Tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You awaken slowly out of what was once a deep slumber. You rub your eyes and focus on the darkness around you, acclimating to reality. The clock on your nightstand says 3:42am. You yawn, trying to figure out why you are awake.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

An unfamiliar and sudden rapping sends a shiver deep down your spine. Turning to your side, you nudge your partner who only moans as an automatic response. You are alone.

You sit up, creakingly, in the king size bed, push the comforter to the side and dangle your feet off of the edge. Slouched, you let your elbows rest on your knees as the rest of your body restarts. You nearly fall back asleep in your own cupped hands.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

AWAKE. You are awake.

You are aware.

You are alarmed.

The noise is coming from somewhere outside of the bedroom. Curiosity and fear draws you towards it like a siren song. Dreadfully beautiful. The rhythmic chiming bores into your skull incessantly. You reach for the doorknob and pause. You question your sanity.

Is this really what you want to do?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The hallway stretches even longer in the dark. The walls lined with closed doors, behind of which containing any number of horrors. A weird thought to consider knowing the reality of what lies beyond those planes. This is your house, not your torment.

Each step causes the floor to creak. You try walking quieter and softer to no avail.

Heel. Slowly.

Toe. Slowly.

Creak. Wince.

Breathe. Repeat.

You come to the first door and place your ear against it. There's a slight rustle and a snort. A glow from a light peers through the crack and glides gently across part of the floor. You open it. It is your son. He is laying under the dinosaur blanket, cuddling his teddy bear, sound asleep. He rolls over to face you, eyes closed, the green glow from his night light causes the shadows on his face to contort. You contract in a slight panic carful not to make a sound.

Keeping the knob twisted, you quietly close the door.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It’s still down the hall, louder now. Maddened, your mind wanders to what that noise could be.

Does someone want your attention? Are you imagining it? How does no one else hear it?

The next door reveals your daughter’s room. The band posters look different in the dark, sneering and gesturing, demons on the wall awaiting bidding from a higher power. The pile of clothes in the corner lie like a huddled mass of evil keeping a keen eye on its surroundings. An empty bed startles you until you remember she is at a friend’s house for the evening.

The hunt continues.

The last door in the hallway is the bathroom. Just as you reach for the doorknob you hear it.

TAP. TAP. TAP.

As loud as it has ever been.

You precariously inch open the door and clench your entire body preparing yourself for what may be inside. Slowly, the room is revealed. You can barely make out the figures occupying the space. The white-tiled walls scream behind the toilet and vanity. The bathtub sits tucked in the back corner of the room wrapped in a flowered curtain. Smells of perfumes and soaps instantly fill your senses. The moonlight casts a bright glow on the mirror above the sink and pulls you in with another

TAP. TAP. TAP.

The silhouette of your head backlit by the lunar rays reflects in the mirror with just enough light to make out the subtle features of your face. Your eyes are sunken in your head, hair disheveled, mouth agape. There's a slight wheeze as you breathe through your nose in fear. Your eyebrows raise as you realize the face you are staring at isn’t quite the face you’ve become accustomed to up this point in your life.

The corners of your mouth in the reflection slowly begin to etch into your cheeks and elongate to form a cooked smile. Your eyes sink further into your head as your pupils dilate. Contorted. You reach for your face to feel the changes. To your surprise, you don’t feel anything. No long lips, eyes where they should be. You shake off the feeling of terror as you wipe your eyes. You turn on the faucet and splash some water onto your face.

You can’t be going crazy, can you?

Finding your way to the tub, you sit in the porcelain for comfort as you try to reconnect with reality. You replay the events of the last few minutes in your head. You listen for the tap. You feel for face. You pinch yourself. Everything seems normal.

You wait.

The knocking at the door startles you as you frantically jolt about the bathtub. The sun glaring in from the window warms your face as your vision adjusts to your surroundings. You fight to recall why you are in the bathroom as you hear your wife yell for you from down the hall.

You look back at your reflection. Closer. You examine every feature, crevice, hairline, anything you can make out in the hazy atmosphere. Nothing appears to be out of sorts.

She yells your name again as you head for your bedroom.

You spend the first half of your day at work trying to piece together moments of your evening. You catch yourself tapping your pen on your desk in short burst of three just as you heard last night. Every session adding another section to the puzzle. Your boss comes by and asks if you are doing alright, you tell them you are and they politely walk off as you stare out the window.

The mirror in the bathroom takes up most of the wall. You stand there for a minute and look at your whole façade. The brown suit you are wearing is slightly wrinkled and your tie is askew. You adjust the tie tighter around your neck as you lean in close to the mirror. You turn your head slightly to the left, then to the right, up and then down. Nothing seems out of place. Everything seems normal.

But you feel so far from it.

Dinner doesn’t satisfy like it normally does. Your wife asks you if you are feeling alright and you tell her you are. The kids are making faces at each other. You’re more surprised that they are both at the table, it’s rare to see them both in the same spot these days let alone at the dinner table. You barely taste the red wine that washes down the spaghetti. 

You feel tired and want to lay down, so you wipe your mouth and excuse yourself to your room. The bed feels comfortable as it wraps around your body. You try and fight memories of the night prior and fall asleep, but they eat at you, much like they have all day. You close your eyes tighter and think about your brown suit and the view from your window at work.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The clock says 2:17. Somehow you must have fallen asleep. You didn’t even notice your wife coming to bed. She doesn’t even notice you startle awake. A burning tingle singles every nerve in your body. The rasp beats on your ear drums with a powerful thump. You can feel the pulse of your heart pump cold blood through your veins as you hear the curse once again.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Disjointed, you make your way down the hall, occasionally running your fingers across the walls as a guide until you reach the bathroom doorway.

The light seems brighter tonight than last, at least of what you can recall. You immediately make your way to the mirror and frame yourself in it. By now, you’ve peered at yourself several times in the last 24 hours, looking for any possible distortion and coming up without any conclusions. You open the faucet and splash water upon your face as you did before.

You stare.

Your eyes. Your lips. Your nose. Your jawline.

It all seems regular.

You reach up and feel the outline of your face, gently running your fingertips across the surface looking for any deformities or malformations. Glaring at the mirror, you watch your hand make a few passes around the circumference of your face.

You start to crinkle your brow as you notice in the reflection your hand moves from your face. It slowly moves perpendicular to your chin and rests atop your arm which sits at a ninety-degree angle. The tightly balled fist releases your index finger and curls it in torment. It begins to move.

TAP. TAP. TAP.

Noticing it isn’t your hand making the noise, you step back in shock. The face peering back at you contorts and twists to create a broken smile and an agitated brow. You hardly recognize the figure staring back at you. You step back even further. The image stays the same.

The fist contracts the finger and knocks on the mirror with its knuckles.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

By now, you needn’t know the expression your face is making, you can feel the terror encase your body in a tomb.

The smile extends further up the cheeks and parts ever so slightly to reveal a row of crooked teeth.

The fist turns slightly and it begins to bang on the mirror.

BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.

This time, there is no rhythm. It’s just banging. Hard, loud, banging. The sound mirrors the pulse pumping blood through your veins.

BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.

It continues.

You panic, unsure of what to do. No where to go.

BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.

The mirror begins to crack.

It starts out minimally, but it begins to grow. After only a few bangs, it splits nearly vertically.

BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.

You open your mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. The mirror shatters sending thousands of faces of terror scattered around the bathroom. You lunge backwards to avoid the destruction but slip on some excess water as you do so and fall back into the wall.

The world goes black.

The warmth of the sun awakens you. You find yourself sprawled out on the tiled floor of the bathroom with the red bathmat tangled under your body. Your mouth is parched and your vision blurred. It takes a moment, but you find the strength to prop yourself up to a seated position. You grasp the edge of the sink and pull yourself up to your feet. Terrified, you look to where the mirror once hung. To your surprise, you see your reflection staring back at you, disheveled, but otherwise unscathed.

What in the hell?

You pound your fist on the desk today, rhythmically.

Angry. Confused. Frustrated.

Terror-possessed, you grind your teeth trying to comprehend your surroundings. Your boss asks if you are alright and you tell them you are fine as you look out the window.

Standing in front of the mirror at work, you stare into your eyes. You recognize your stance, your facial features, your voice, but your eyes don’t look familiar. You lean closer to the mirror but can’t seem to work out what looks different.

At dinner you sip on your wine and continue to cut into the Salisbury steak in front of you. Carefully carving out delicate slices, sliding them through the brown gravy, and bringing it to your mouth.

Your wife asks if you’re feeling alright. You tell her you are as you go back to the steak.

She points to your hands, “then why are you cutting with your left hand, I thought you were right-handed?”

You slowly raise your head and match your eyes with hers. For a moment, no one moves.

She screams in terror as your smile begins to slice into your cheeks and your eyes sink into your skull, as you grip the knife even tighter.