Mine… and Yours

It was 12:57 a.m. The house was silent, save for the low hum of the air conditioner.

A wave of nausea hit me, stomach twisting. I threw back the blanket, stumbled toward the bathroom, hand pressed to my mouth—and the tap was dry.

“Oh God… the tank must be empty again,” I muttered.

Grumbling, I slipped on my slippers and stepped into the cool night toward the water motor switch by the back wall. The moonless sky and buzzing porch light cast long, trembling shadows.

A shadow glided from right to left just beyond the gate. My breath hitched, a cold spike running down my spine. Muscles stiff, heart hammering, I froze. Then nothing. I exhaled, forcing a shaky laugh.

“Just my imagination,” I whispered.

I had watched a horror movie late into the night—maybe my mind was still trapped in its flickering darkness.

Back in bed, I curled under the blanket, trying to sleep again.

Thirty minutes passed in restless silence.

Then I smelled it—chicken soup. Warm. Familiar. My favorite.

My pulse raced. Relief flickered… then my spine stiffened. Every hair on end. No one else could be here. How… why was someone cooking at this hour?

Shadows danced as I stepped into the hall. A blurred figure slipped into the kitchen. Relief surged—it must be him; my husband sometimes cooked at midnight.

“Babe… what are you doing?” I called softly.

But it wasn’t him.

An old woman stood by the counter. Tangled silver hair, skin pale in dim light, eyes wide and unblinking—familiar, somehow. She smiled faintly and stepped closer, handing me a bowl of soup.

Fear gripped me. Stomach twisting, heart hammering. Her smile lingered, the soup hovering in her hands—and then she vanished.

I stumbled back to the bedroom. My husband slept, a faint snore escaping his lips. I shook him.

“You won’t believe what I just saw!”

He didn’t stir. He couldn’t hear me at all.

I pulled the blanket close, whispering a prayer.

Then—ding-dong. Sharp. Hollow. The calling bell.

I froze. The gate was locked; no one could be outside. Yet it rang again.

Through the glass doors, I saw her—standing by the bell, smiling.

I didn’t open it. Yet she was inside, shadows stretching across the living room floor. Her voice hissed:

“I won’t leave either of you.”

My hands shook. I grabbed my phone.

No signal.

A cold spike ran through me. Breath ragged.

I lunged for the laptop.

The screen froze. Blinked once. Then vanished.

Darkness swallowed everything.

My reflection trembled back at me.

No phone.

No Wi-Fi.

No power.

No way out.

And him—my husband—sound asleep, oblivious.

I counted my heartbeats—one… two… three… each a drum of panic.

Her hand rose. Fingers curling impossibly, nails dragging through the air as if cutting the night itself.

I screamed.

She disappeared. The kitchen was empty, but the scent lingered.

The air still vibrated with her last words. My breath came in short, panicked bursts.

Then—a voice.

“Honey… Where are you?”

It was my husband. A flicker of hope shot through me—he was awake. He has to be.

“I was here!” I called back, voice shaky, hopeful.

Then—silence.

The echo of his voice faded, swallowed by stillness.

Confusion crept in. I rushed toward the bedroom, muttering under my breath, half-angry, half-scared.

“Seriously? How long I tried to wake you up—but now only you decided to open your eyes?”

I pushed the door open.

He was there—still lying on the bed. Eyes closed. Breathing steady. Still sleeping.

A chill rippled through me. My throat tightened.

If he was still asleep… then whose voice had I heard just now?

A cold brush grazed my shoulder. I spun around.

She was back. Inches away. Eyes black pits, burning with unnatural glow.

“Why are you here? What do you want?” I howled.

She said nothing. Lips trembled as she raised a shaking hand, pointing toward the bedroom.

I froze.

The mirror across the hall caught the faint yellow light of the night lamp. Three reflections stared back.

My husband lay asleep. Chest rising and falling.

Behind him, the old woman loomed—hunched, hollow-eyed, as if she hadn’t blinked in centuries.

And beside her… was me. Another me.

Her smile—too wide. Too wrong. Stretching ear to ear. Teeth glinting.

Her eyes—pitch black. Empty. Alive. Watching.

I leaned closer. Breath fogging the glass.

The reflection moved faster than me. Head tilting at a sharper angle—a marionette pulled by invisible strings.

Then I saw it—in the reflection.

She held a pillow. Hovering over my husband’s face.

I gasped. Body frozen. Hands trembling.

In the mirror, the other me pressed down.

“No! Please, don’t do it!” I screamed.

The old woman’s whisper slid into my ear like a cold knife.

“This is my home…”

Both the old woman and the other me turned, grinning in perfect synchrony.

“…Leave, or I won’t leave either of you.”

The mirror shattered—a silent explosion of glass and breath.

The lights went out.

And suddenly, I woke. Gasping, soaked in sweat. Cold sheets clung to me. Skin slick with fear.

It was only a dream… or had it been? My chest heaved, but the fear didn’t fade. I wrapped myself in the blanket, drifting into restless sleep, haunted by her glowing eyes and sinister words.

Morning light slipped through the curtains, blind to the night’s terror. I told my husband everything—the woman, the touch, the reflection, the whispered threat.

He listened, then laughed.

“Go and tell this story to any Hollywood horror director—they’ll make a blockbuster out of it.”

For my sake, he finally called in a Spirit Hunter—someone whispered about in town, said to cleanse haunted spaces and restless souls.

I sat on the edge of the sofa, palms cold, heart trembling.

The door creaked open.

The hunter entered. Slow. Deliberate.

I looked up. Breath caught.

It was her.

The same old woman from my dreams—the same hollow eyes, the faint, crooked smile.

My body went numb.

She came closer, her presence heavy and suffocating. Leaning in, I felt her cold breath on my cheek.

“You thought you could make me leave? This house is mine…” she whispered.

Her hand—pale, veined like cracked marble—touched my chest. My heart stuttered.

“…and so are you.”

She faded, leaving me shivering, heart racing. The house was suddenly too quiet.

Was it really her… or merely my fear, the walls, and the shadows plotting together?