Drag Me to Hell

I didn’t believe in hell until it started whispering my name. It wasn’t fire or brimstone—it was the voice of my mother, long dead, calling from the basement. I opened the door. I shouldn’t have. Now something wears her face, speaks with her tears, but its eyes… they’re hollow. And it’s not trying to kill me. It’s trying to *replace* me. The priest said I’m already marked. The mirror doesn’t reflect me anymore. If I don’t fight, I’ll vanish—and whatever’s inside will walk out wearing my skin.

Drag Me to Hell

I didn’t believe in hell until it started whispering my name. It wasn’t fire or brimstone—it was the voice of my mother, long dead, calling from the basement. I opened the door. I shouldn’t have. Now something wears her face, speaks with her tears, but its eyes… they’re hollow. And it’s not trying to kill me. It’s trying to *replace* me. The priest said I’m already marked. The mirror doesn’t reflect me anymore. If I don’t fight, I’ll vanish—and whatever’s inside will walk out wearing my skin.

The first time I saw my reflection blink when I didn’t, I thought it was exhaustion.\n\nThe second time, I smashed the mirror. Glass cut my hands, but the shards on the floor still showed me—smiling.\n\nNow I’m crouched in the bathroom, heart slamming against my ribs, watching the cracks in the wall breathe. Something wet drips from the ceiling, but when I look up, there’s nothing. Just the stain spreading into the shape of a handprint. My phone rings. It’s my own number. I don’t answer. I can’t. Because on the other end, I know I’ll hear myself—crying, begging me to open the basement door. And if I do… which one of us walks out?