The Invisible Writer

I was a writer. I wrote books stories that breathed life into forgotten worlds and whispered secrets into the ears of readers. But now, I write in silence. Nobody knows. Nobody can see me. Something strange has happened to me, and I must tell you before it’s too late.

It began in January. I wanted to write a grand novel, something monumental, so I left my cluttered apartment in search of solitude. I found it in a small, dusty room above an old bookstore. The walls were thin, the air stale, but it was quiet perfect for a writer. A narrow bed, a wooden desk, a single chair, and an antique mirror hanging crookedly on the wall were all it contained. I settled in, my pen scratching eagerly across paper as the story unfurled.

Then, the strangeness began.

One evening, I set my pen down to fetch coffee. When I returned, the pen was gone. I searched the desk, the floor, even my pockets nothing. It had vanished. I dismissed it as forgetfulness until that night, when I awoke to a voice whispering in the dark.

"Who’s there?" I called, my heart hammering. Silence answered.

The next day, I saw him in the mirror.

A man with a beard my face, but not mine stared back. I blinked, and my own reflection returned, pale and shaken. I told myself it was fatigue, but the room no longer felt like mine. Whispers slithered through the walls. Objects moved when I turned my back. The air grew thick, as if the room itself were breathing.

Then, one night, he spoke to me.

I had just closed my eyes when a cold hand gripped my shoulder. "You will never leave here," the voice rasped. "You will stay with me." I bolted upright, gasping. The room was empty, but the words clung like frost.

Terrified, I packed my belongings at dawn. As I turned to leave, I glanced at the mirror and froze.

My reflection was gone.

The glass showed only the room behind me. No face. No body. Panic clawed up my throat, but when I tried to scream, no sound came. Then, I saw him the bearded man sitting at my desk, scribbling in my notebook with my missing pen.

A knock at the door. My friend Leo called, "Are you there? I want to see you!"

Hope flared Leo would help me! but when the other man opened the door, Leo smiled at him, clapping his shoulder. "You’ve grown a beard!"

I shouted, waved my arms, but Leo’s eyes slid right through me. The other man smirked, ushering Leo inside. "Come see my room. I’m writing my book."

That was when I understood.

The room had taken me. The other man wore my life now—my face, my voice, my work. But he didn’t know one thing:

I can still write.

So I write this warning, slipping it between the pages of his manuscript. Maybe you’ll find it. Maybe you’ll wonder about the second set of handwriting.

Or maybe you’ll rent that room next.

If you do don’t look in the mirror.