walls again. The harsh ringing of his alarm halts his neighbors' anger toward each other, redirecting their shouting toward the paper-thin wall separating their small rooms. He frowns and breathes in deep, slowly forcing himself to roll over and turn off the noise.

I observe.

I stand over him, watching him go about his morning routine. He walks down the dark hallway toward the communal bathroom. Trash and mouse droppings lay scattered along the baseboards. He steps into a stall and turns on the water, hoping it will finally get hot. We stand in silence for minutes. He sighs, then takes another freezing, cold shower.

After the shower, he fixes his face. There is no need for the world to see who he really is; if they did, it would strip away the last bit of “life” he has left. With his hair slicked back and his teeth brushed, Dane fashions a tight, practiced smile onto his face.

“It will be a good day,” I hear him whisper.

He walks down the stairs of his apartment building. I follow ever so closely behind. Overcast skies and biting wind match Dane’s internal thoughts. He moves down the street toward his place of work. Soon, he’ll clock in and sit in a small cubicle; everything in this office is a dull shade of brown, and stale cigarette smoke hangs just below the ceiling tiles. Dane will deny people their insurance claims. He does this without fail—every single day. He hates his job. I observe.

Lunch is "sleep." He pushes his chair back from the desk and leans his head down onto his folded arms. But sleep does not find him. Another cigarette will have to suffice. The taste is bittersweet. It was his last lucky, meaning he’ll have to buy a new pack on the way home today.

I’ll be there—waiting.

The workday drags on like his last cigarette, eventually burning down to his fingertips. He does not care. As the clock runs out, his coworkers invite him out for drinks. He makes a halfhearted excuse about having to feed his cat. They smile, uncaring, and walk out the office doors. We stand in silence together in the empty hallway; he doesn’t want to walk in the same direction as them. A minute passes, and we finally leave through the heavy metal doors.

The sun is setting now; it will be dark soon. The troubles of the world won’t leave him, though. The walk to the convenience store is short. He steps inside, and I am right on his heels. He stands at an empty counter, waiting for the clerk. After Dane taps the service bell multiple times, a man finally emerges from the back room. Dane gets his cigarettes and whispers a quiet "thanks." If the clerk heard him, he doesn't care to reply.

I watch as Dane tears open the paper, flips a lucky cigarette upside down, and packs the box against his palm. He grabs one and lights it. Standing on the corner just outside the store, he finishes the cigarette completely before beginning the quiet walk home.

I’ll meet him there.

The entrance to his apartment building is dimly lit. He goes to open the door, but the frame is jammed. He kicks it, using his shoulder to forcefully shove the warped wood open. The stairs and hallway are stained with unknown materials—his only welcome home.

He unlocks his apartment door and walks into the dead center of the dark room, where a lightbulb pull-string hangs from the ceiling. He yanks the cord, and a sharp pop echoes through the space. Shattered glass rains down over him.

Dane cries-I listen.

The tears dry, and he uses an old newspaper to sweep up the mess. He changes out of his brown suit, hanging it on a lone hook by the door. On the windowsill, his fresh pack of smokes and his lighter are yelling at him. He moves to open the window, leaning dreadfully against the frame. There are still people walking on the street below, but they pay me no mind.

I am here.

“You're not leaving! I told you, you're going to die here. I’m sorry you can’t see them again but you need to get with the program! You might have already ended our world. You're lucky I haven't authorized a vivisection.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?! I told you I had a fucking stroke! I need help! I need a brain scan or an MRI or surgery! I need…”

“Walk me through the events again.”

“I already told you! I fell on the job and hit my head and…”

“Again! In order! In exact detail! Tell me EVERYTHING. Now!”

“Ok. Shit. Shit, I’m just a fucking painter. I work for Jackson & Co. We got a big painting job for this old manor in Druid Hills. Old guy. Didn't want us to move the furniture, just tarp over it. I was up too high on the ladder trying to roll the ceiling, lost my balance and landed on some old, decorative mirror. I don't know how it didn't break but I hit my head then…”

“No...”

“What?”

“Continue.”

“The crew ran over and helped me up but everyone looked… weird. I threw up. My boss freaked out and told me to take the rest of the day off. I felt nauseous and they called me an uber home.”

“Then?”

“I thought the food in my fridge was spoiled or something. My orange juice smelled like turpentine, the cheese smelled bitter, bread smelled like spearmint. All… wrong and… I don't know. I couldn't read anything and I freaked out! My daughter called 911 and an ambulance took me to the hospital.”

“Yes. That's all you remember?”

“The doctor took some blood and said he was going to send me to get scanned. Then he got a call and started acting all nervous. He told me not to leave the room. An hour later people in hazmat suits came and gave me some pills and an inhaler. They put me in another ambulance and brought me here. What the fuck is going on?!”

“It's impossible… but I have no other explanation. Your lab results definitively show chirality.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?!”

“Molecular organic life evolved over time into left and right handed shapes. Asymmetrical. Like little locks and keys. The proteins in your blood are mirrored.”

“So… you mean… I can't read because my blood is backwards? Am I sick? My brain is screwed up and I'm gonna have to carry around a mirror all day from now on?!”

“No. Words aren't the problem. Everything is backwards. Everything. You're lucky oxygen and water aren't chiral, but most biologically relevant molecules are: proteins, sugars, acids, fats… “

“I don't understand! What does that mean?!”

“It means you’re effectively alien life. Your molecules and cells can't interact with ours. You can eat but you can't process anything. You can't get sick. Most of biology won't interact with you anymore at the molecular level.”

“What? How?! Is… is.. That’s a good thing then! I can't get sick anymore!”

“Our bacteria can still grow on and in you, they just won't interact with you. We have you on high dose antibiotics so you don't drown in the short term but in a few weeks you'll die from starvation and vitamin deficiency.”

“I’m… I…”

“Chiral bacteria have no natural predators, no chiral antibiotics. Their only limiting factors are the nutrients and space available.”

“But you said you gave me antibiotics?”

“Yes for OUR bacteria. We have no chiral antibiotics for YOUR chiral bacteria. It’s going to spread unchecked until it runs out of space. Nothing in nature can stop it.”

“Oh God…”

“I've ordered a quarantine for the surrounding region but we have nothing to actually prevent it from spreading to wildlife, people, physical objects. We can't disinfect everything.”

“So I am sick… Can I see my family again? Is there anything you can…”

“Ah here it is. Yes, bring it over here! Quickly! I had a team obtain the mirror you mentioned. Let's hope we can find a way to transport matter or information or… anything.”

“I look… everything looks normal...”

“We can't be sure if your world now has a chiral version of yourself, in the reflection. If it is true, you’re still in the CDC and your world faces the same extinction event.”

“I just want to go back. I don't wanna die here! You promise this will work and I can see my real family again? Those men in the mirror will take me to them?”

“Yes, but I need you to take this vial. It’s crucial for the production of chiral antibiotics, lifesaving. If you’re able to pass back through, your mirror self will bring the mirrored version. I'm praying this swap works.”

“I just… reach out… and I'll pass through myself?”

“Go ahead and try.”

The mirror shatters.