EchoFace It doesn't show who you are. It shows who's watching you.

It started as a dare.

Nora had always been the skeptic in her friend group—the one who rolled her eyes at ghost stories and laughed at conspiracy videos. So when her roommate Lexie told her about the app going viral on dark web forums, Nora just shrugged.

"It's called EchoFace," Lexie whispered dramatically. "You upload your selfie… and it sends you a video. Of you. But not really you. They say it shows who’s watching you."

Nora snorted. “So it’s a creepy AI mirror?”

Lexie smirked. “Download it and see.”

That night, Nora did—partly to shut Lexie up, partly because she was bored. The app wasn’t on the App Store. She had to find a link on an encrypted site. The download file was small. The interface was simple: just a black screen with white text.

ECHOFACE “Look deeper.”

Below it: a button. UPLOAD SELFIE.

Nora took a photo, rolled her eyes, and hit send. The screen went black for a few seconds.

Then a video popped up.

At first, it looked normal—just her, sitting on her bed, expressionless, like a still frame. But then her reflection blinked.

And then it turned its head. Not left. Not right.

Behind.

Nora frowned. There was nothing in the video background except her bedroom wall, just like in real life. But in the clip, a slight flicker of movement passed the corner of the screen.

She rewound it twice. That’s when she noticed something worse: her reflection’s face wasn’t quite hers. It looked tired. Scared. Pale. Like it hadn’t slept in weeks.

She shut the app.

By the next morning, Nora had half-forgotten about it. But strange things started happening.

Her phone’s front camera would light up for no reason. The selfie folder kept showing “1 new image” even when nothing was there. And once, during a Zoom call, her screen froze—except everyone else said she was still moving. Still talking.

But she hadn’t said a word.

Lexie noticed the change. “You look like crap,” she joked. “You still thinking about that app?”

Nora shrugged, but something gnawed at her. She hadn’t slept well. In the dream, she was sitting in her bed just like in the EchoFace video, but unable to move. Something breathed near her ear. She couldn’t turn around.

That night, curiosity outweighed fear. She opened EchoFace again.

The new video was different.

Still her room. Still her. But this time, the reflection was shaking. Crying silently. And the figure behind her? Closer. Almost visible. A silhouette of something tall, thin, with no face—just glitchy static where the eyes should be.

Nora dropped her phone.

By Day 3, she was spiraling.

Her mirrors felt wrong. Like her reflection was lagging. A second too slow. In the shower, she saw movement in the foggy glass—but Lexie wasn’t home.

She tried deleting the app.

It wouldn’t go.

Desperate, she messaged someone from the original thread where she found the app.

@User404:

“If you’ve opened EchoFace twice, don’t open it again. It learns your face. The third upload seals the loop.”

Nora:

“What loop?”

@User404:

“It doesn’t show YOU. It shows what’s already watching. From inside. Every time you open it, you bring it closer.”

She dropped her phone and ran to the bathroom.

In the mirror, her reflection didn’t move.

Nora tried staying awake the next night. Coffee. Music. Lights on.

Around 3:41 AM, her phone buzzed.

Notification:

“Your final EchoFace video is ready.”

She didn’t touch it.

At 4:07 AM, the front camera clicked on by itself. The screen glitched. Then went black.

She screamed.

When Lexie returned the next morning, she found Nora’s phone on the bed, flashlight on. The screen displayed a frozen image of Nora sitting on the floor, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream. Her real body was nowhere to be found.

Only her phone remained.

And EchoFace was still running.

Author's Note:

We live in a world obsessed with reflections—selfies, filters, curated versions of ourselves. But what if something else was watching through the same lens? What if the tools we trust the most… were never really under our control?

This story is a reminder that not everything you upload is gone.

Sometimes, it stays.

And sometimes... it watches back.