Chapter 2
1703words
No. Not just a nightmare. This was real.
"Every word you say could become reality."
That cold system message thundered in my ears like some twisted divine judgment. I wasn't just watching—I was participating. And I had... power. My first warning had been pathetic. "Watch out behind you"—the kind of cliché that gets mocked in horror movie reviews. Too vague, too weak. No clear direction, no urgency. Sarah heard it, but brushed it off as her imagination.
This time would be different.
As the timeline reset and Sarah reached for her phone again, that sickeningly familiar "God, Mark, you're terrible" about to spill from her lips, my fingers hovered over the keyboard. My mind had never been sharper, adrenaline firing through my system like lightning. I locked onto the screen, a sniper zeroing in on the perfect shot.
Now!
A split second before the killer emerged from the closet, while Sarah's smile still lit up her face, I slammed the send button.
"MARK IS BEHIND YOU WITH A KNIFE! RUN! DON'T LOOK BACK, JUST RUN!"
I practically screamed as I hammered out each letter, injecting every word with desperate urgency. The comment shot like a bullet into that blood-soaked reality.
Sarah froze mid-sentence. No confusion this time—just raw, animal fear taking over. She didn't waste a second looking back. Like she'd been electrocuted, she screamed, launched herself off the bed, and hurled her body toward the door.
The instant she moved, a gleaming blade whistled through the air and buried itself in the mattress where she'd been sitting, sending a cloud of white stuffing exploding outward.
Holy shit, it worked!
A tidal wave of emotion crashed over me—elation mixed with lingering terror. I'd done it! I'd changed her fate! I wasn't just some helpless spectator anymore; I was her guardian angel, her... god.
Sarah tumbled into the hallway, barefoot and wearing nothing but her thin pajamas. She sprinted down the empty corridor while behind her, the masked killer followed with mechanical precision, his footsteps heavy and measured—a relentless killing machine that wouldn't tire, wouldn't hesitate.
My fingers flew across the screen, my brain racing through every escape strategy I'd ever seen in horror films.
"LEFT TURN! TAKE THE STAIRS! NOT THE ELEVATOR!"
On screen, Sarah responded like a marionette to my commands. She veered left, crashed through the stairwell door, and practically slid down the steps, one hand gripping the rail.
"AVOID THE MAIN ENTRANCE! YOU'LL BE TRAPPED! BASEMENT LEVEL—FIND THE SERVICE EXIT!"
The killer seemed thrown off by her seemingly intimate knowledge of escape routes. Several times he guessed wrong, falling behind as she zigged when he expected her to zag. He might be the killing machine, but I was the one rewriting his program. The power rush made my hands shake.
Sarah burst through the building's exit, the cold concrete making her bare feet flinch, but she didn't dare slow down. The midnight campus stretched before her, empty and silent, streetlights casting her shadow into a desperate, elongated silhouette.
"STAY OUT OF OPEN SPACES! HEAD FOR THE LIBRARY! COMPLEX LAYOUT, SECURITY CAMERAS!" I fired off instructions like a battlefield commander, orchestrating her survival from afar.
Sarah was gasping for air, her blonde hair plastered to her sweat-slicked face. She risked a glance back—the masked figure still followed at that same unhurried pace, his calm pursuit somehow more terrifying than a frantic chase. She clenched her jaw and pushed her burning legs toward the library's silhouette in the distance.
"YOU'VE GOT THIS, SARAH! ALMOST THERE!" I typed, surprising myself with the cheerleader encouragement.
Something changed in her expression—her eyes sharpened with renewed determination. She knew now that someone was watching, guiding her. She wasn't alone in this nightmare.
She crashed through the library's heavy glass doors but didn't slow down. Following my guidance, she dove deep into the labyrinthine stacks. Here, the killer's height worked against him, while the narrow passages and countless hiding spots gave Sarah the advantage.
The chase paused. Sarah huddled behind a row of medieval history texts, one hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her desperate gasping. Her eyes darted wildly around her, a cornered animal searching for the next threat.
I collapsed back against my headboard, suddenly aware that my shirt was soaked through with sweat. My lungs burned like I'd been the one running for my life. Round one: victory.
"STAY SILENT. HE'LL GET IMPATIENT EVENTUALLY," I sent as a final instruction, then decided to give her space to catch her breath.
The screen settled into an uneasy calm. The killer hadn't immediately followed her inside—probably watching, waiting. As Sarah's breathing steadied and the immediate terror ebbed, confusion flooded in to fill the void. She slumped against the cold shelves, hugging her knees to her chest.
Who is this person? Why are they helping me? Who was that masked man? And Mark... where's the real Mark? Questions swirled through her mind like leaves in a storm.
Minutes crawled by. To distract herself from the suffocating tension, or maybe seeking some strange comfort, her eyes began scanning the shelves around her. Her gaze locked onto a section label nearby: [Horror Fiction].
It was almost masochistic. Fresh from her own horror story, she nonetheless reached out and pulled a sleek hardcover from the shelf. The book was pitch black, its title embossed in crimson letters: "The Comment Section."
Sarah opened the book.
I leaned closer to my screen, fascinated. My newfound god complex made her every movement captivating.
But as the camera slowly zoomed in, revealing the text on those pages, my smug smile evaporated.
The first line on the first page contained a name that turned my blood to ice.
"Emily Harrison is a typical digital native accustomed to the empty echo of her house while her parents jet-set from one business trip to another. For her, screens are the only windows to the outside world, with horror movies and social media serving as cheap anesthetics against her chronic loneliness..."
My heart seized in my chest like a fist had closed around it.
Emily... Harrison?
That's... that's my name.
This can't be happening! It's just a coincidence—plenty of Emily Harrisons in the world. I desperately tried to rationalize, fighting the icy dread crawling up my spine.
But that description... that fucking description. Like someone had been watching me through my bedroom window, documenting my life with clinical precision.
On screen, Sarah kept reading. Off screen, my breathing shortened to quick, shallow gasps.
The pages turned.
"...Recently, Emily connected with a man named Jason online. Jason was charming and attentive, always knowing exactly what to say to fill the void in her heart. Their conversations became increasingly intimate, and Emily eventually gave him her home address when he mentioned wanting to send her a special gift..."
Jason!
That name hit me like a physical blow, shattering any hope this was just coincidence.
Jason... the guy I'd been texting for two weeks straight. The one who knew all my secrets, my "perfect online match" who supposedly attended Berkeley. Just three days ago, when I'd complained about my parents' latest business trip leaving me alone for the weekend, he'd joked about flying out to keep me company.
I'd laughed it off as flirty banter, even sent him my address, half-expecting some cute care package from my "virtual boyfriend."
I glanced down at my phone. Our chat was still open from last night. His final message glowed on the screen: "Good night, my Emily. Soon, we'll be able to meet."
A glacial chill shot from the base of my spine to my skull, freezing every drop of blood in my veins.
This wasn't coincidence.
This wasn't a movie.
That "movie," that bloody game I thought I was controlling—it was a mirror. Not just showing Sarah's nightmare, but forecasting my own imminent... murder.
The Emily in the book was me.
And the ending? That ending where she's butchered by her internet "friend"...
I couldn't finish the thought. Terror wrapped around me like a straitjacket, paralyzing me completely. My bedroom—so familiar just minutes ago—transformed into an alien landscape of threats. Every shadow might hide a white-masked killer, every corner concealed potential death.
As panic devoured my rational mind—
"Ding dong—"
The doorbell shattered the silence.
That cheerful chime cut through the quiet night like a scream. Like a trigger, it activated every fear response in my body at once.
I jumped like I'd been shocked, every muscle in my body instantly rigid with terror.
Who?
Who the hell would be at my door this late? My parents were halfway across the country. My friends knew better than to drop by unannounced, especially at this hour.
Jason. "Soon, we'll be able to meet." The book's description of him "coming specifically to visit her"...
The realization hit me like a truck, squeezing the air from my lungs.
I crept toward the door on trembling legs, each step like walking through quicksand. My heart hammered so violently I could feel it in my throat, each pulse making my vision blur. With shaking hands, I raised myself on tiptoes and pressed my eye to the peephole.
Through the fish-eye lens stood a man.
Tall, black hoodie pulled up—a mirror image of the killer from the "movie." His head was tilted down, face obscured by the hood's shadow.
I stopped breathing.
As if sensing my gaze, he slowly lifted his head.
His face was handsome—exactly like the photos Jason had sent me. His lips curved into that gentle smile I'd once found so charming.
He spoke directly to the peephole, his lips barely moving. His voice wasn't loud, but somehow it sliced through the door as if it were paper.
"Emily," he said. "It's me, Jason. I've come... to see you."
