(This is my attempt at a psychological thriller/horror/Twilight Zone-type story... not my usual style but I had an idea and gave it a try)

It had no discernible features. The area of its head was a static blur. In the reflection of the television screen or monitor, the head appeared pixilated and frozen. In the mirror of the bathroom, it looked as if trapped in the snapshot of a windblown moment. Gray, black, and even hints of white along the jagged edges of the head area gave away nothing.

The figure was bipedal, roughly two meters in height, gaunt and motionless. It appeared and remained immobile. It resembled a person closely enough – spindle arms held rigidly at its side as if at attention. Hands sheathed in what could have been dark latex gloves, fingers curled into palms. Skeletal legs pressed together. Feet perfectly positioned side-by-side covered with dark shoes without laces or eyeholes or snaps. No flesh.

When it first appeared a week ago, he was frightened to the point of near-hysteria and cardiac arrest. That first night he sat on the edge of his bed, chilled, stricken, unmoving and eyes unblinking on the dark television screen. He held a sharp knife from the kitchen in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. His mobile phone rested atop his thigh. All the lights in the apartment were on. The figure should have been a reflection, but it was not. This was no mirror image. Where it should have stood in the bedroom in direct proximity to a reflection, there was nothing but carpet, air, dust.

There was no one to call without being deemed irrational, insane, or suffering the ills of insomnia. He could only stare at the figure, his heart pummeling his breastbone, clammy grip on knife and bat – stiff, tensed, afraid.

And after an hour or more of… nothing, he decided to speak. His lips opened like Velcro. His tongue dry, swollen. Hoarse, he summoned words. They sounded almost like a stranger’s voice.

“Who… what are you?”

Nothing. Had he expected this man (creature?) to pivot and speak from where a mouth was supposed to be? A flinch of its body? Something or anything to acknowledge his words?

No, so it remained as a one-sided reflection as the bizarre standoff crept into hour two. He glanced at the clock radio on the nightstand. He had to be at work in five hours. Work? He would have laughed if it had been possible. With no chance of sleep, tomorrow was a sick day. He pictured his corner desk behind the cubicle wall at the rear of the office. It was tastefully decorated with a couple of Monet postcard prints (his favorite painting was Field of Poppies) and a framed photo of his family five hundred miles away.

He shared the space with two other accountants, but they rarely had to interact. It was a solitary job. Lindsay had two adult children, a life in suburbia, and was close to retirement. She baked and brought in brownies or peanut butter cookies from time-to-time. Sam was a handsome socialite who prided himself on breaking the accountant stereotype. Sam was far from nebbish or aloof. The younger single women in the office would visit him on a regular basis.

At forty-two, with a receding hairline, budding paunch, and a long-lost engagement, he wasn’t quite the catch the ladies sought. That was Sam’s arena.

Yes, the accounting department would have to get along without him. He had to do something…

But do what? He reasoned that a search on the Internet was somehow not going to yield the answers he desperately craved at that moment. He could tell a friend, have someone come over and sit and watch and wait. There they might perch on the edge of the futon sofa, eyes on the blank television screen or monitor, waiting. But his friends might drop away like dominos as he subjected them one at a time to his new dark vision. He’d have to keep this to himself lest he be found guilty of lunacy. In this case, a misstatement would not be inconsequential.

After that first night and the sick call to work, as sunrise unfurled itself across the city, he drifted off with fits and spasms. His eyes half-open, closed, it still stood in reflection. Then he was swallowed by slumber and when he awoke at noon, the shape was gone. Though spooked and tired and questioning his sanity, he tried to resume his routine.

He made it to the office promptly, caught up on his work, and even had a quick happy hour cocktail with a friend. The figure did not return right away. He wanted to attribute that night to delusion or illusion or all-around confusion, but the logic of his accountant’s mind dictated otherwise. He found himself searching for it in the mirror or monitor or the side of a butter knife.

He did not believe in hauntings or ghosts or the occult, but this incident had shed doubt on that stream of reason. It could be an unexplained paranormal phenomenon. Right?

It was back. Five days later it was in the monitor. Had it waited until he came home from work to appear in the monitor?

Fearful, he stood in the center of the room, mouth as dry as a sand dune. He was chilled and afraid, but also disappointed. He knew now that the previous appearance had not been an illusion. This was real. This was happening. Dread and distress welled into desultory anger.

“Why. Are. You. Here?” Evenly spread words, one at a time, almost excruciating to utter but he couldn’t stand in place for eternity without trying something. Even it meant speaking to a possible delusion.

No answer, no movement. He realized that his sanity was as fragile thin ceramic. Again he looked from the monitor to the area of the room where this figure should stand. No, not there, not anywhere except in reflection.

He willed himself to move and retreated to the living room. The shape was not in the television. He assumed that there was only one of it, and it did not jump from place-to-place. But, really, how much could he actually assume? This was beyond the ordinary and very real.

He dropped slowly to the living room floor to sit with his arms wrapped around his knees. He stared vacantly at nothing and did not move. He tried to rationalize, but how? The rational had fled.

His stomach growled. His bladder announced itself. He was clammy and pale and hungry.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Okay, okay.” He stood cautiously, as if sudden movement would startle the creature in his monitor in the next room.

He took care of the bathroom business. He avoided the bedroom. He warmed up a container of leftover spaghetti in the microwave. As it heated, he examined the reflections in the microwave door. No, it wasn’t there.

He didn’t bother with a plate. He sat down on the sofa and ate the pasta directly from the plastic container. He put the fork and little plastic tub in the sink. He walked back into the living room and there it was there it was there it was –

Right there in the television screen, but not in the background anymore. Not isolated in a corner, but taking up almost the entire screen from its chest level up. It was staring at him. No, there were no features, no eyes, but it was staring it was looking directly at him — into him – with an intensity that seemed to taunt his fraying sanity.

He backed into the wall, shivering, sallow, bile and spaghetti in his throat. He tried to speak but all that came were rasps and sputters without the spray of saliva.

He leaned back against the wall, eventually lowered himself into a crouch. The stalemate continued as dusk became night. Near dark the figure on the screen became less discernible and he darted to the light and flipped it on. He whirled back to the television and–

It was gone.

He took three steps backwards and slumped onto the couch. His breathing came in sharp gasps, momentary relief. He clenched, unclenched his hands, clenched again, worked his stiff jaw open and closed. He glanced at the clock and realized he’d sat there for a half hour, eyes fastened on the television screen. He forced himself up and walked over to the TV. He yanked its plug out of the power strip, lifted the set, and turned it around on the stand to face the wall.

He stepped back and examined. How odd to have the rear casing facing outward now like some sort of dyslexic viewing setup.

He went into the bedroom. He gazed cautiously at the smaller model television on its shelf where the shape had first appeared. Empty. He shifted his gaze to the monitor. Nothing there, either.

He felt a modicum of relief and felt tired – even exhausted. He disrobed, tossed on sleepwear, and dropped into bed. He left the lights on.

But he slept poorly. He found himself awake and sitting upright and sweat-soaked sometime after 3:00 am. It had been a nightmare that was gone as soon as he awoke. A nightmare? Big surprise. How could this bizarre, eerie situation possibly lead to a nightmare? He almost smiled but fatigue prevented that and the next thing that came was his alarm clock.

Bleary-eyed. That’s how he saw himself in the bathroom mirror as he pulled the razor across his face. Damn, another nick, more blood. He finished as quickly and carefully as possible and got into the shower.

He buried his attention in his book during the commute on the subway. But he didn’t absorb the words. His threadbare attention span drifted to the figure. No, no, no, he thought. Focus on life, work, reality, this book. That is not real. It cannot be real.

Later, a casual Sam leaned against the cubicle wall. “Man, you look like stewed shit.” He took a bite of his glazed doughnut.

“Um, just some problems sleeping.”

“I hear ya’. There’re cures for that. Lindsay brought in doughnuts. Have a doughnut.” With a frivolous chuckle, Sam swaggered off.

Later, he did have a doughnut. It was an éclair, to be precise. He ate it with a mug of coffee from the employee break room. Lois the receptionist was in there, and she had to comment about his appearance, as well.

“Sweetie, you should try some chamomile tea, no sugar in it, mind you, and do some breathing exercises.”

He thanked her.

“Have you looked into feng shui?”

The doughnut was all he ate the entire day.

After work, he lingered at a music store near his subway stop. On his way home he dropped into a Chinese food joint and ate broccoli in garlic sauce and an egg roll. He stopped into a thrift shop and browsed the extensive book area.

He unlocked the door to his apartment. The door swung open. There he stood in the doorway. All was quiet. All seemed as it should be. Except the television screen no longer faced the wall.

He sagged. His belly rumbled. He tasted bile and garlic on his on the back of his tongue. His veins constricted and he swore he felt his blood drop several degrees.

I have to move. I can’t stay here another minute. I can’t go in there.

But he did go in. As the sun tucked itself into the night, he made a dash for the kitchen and snatched a knife from the cutlery block on the narrow counter. He scurried to the lamp and turned it on. Immediately his gaze went to the television. It wasn’t there. The screen only reflected the furnishings of the living room.

He looked out the window. Across the way, a shadowed woman peered back at him. He realized he held the knife at chest level, wild-eyed, frantic. He dropped the blind.

His eyes went back to the screen but it was still devoid of his visitor. He went toward the bedroom. He hoped, or it could have been a fervid prayer, that it did not wait in his monitor or in the TV screen.

On his way to the bedroom he passed the bathroom. And he stopped and looked to his left and there it was, right there, in the mirror. Where it should have stood in the living room was nothing. Empty space reflected this thing.

He felt fury swell up through fear. He saw his face redden in the mirror. The words came, choked.

“Why are you here? What are you? Why?” With teeth grit and a grip on the knife, he stammered, “Why, godammit? Move. Say something!”

But the pixilated head of grays and black and a translucent white fringe was inert. It would not bend to his will or answer him or show a sign of life. It wasn’t corporeal. It was a reflection – that was all. It was a reflection of nothing.

He charged to the closet and grabbed a dufflebag. He went into the bedroom, shoved clothes into the bag, knife clenched between his teeth like a pirate, looked around frenzied.

Okay, don’t forget your credit cards. Your cell phone charger.

It was still in the bathroom mirror as he passed on his way to the front door, still ajar. He stared at it, and it stared back. It was eyeless, but he felt its unflinching gaze bore into him – ominous and threatening. He tossed the knife to the floor, closed and locked the door.

Outside his building he paused. He tried to collect himself. Had he forgotten anything? What now?

I’ll go back when I have movers.

Weary and frazzled, he trudged back to the train. He’d have to find a hotel room tonight. He could have called a friend, but what excuse could he use to crash on their couch? The exterminator? Maybe, but they’d ask why he scheduled a bug bomb for a work night. Couldn’t it have waited until the weekend? Water pipe broke. Problems with the electricity.

By the time he arrived at the train he’d given up on the excuses and decided on a hotel. Nothing would be cheap on such short notice, but it was worth any price to not stay in that apartment another minute.

He found a hotel quickly. After a shower and change of clothes, he went out and had a couple slices at a pizzeria down the block. Back at the hotel he used the computer in their business center to check his bank account and searched for cheaper accommodations. He found a place that rented by the week, called and reserved a room. He would contact the landlord of his building, but needed to work out a plan.

Hi, sir. Yes, I’m in 3D, but I have to move out. Why? Well, there’s a severe problem with reflective surfaces in there. It’s intolerable.

For the first time in a week he smiled. But he found his gaze searched the reflections in the monitor.

He slept well. Still, despite the new surroundings, he examined the television screen and bathroom mirror. This was just a build-up of paranoia, he knew, and rightfully so.

He resumed his normal office routine where he did not have to triple check his work due to fatigue. He moved into the weekly residential place. He had a single room, but the bathroom was shared, unfortunately. He knew he had to contact the landlord soon – and maybe he had another building he could check out. He’d also need to go back and get the mail. There were still bills to pay.

It was the next evening on the crowded subway when he looked up from his book. In the reflection of the train car’s window, there it was. It should have been in the center of the throng but no, of course not, it was a reflection. He dropped his book. The older lady in business wear leaned down, picked it up. He took it without a word, his gaze frozen on the train window.

The subway pulled into the station. It wasn’t his stop but he got off, anyway. He stood on the platform and waited. There would be another train soon. It was rush hour.

The train he had just exited began to leave the station. He watched it go, and he shuddered uncontrollably at what he saw. In the far window of each car, it was there. It was reflected in each window, passing by faster as the train gained speed, like a reel of film spooling out. In every window it loomed.

No, no, this is impossible!

He turned and ran. He shoved people aside as he charged blindly to the turnstile and practically took a dive as he went through. A stairway led up to the street.

Panting, frantic, he hurtled between, around, and through people. A disgruntled guy shoved him. He could only ignore the hostility. What these people thought of his actions, how uncouth he was, did not matter.

On the surface he stopped and gasped, wild-eyed. People from the subway station cast a few choice remarks and colorful insults in his direction. He paid no mind.

He started down the sidewalk.

But, what was that? In the glass reflection of office buildings, there it was. But now the head, once static with its petrified pixilation, was in motion. The grays and blacks and that lucent white periphery mixed and shifted and took form.

He would have screamed, but it was true – at a moment of sheer, unadulterated horror, the scream is silent. It was his face atop that charcoal body. It was fleeting, because the next moment his face was gone and replaced by an empty visage. Well, empty but for two hollow, dark eye sockets and a lipless slit of a mouth against nothing but plain smooth white.

And then that visage was gone and he bolted, knocked over a young woman, and ran. As he ran, the scream finally ripped loose from his guts by the downright absurd surreal terror of what was happening. That what followed him he could not escape.

His torrent of lunatic glee landed him directly in the clutches of a pair of cops. He flailed at them, hysterical. He was forced face-first into a brick wall. The cuffs snapped around his wrists and he remembered he felt his knees impact with the pavement and that was it before all went dark.

When he awoke, his hands were still bound. He looked up at a white ceiling, down and over at a curtain, and in the other direction a closed door.

The psych ward, that’s where I am.

He giggled. The lamp on the table next to his bed was a shiny brass. He caught it there from the corner of his eye – yes, no mistaking it. He swung his head to gaze at it, reflected on the convex surface. Pixilation became his own face became the blank visage again and again as his giggle became demented staccato laughter.

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