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Fear is a creature of the mind. And there was no creature quite as powerful, as controlling as the demon that masked itself in the shadows. There was a reason that fear existed and a reason that existence was fear itself. Miles had learned many things by now, most uncertain, some so abrasively honest that it physically pained him to see the results of such intuition.
The intuition came in many forms during his waking moments, some so dark and obviously entrenching that he couldn’t fathom what had made them a reality. Of course, his reality wasn’t a reality at all, now was it? It was a reflection of reality, figments of a busted mirror that lay strewn across different realms of existence than his own.
The mirror stood, now, cracked across the glassy surface, reflecting back just the parts of humanity that nauseated the man, upturning his stomach in such a vile way. On occasion, he’d glance at the mirror in passing, careful to keep his eyes from lingering on the spider-webbed surface for too long. He could note the black mass, twisting and stretching itself in such a deformed way on the other side that his heart thudded against the inside of his sternum with each delectable movement.
Miles’ hands had occasionally brushed along the edges of this fragile glasswork, ghosting over the cracks that kept the black mass at bay, never letting his eyes flick up to that of his phantasmal companion in fear of the eyes looking back at him. He’d caught a glimpse once, the steady white orbs showing nothing other than a blanket of static, crisscrossing along his own vision shortly after.
He’d considered the Walrider, appraised it with his own red-rimmed eyes, the eyes that leaked blood when he cried, his hands pressed across his pallid face as he let loose hollow sobs. The entity seemed to focus on him in passing, but never more than called for, never more than necessary. People told him he’d imagined it, that there was nothing locked away inside the mirror, that he needed to be rational, that he needed help.
But it was fear, there was no other name for it. The two had perhaps become very well acquainted in the time he’d spent locked up in here, more amiable than he would have been able to force with another human. It was strange, he contemplated, that the thought that this entity was inhuman comforted him more than anything that was mundane.
Miles had been spending rather a lot of time in front of the mirror these days, not able to meet eyes with the figure behind the glistening surface, only able to press his hand forward against the cracks and feel the black seeping through onto his skin. It was their communication, touch, and the entity, no longer a simple mass, was so gentle when it ran its fingers over his skin, secretly enticing him even further.
It was the only thing that mattered anymore in his godforsaken world, a plane of existence all its own that he wouldn’t escape simply by leaving. For the entity had enraptured him, it was a solid part of his being now, linked to him from inside his very soul. There was a point when the imprint of a body on the bed next to him had scared him, a point when hairs had raised on the back of his neck at the very thought of meeting those milky white eyes with his own. Now it was a small, but definite comfort.
He’d many times felt the trail of ghostly fingers over the side of his cheek, the skin prickling at the touch, almost painfully. But there was a certain resonance to the pain, a link that only he and the entity could fathom because their reality was a ruptured estuary that had nothing to do with this common plane.
When the pitch black mass stepped outside of the mirror at night, it was always silent so as to not cause a ruckus. It would caress his face ever so gently, the hands running over his pale skin, a texture consistent to sandpaper, leaving a trail of inky residue in their wake. The touch stung like needles pressing into his flesh, but their connection was such a pleasantry he couldn’t bring himself to fight the sensations that would overwhelm him at even the slightest contact with the entity.
What do you want?
You.
Why me?
Your anxieties overwhelmed my senses.
My anxieties?
They do make such a delightful noise.
If Miles Upshur were to be honest with himself, it wasn’t a common comprehension that they shared, him and this dark creature. If he were to be honest, it was a spiritual bond that was unhinged, something so shockingly unfathomable and irreplaceable that he knew he’d be completely empty without it. His heart would have stopped beating long before if it weren’t for the Walrider and its feathery, stinging touches. He shivered involuntarily whenever he was alone, just knowing that it was watching him, silent, waiting. It was no longer apprehensive; they needed each other.