The Mimicry

Two days later, the temperature hit 102 degrees. The air conditioning in Acheron had been broken since May, and the building was sweating. The concrete walls were damp to the touch, and the air was so thick it felt like breathing soup.

Elias sat at his desk in Room 304, staring at his laptop.

He hadn't written a word. Instead, he was watching the black screen of his phone, waiting for it to light up. Waiting for a text that wasn't coming.

He caught his reflection in the dark monitor.

The figure in the screen turned its head to the left.

Elias hadn't moved.

He slammed the laptop shut. He stood up, pacing the small, cramped room. It was filled with dirty laundry and empty energy drink cans. A shrine to his own stagnation.

He walked to the window to look out at the campus green, but the glass was dark with night. He saw himself again. This time, the reflection wasn't just lagging. It was active.

The reflection raised a hand and waved.

Elias screamed, backing away until he hit his bed. He grabbed the sheet and threw it over the window, taping it down with duct tape. He went to the small vanity mirror over his dresser and taped cardboard over it. He turned his phone face down.

"Stop it," he whispered, curling into a ball on his mattress. "Just stop it."

He eventually fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of drowning in cool, dark water.

When he woke up, the room was sweltering. His sheets were soaked through. He sat up, groggy and dehydrated.

He looked at his desk.

His laptop was open.

Elias crawled out of bed, his legs trembling. He hadn't touched the computer. He was sure he had closed it.

He walked over and looked at the screen. A Word document was open. His thesis.

The cursor was blinking at the end of a new paragraph.

* The liminal space is not merely a transition,* the text read. *It is a membrane. A surface tension waiting to be broken. The viewer believes they are observing the space, but the space is observing the viewer. The reflection is not the copy. The reflection is the hunger.*

Elias backed away. The typing continued, keys clacking on their own, though no hands were touching them.

* I am so thirsty, Elias. Let me out.*

A sound came from the door. *Drip. Drip. Drip.*

Elias turned. Water was seeping under the doorframe from the hallway. It wasn't clear tap water. It was dark, murky, and smelled of the river.

He looked down at the floor. Leading from the door to his bed were wet footprints. Bare feet. They were the exact size and shape of his own.

The entity wasn't just in the glass anymore. It was condensing out of the moisture in the air. It was leaking through the infrastructure.

Elias grabbed his keys. He had to get out. He had to leave Acheron.