Evelyn arrived at the research facility long after midnight, her breath crystallizing in the air. The place was a concrete labyrinth — no windows, no signs of life, just strip lights humming in sterile repetition. She wasn’t supposed to be there alone. The others had left after the test had gone wrong. But she needed to see for herself.
The room was simple: a chair, a mirror, and a microphone bolted to the table. This was where volunteers sat, where their voices were captured, distorted, and played back. The experiment was meant to study self-recognition — how the human brain reacts when confronted with subtle shifts in its own voice. But something had slipped.
Evelyn lowered herself into the chair, pressed the switch, and spoke.
"My name is Evelyn Harper. I am in control."
A pause.
Then the speakers crackled, and the voice came back. Her voice. But slower, weighted, like it was dragging chains through each syllable.
"My name is Evelyn Harper. I am in control."
The words were the same, but she felt a sickness bloom in her stomach. She hadn’t spoken like that. The inflection was wrong. The pauses were… studied.
She tried again.
"I’m not afraid."
The echo returned instantly.
"You are afraid."
Her breath caught. She hadn’t said that.
She slammed the switch off. The silence pressed in, heavy as lead. In the mirror, her reflection stared back at her. But her reflection wasn’t breathing as hard as she was.
Her mind clawed for logic. Delayed playback error. Pre-recorded samples. Hallucination from lack of sleep. Anything but what she was seeing — the reflection’s lips beginning to move, forming words without sound.
She turned the microphone back on, desperate to prove herself right.
"This isn’t real."
The reply came, sharper, colder.
"You’re not real."
Her reflection tilted its head. The smile it gave her was hers, but exaggerated — a mockery of control.
She stumbled backward, the chair scraping across the floor, the fluorescent lights flickering as if the building itself was listening. Her reflection leaned closer to the mirror, lips brushing the glass.
"Leave," it whispered, though the speakers were silent. "Leave, or I’ll come through."
The strip lights above buzzed louder, and for one heart-stopping moment, Evelyn saw the mirror flex inward, as though it were breathing. She backed toward the door, her hand fumbling at the handle.
The last thing she heard, before fleeing into the sterile hall, was her own voice, clear and confident from the room she had just abandoned:
"My name is Evelyn Harper. I am in control."
And for the first time in her life, she knew she wasn’t.
The room was simple: a chair, a mirror, and a microphone bolted to the table. This was where volunteers sat, where their voices were captured, distorted, and played back. The experiment was meant to study self-recognition — how the human brain reacts when confronted with subtle shifts in its own voice. But something had slipped.
Evelyn lowered herself into the chair, pressed the switch, and spoke.
"My name is Evelyn Harper. I am in control."
A pause.
Then the speakers crackled, and the voice came back. Her voice. But slower, weighted, like it was dragging chains through each syllable.
"My name is Evelyn Harper. I am in control."
The words were the same, but she felt a sickness bloom in her stomach. She hadn’t spoken like that. The inflection was wrong. The pauses were… studied.
She tried again.
"I’m not afraid."
The echo returned instantly.
"You are afraid."
Her breath caught. She hadn’t said that.
She slammed the switch off. The silence pressed in, heavy as lead. In the mirror, her reflection stared back at her. But her reflection wasn’t breathing as hard as she was.
Her mind clawed for logic. Delayed playback error. Pre-recorded samples. Hallucination from lack of sleep. Anything but what she was seeing — the reflection’s lips beginning to move, forming words without sound.
She turned the microphone back on, desperate to prove herself right.
"This isn’t real."
The reply came, sharper, colder.
"You’re not real."
Her reflection tilted its head. The smile it gave her was hers, but exaggerated — a mockery of control.
She stumbled backward, the chair scraping across the floor, the fluorescent lights flickering as if the building itself was listening. Her reflection leaned closer to the mirror, lips brushing the glass.
"Leave," it whispered, though the speakers were silent. "Leave, or I’ll come through."
The strip lights above buzzed louder, and for one heart-stopping moment, Evelyn saw the mirror flex inward, as though it were breathing. She backed toward the door, her hand fumbling at the handle.
The last thing she heard, before fleeing into the sterile hall, was her own voice, clear and confident from the room she had just abandoned:
"My name is Evelyn Harper. I am in control."
And for the first time in her life, she knew she wasn’t.
