The Comments Weren’t from Humans And They Were About Me

I only meant to post a short horror story. That’s it.

Something creepy, late-night inspired, nothing more.

It was called “The Girl in the Mirror Smiled First.” Just a simple tale about a girl who notices her reflection behaving… oddly. I wrote it in under an hour and uploaded it to a writing platform I’d recently joined. It wasn’t my best work, just something fun before bed.

At first, the comments were exactly what you'd expect.

“Creepy twist at the end!”

“Loved the mirror concept!”

“Gave me chills!”

But then one comment stopped me cold.

“You wrote this at 2:47 a.m., wearing your green hoodie, didn’t you?”

I frowned. That was... oddly specific. I checked the username:

shadowreader13

I figured it was a guess, maybe a prank.

Until I looked down.

I was wearing my green hoodie. And I had posted it exactly at 2:47 a.m.

Weird coincidence, I told myself. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

The next day, I got more comments.

“Nice detail about the chipped coffee mug. Just like the one on your desk.”

“Your hands were shaking while you typed the ending. Why?”

My stomach turned. I hadn’t mentioned the mug in the story. Or my hands. How would anyone know that?

Maybe someone hacked my webcam?

I unplugged it.

That night, another story.

This one was more personal. A fictional piece about a lonely boy who walks home every day past a willow tree and feels like the tree watches him.

It was inspired by my childhood.

A tree like that did stand outside my childhood home. I hadn’t told anyone, not friends, not family. It was a memory buried so deep, I barely remembered it myself.

But one comment read:

“Did you know the willow tree was planted in 1973, five years before your mother was born?”

Another said:

“It’s not just a story, is it? You still dream about the tree sometimes.”

I did.

I didn’t sleep well after that.

Things escalated.

New stories. New comments.

“Don’t ignore us, Jason.”

“Why did you lie in your last piece? That’s not how your grandfather died.”

“Check under your bed before you sleep. The answer is there.”

I stopped writing.

I unplugged everything: my PC, my phone, even my router. I deleted my account.

But the comments kept appearing.

On sticky notes on my desk.

Scratched into the bathroom mirror.

Whispered through my phone’s speaker even though it was off.

Then came the final story.

I didn’t write it.

It appeared in my drafts folder with the title:

“The Day Jason Finally Believed”

It described everything I’d experienced. The late night writing. The growing fear. Even my dreams.

The story ended with a line that made my blood freeze:

“He thinks turning off the lights will help. He doesn’t realize it’s never been the stories. It’s always been the readers.”

And below it one last comment from shadowreader13:

“We told you. We’ve always been watching. And now it’s your turn to be the story.”

The power went out.

My laptop battery flickered once.

And then the screen turned black.

But faintly—too faintly I swear I could still see words typing themselves:

“Chapter 1: The Comments Were Just the Beginning…”

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Submitted By: Shinwari Khan

Contact: [email protected]

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