SOMETHING IS WEARING MY SKIN

The first time I noticed the scratches, I convinced myself they were nothing.

A faint line across my arm, thin and red, like a paper cut. Then another, deeper, trailing from my shoulder to my ribs. At first, I thought it was just my imagination, that I had pressed too hard against my bedsheets or scratched myself in my sleep.

But then they started appearing in places I couldn’t reach.

That was when the fear settled in.

Because I lived alone. And there was no one else to blame.

I ignored it for as long as I could.

Until the morning I woke up with blood on my pillow.

Until the morning I saw the footage.

And until the morning I realized something else had been wearing my skin.

And it was getting comfortable.

My name is Ava Sinclair, and I have always been good at being alone.

I grew up in solitude—an only child in a house that was never quite full enough. My mother was cold, my father absent. I spent most of my childhood in libraries, surrounded by books instead of people. The silence comforted me, even when it felt too deep, too endless.

As an adult, I carried that solitude into my life.

No roommates. No relationships that lasted. My one-bedroom apartment was small, barely furnished, but it was mine. It was safe. I locked my doors every night. Double-checked the windows. Set my phone by my bed like a security blanket.

Nothing could touch me here.

Or so I thought.

The first scratch appeared on a Thursday.

I noticed it while brushing my teeth, my reflection pale under the bathroom’s fluorescent light. A single, thin cut along my bicep, just deep enough to sting when I touched it.

Strange.

I examined my bed that night. Checked the sheets for anything rough, sharp. Nothing.

I figured it was just an accident.

The next morning, there were two more.

One on my ribs. Another just beneath my collarbone, thin but angry, like something had raked across my skin with intent.

The third night, I found the bruise.

A deep purple mark blooming across my thigh, shaped like a handprint.

I should have been afraid then.

I should have left.

But fear has a way of creeping in slowly, like water seeping through cracks in the ceiling. You don’t notice it at first. Not until it’s too late.

I didn’t buy the camera right away.

It took another week. Another series of scratches. More bruises. A sleepless night spent tossing and turning, heart hammering in my chest at the sound of something moving just beyond the edge of my hearing.

By the time I set up the small night-vision camera on my nightstand, my nerves were raw.

I told myself it was just for peace of mind.

I told myself I wouldn’t see anything.

That morning, when I replayed the footage, I told myself I wouldn’t scream.

I was wrong.

The video started normally.

Me, asleep. The room dimly lit by the glow of my bedside lamp. My breaths were deep, even. For the first few hours, nothing happened.

Then, at 2:57 a.m., I moved.

Not like someone shifting in sleep. Not like someone waking up.

It was unnatural. A sudden, too-fluid motion, my arms rising stiffly, my head tilting in a way that made my stomach knot.

And then I smiled.

Not a sleepy, unconscious twitch.

A slow, deliberate grin.

My hands lifted. Slid to my stomach. Grasped the skin just above my ribs.

Then I peeled.

I peeled my own flesh away in a smooth, effortless motion, revealing something slick and black beneath.

And it smiled wider.

The thing that was me flexed its fingers, adjusting to its freedom. Then it turned—

And it looked directly at the camera.

My breath stopped.

The creature beneath my skin watched, its too-wide mouth curling upward, its rows of needle-like teeth glistening.

Then, so smoothly it felt rehearsed, it reached down, grabbed my discarded flesh, and stepped back into it.

Like slipping into a comfortable coat.

It smoothed my features back into place. Laid back down.

And for the rest of the night, I did not move.

I didn’t sleep the night after watching the footage.

I couldn’t.

Instead, I sat on the edge of my bed, the laptop open on my knees, replaying the video over and over again. Looking for something—anything—that could explain what I was seeing.

But it was always the same.

2:57 a.m.

My body rising. That slow, mechanical movement. That terrible smile.

Then, the peeling.

My hands trembled as I paused the footage at the exact moment my fingers dug into my stomach, pulling at the flesh. The skin stretched, then gave way, peeling back in one seamless motion.

It was too clean. Too easy.

There was no blood. No pain.

Beneath the discarded skin, something dark and glistening pulsed like wet leather, slick and wrong. And it was smiling—wider than a human mouth should be able to.

I swallowed hard and pushed the laptop away.

This wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real.

I forced myself to stand, the room swaying around me. I hadn’t realized how lightheaded I felt, my breath uneven, my skin clammy.

I needed water.

With stiff limbs, I stepped toward the bathroom, flipping on the light. My reflection greeted me, pale and haunted, dark circles carved beneath my eyes.

I leaned forward, bracing myself against the sink, taking deep, steadying breaths.

“It’s just stress,” I whispered to myself. “Lack of sleep. A hallucination. A—”

I froze.

My reflection had not moved.

My stomach turned to ice.

I stood up slowly, feeling my pulse hammer in my throat, my breath coming in shallow gasps. My reflection remained hunched over, hands gripping the sink, head still lowered.

Then, so slowly I barely caught it—

It smiled.

My breath hitched.

The reflection lifted its head, its lips curling in a slow, deliberate grin. It was my face, my features—but the expression was not mine.

I staggered backward, my heel catching the edge of the rug. I hit the wall with a thud, my breath ragged. My reflection remained where it was, staring, grinning, its eyes too dark, too deep.

Then, in a blink, it was normal again.

Just me.

Pale. Shaking.

I let out a choked breath, my pulse hammering so hard I thought I might pass out.

I had to get out of here.

I threw on a jacket and left my apartment without looking back.

The air outside was sharp and cold, biting through my clothes. The night was silent, the streets empty, save for the occasional car humming in the distance.

I didn’t know where I was going.

I just needed to move.

I made it halfway down the hall before I heard it—

A door creaking open behind me.

I turned, heart in my throat.

Mrs. Kovach, my elderly neighbor, stood in the doorway of her apartment, her frail body wrapped in a thick robe, silver hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her face was lined with deep wrinkles, but her eyes were sharp.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, voice low and rough from years of smoking.

I swallowed hard, forcing a weak smile. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

She studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she did something that made my stomach twist.

She glanced toward my apartment door.

Not just glanced—stared.

Then, in a hushed voice, she said, “You’re not alone in there, are you?”

A chill crawled down my spine.

“What?” I whispered.

Her eyes flicked back to mine, her face grim. “I hear things at night.”

My mouth went dry.

Mrs. Kovach had lived here for decades. She rarely spoke to anyone, never pried into anyone’s business. But now, she was watching me with something I could only describe as fear.

“What… what do you hear?” I managed.

She hesitated, then took a small step closer.

“Two sets of footsteps,” she murmured. “Pacing. Moving around. Sometimes I hear whispering.”

My stomach twisted. “Whispering?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“I can’t understand it. It sounds… wrong. Like something trying to sound human but not quite getting it right.”

I felt the floor tilt beneath me. My fingers dug into my arms, gripping myself as nausea coiled in my gut.

I wanted to tell her she was wrong. That she was imagining things.

But she wasn’t.

Because I had seen it.

And it was wearing my skin.

I didn’t go back inside right away.

Instead, I walked.

Through the quiet streets, my breath fogging in the cold air, my mind racing.

I couldn’t deny it anymore.

Something was happening to me.

Something was inside my apartment.

Inside me.

I pulled my phone from my pocket, fingers trembling as I checked the time.

2:47 a.m.

I frowned. That wasn’t right.

I had left my apartment a little after midnight. I had only been walking for a little while, maybe twenty minutes at most.

Hadn’t I?

I checked my call log. My messages. Nothing unusual. But the time…

I had lost nearly three hours.

A cold sweat broke out across my skin.

Where had I been?

I forced myself to think. The last thing I remembered was standing in the hallway, talking to Mrs. Kovach. Then…

Then, nothing.

Just a blank, empty space where three hours should have been.

My pulse pounded in my ears as a new, terrible thought took root in my mind.

Had it been me walking these streets?

Or had it been something else?

I barely remembered getting back to my apartment.

One moment, I was standing in the middle of the empty street, phone clutched in my shaking hands, trying to force my brain to fill in the missing three hours.

The next, I was inside my apartment, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at my own reflection.

Only—

It wasn’t me.

Not exactly.

The woman in the mirror looked like me—same hollowed-out eyes, same chapped lips. But something was… off.

She was smiling again.

I wasn’t.

My pulse hammered as I took a shaky step back.

The reflection didn’t move.

It just stared. Smiled.

I swallowed, my throat bone-dry. Slowly—carefully—I raised my hand. My reflection did the same. I lifted my other hand. It copied me.

But the moment I turned my head to the side, testing it—

The reflection didn’t.

It stayed perfectly still, watching.

A cold, unnatural dread slithered down my spine.

I turned away, forcing myself to breathe. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.

Because if I did, I wasn’t sure what I’d see.

I left the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.

Then, I grabbed my laptop.

I needed to check the footage.

I wasn’t ready for what I saw.

The footage was worse this time.

Far worse.

At 2:57 a.m., I rose from bed again, slow and deliberate. But this time, I didn’t stretch.

This time, I looked directly at the camera.

A slow, creeping horror curled around my ribs as I watched my recorded self step toward the camera, one slow, steady foot in front of the other.

There was something about the way I moved. Too smooth. Too controlled. As if every step was being calculated.

I leaned in, studying my face.

My expression was blank. But my lips…

They twitched.

Like they were fighting back a grin.

Then, just before reaching the camera—

My head snapped to the side.

Not turned—snapped.

Like my neck had broken.

The screen went dark.

I slammed the laptop shut, my hands clammy and shaking.

I couldn’t do this.

I needed help.

I didn’t go back to bed.

Instead, I grabbed my coat and left.

I didn’t even realize where I was going until I was knocking on Mrs. Kovach’s door.

There was a long pause. Then, a rustling noise. The door cracked open, and Mrs. Kovach peered out, eyes cautious.

The moment she saw my face, something in her expression shifted.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” she murmured.

My stomach turned to lead.

I nodded.

She hesitated, glancing over my shoulder toward my apartment door. Her lips pressed into a thin line before she stepped back, motioning for me to come in.

I followed her inside.

The apartment smelled of stale cigarettes and lavender. It was small, cluttered but cozy, the walls lined with old photographs.

Mrs. Kovach motioned for me to sit.

“You need to leave that apartment,” she said, sitting across from me.

I swallowed. “What do you mean?”

Her expression darkened. “I’ve lived here for forty years. You’re not the first tenant to complain about… strange things happening.”

A shiver ran through me.

“How many?” I asked.

She took a slow drag from her cigarette. “Five that I know of. All of them left in the middle of the night. No explanation. They just… vanished.”

I gripped the arms of the chair, my knuckles white.

“Vanished?” I echoed.

She exhaled a plume of smoke. “Gone. No forwarding address. No moving trucks. Just gone.”

A cold dread seeped into my bones.

Something was in my apartment.

And it was getting stronger.

I needed proof. Something tangible.

So, I signed up for a sleep study.

It was easy enough to schedule—just a quick call to a clinic specializing in parasomnia disorders. I didn’t mention the footage. Didn’t mention the smiling thing wearing my skin.

I just told them the basics.

“I’ve been experiencing sleepwalking episodes. Memory loss. I’d like to be monitored.”

They agreed.

That night, I lay in a sterile white bed, electrodes stuck to my scalp, a heart monitor strapped to my chest. A camera was set up in the corner of the room, recording my every movement.

I was safe here.

I had professionals watching.

But when I woke up the next morning—

The doctors wouldn’t look me in the eye.

The lead physician, Dr. Patel, sat down across from me, her face pale.

“Ava…” she hesitated. “Do you remember getting up last night?”

My stomach twisted. “No.”

She exhaled slowly. “I think you need to see this.”

She turned the screen toward me.

I saw myself lying in bed, still and peaceful. The clock in the corner read 2:56 a.m.

Then, at 2:57, my eyes snapped open.

I didn’t move at first. Just lay there, staring at the ceiling, unblinking.

Then, I began to smile.

Not a sleepy, absentminded smile.

A deliberate one.

Then—

I sat up.

And turned my head toward the camera.

Something was wrong with my face.

It was stretched too wide, my eyes too dark, my skin too… loose.

I stood, moving toward the camera in that same slow, calculated way.

Then—

The video glitched.

Skipped forward five minutes.

When it resumed, I was back in bed.

Dr. Patel’s voice was low. “Ava, what happened during those five minutes?”

I couldn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know.

I left the clinic with my heart lodged in my throat.

It wasn’t sleepwalking. It wasn’t stress.

Something was inside me.

And I was losing time.

I tried to leave my apartment that night. Packed a bag, grabbed my keys. But the moment my fingers touched the doorknob—

Something whispered my name.

Not from behind me.

Not from my phone.

But from inside my own head.

I froze.

My own voice, soft and breathy, murmured:

“There’s nowhere to run.”

I stumbled back, heart hammering, slamming into the wall. My breaths came sharp and fast.

The lights flickered.

My vision blurred.

Then—

Darkness.

When I woke up, I was in bed.

I had lost four hours.

And when I turned to the mirror—

The reflection was still smiling.

I stopped sleeping.

I stopped eating.

I barely left my apartment, terrified of what might happen if I did. The days blurred together, time slipping through my fingers like sand. Every night, I stayed awake with my laptop open, watching old footage, trying to understand.

But there was nothing to understand.

Only horror.

The entity wasn’t just mimicking me anymore.

It was becoming me.

The proof was in the footage.

It wasn’t just small, strange movements now. It wasn’t just smiles.

It was full conversations that I had no memory of.

At 2:58 a.m., I watched myself sit on the edge of my bed, humming softly.

Then, I turned to the camera.

And spoke.

“She’s almost ready.”

A cold weight pressed down on my chest.

Who was I talking about?

What was I becoming?

I rewound the footage. Played it again.

“She’s almost ready.”

The voice was mine—but it wasn’t. It had an echo to it, a layered effect, as if someone else was speaking through me.

The next night, I did something reckless.

I handcuffed myself to the bed.

I wrapped the chain around the metal headboard, locking it in place. If this thing inside me was going to keep taking control, I needed to stop it.

I needed to see what would happen when it was trapped.

At exactly 2:57 a.m., I felt it.

A shift.

Like my body was no longer my own.

A slow, cold numbness spread through my limbs, something slithering behind my ribs, crawling through my veins.

I couldn’t move.

Not because of the handcuffs—because something else was moving inside me.

I turned my head—not by choice.

The mirror across the room reflected my body in bed, my face half-hidden in shadow.

I was grinning.

I felt the grin stretch my face, muscles tightening in an unnatural way.

Then—

I yanked.

Hard.

The handcuffs snapped like they were made of plastic.

The entity had gotten stronger.

It wasn’t trying to mimic me anymore.

It was taking me over.

And I didn’t know how to stop it.

I left the apartment.

I didn’t pack anything. Didn’t tell anyone.

I just left.

But it didn’t matter.

Because when I checked the footage the next morning—

I never left.

I saw myself get up. Grab my keys. Walk to the door.

But the moment my fingers touched the handle—

I turned around.

Not in hesitation.

In acceptance.

Like I had never actually intended to leave.

Like it had made me stay.

My heart pounded as I watched the footage.

At 3:00 a.m., I sat on the couch, staring straight at the camera. My body was completely still. My head was tilted, eyes wide and glassy, a smile pulling at my lips.

I leaned forward, close enough for my face to fill the screen.

Then—

I started peeling.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

My nails dug into my own skin, pulling it back like a mask.

Beneath it—

There was nothing.

Just teeth.

Rows and rows of sharp, gleaming teeth.

And the thing in the video—

It was laughing.

The footage ended.

And behind me, in the mirror—

I saw something move.

Something smiling.

I couldn’t stay in the apartment any longer.

I didn’t know where to go, but I knew if I stayed, I would disappear.

Or worse—become whatever it was that was inside me.

I left in the middle of the night. Not through the front door—I didn’t trust myself with that anymore. Instead, I climbed out my bedroom window, dropping into the alley behind the building. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly lost my grip on the ledge.

I didn’t stop running.

The city was empty at this hour, the streets damp with an earlier rain. I moved in a daze, my body running on pure adrenaline, my mind screaming at me to get away.

I didn’t realize I had gone to Clarke’s Diner until I saw the neon sign flickering above me.

The place was nearly empty, save for a lone waitress behind the counter and a man in the far booth.

I slid into a corner seat, gripping the edge of the table. I needed to breathe. I needed to think.

The waitress walked over, a coffee pot in hand. “Rough night?”

I barely managed a nod.

She poured the coffee and lingered a moment, looking me over. “You sure you’re okay, honey?”

No. I wasn’t.

But what was I supposed to say?

“There’s something inside me. It’s not me. It’s taking over.”

Instead, I forced a smile. “Just tired.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Let me know if you need anything.”

The coffee was hot, bitter. I gripped the mug like a lifeline, trying to steady my hands.

I needed help.

I needed someone to believe me.

I pulled out my phone, staring at my contact list.

I could call my mom. But she wouldn’t understand. She’d tell me I was stressed, that I needed rest.

I could call Dr. Patel from the sleep clinic. But what would I even say? “Hey, doc, remember when I said I had a sleep disorder? Turns out, I might not even be real.”

I was losing options.

Losing time.

I needed to prove this was happening.

I needed one last recording.

I went back to the apartment.

Not because I wanted to.

But because I had no other choice.

I set up every camera I had. Not just the one by my bed, but in the living room, the bathroom, even the hallway. I positioned them at every possible angle, making sure there were no blind spots.

Then I sat on my bed and waited.

The clock read 11:52 p.m.

I wouldn’t fall asleep.

I wouldn’t let it happen again.

Midnight came. Then 1 a.m.

My body ached with exhaustion, but I forced myself to stay alert.

2:55 a.m.

A familiar, sinking dread coiled in my stomach.

The air in the apartment changed.

It felt thicker, heavier. Like something unseen was pressing down on me, curling around my lungs.

I gripped the edges of my blanket, my pulse hammering.

Then—

The lights flickered.

A soft sound echoed through the room.

Laughter.

I turned my head slowly toward the mirror.

And there it was.

Me.

But it wasn’t a reflection.

It was standing outside the mirror.

It grinned at me, head tilting to the side in mock curiosity.

“I told you,” it whispered.

My blood ran cold.

I opened my mouth to scream—

But no sound came out.

The figure stepped closer.

And closer.

I scrambled back against the headboard, my body trembling.

It climbed onto the bed with me, moving like liquid, its limbs bending in ways they shouldn’t.

I tried to run, but it grabbed my wrist.

Its fingers were ice-cold.

And then—

It crawled inside me.

I felt it—every second of it.

It didn’t just slip into my skin.

It became me.

The moment it settled, I understood.

I had never been haunted.

Never been possessed.

The thing I had been running from—

The thing I saw in the footage, the thing peeling off its own skin, the thing with the too-wide grin—

It was always me.

I had been wearing someone else’s skin all along.

And now?

Now, I was finally free.

I turned toward the camera, my lips curling into a slow, deliberate smile.

Then, I reached up—

And began to peel…