The Unblinking Visitor

It was a Tuesday night, or perhaps Wednesday, when I woke to the sound of the shower running in the adjoining bathroom. Our house, a creaky Victorian with a faulty boiler, often produced strange noises, but this was different. The steady hiss of water, the rhythmic drum against the porcelain, was too precise, too intentional. I lay still, listening, waiting for the familiar squeak of the pipes that signaled the shower had been turned off. But the water continued, a monotonous, unnerving drone.

I glanced at the digital clock on my nightstand: 3:33 AM. My mind raced through possibilities. My brother, Elias, was a notorious insomniac, often wandering the halls. Our parents were heavy sleepers, dead to the world until dawn. I convinced myself it was just Elias, that he’d forgotten his towel or something. I pulled the covers up to my chin, trying to will myself back to sleep. The water kept running.

A creeping unease settled over me. I decided to get up and check. I slipped out of bed, my bare feet cold against the hardwood floor, and padded down the short hallway to the bathroom door. It was slightly ajar, a sliver of pale light spilling out. I pushed it open, half-expecting to see Elias standing at the sink, but the room was empty. The shower curtain was drawn, and the water was still cascading. My heart thudded. I reached out, my hand trembling, and yanked the curtain back. Nothing. Just the empty tub, water swirling down the drain.

The water stopped abruptly, leaving a heavy silence. I stood there, frozen, when a movement caught my eye in the mirror. Reflected behind me, standing in the doorway, was a figure. It was Elias, or something wearing Elias’s face. He stood perfectly still, his eyes wide and unblinking, fixated on me. A cold dread washed over me. His lips were parted, as if he were about to speak, but no sound came.

I tried to say his name, but my voice came out as a hoarse whisper. ‘Elias? What are you doing?’ He didn’t respond. Just stared. I felt a primal fear grip me. I wanted to scream, but my throat constricted. After what felt like an eternity, I finally managed to shout, ‘Stop it! Go back to bed! This isn’t funny!’ But he remained motionless, his gaze unwavering.

Terrified, I turned and ran back to my room, slamming the door behind me. I leaned against it, my breath ragged, listening for any sound. But there was only silence. After a long while, I worked up the courage to peek out into the hallway. It was empty. The bathroom door was now closed. I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, I confronted Elias at breakfast. I asked him why he had been staring at me in the bathroom. He looked at me with genuine confusion, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. ‘What are you talking about? I was asleep all night.’ I looked at my parents, hoping for some support, but they just exchanged worried glances. My mother placed a hand on my forehead, checking for a fever. They dismissed it as a night terror, a vivid dream.

I tried to let it go, but the memory was too vivid. I couldn’t shake the image of Elias’s unblinking eyes. Over the next few weeks, the same thing happened again and again, always at 3:33 AM. The water would run, and I would find that version of Elias standing in the bathroom, or sometimes at the foot of my bed, just staring. Each time, I would scream or run, and he would vanish. No one ever believed me.

Then, one night, I woke to a different sound: a low chuckle, right beside my ear. I bolted upright, and there he was, inches from my face, his breath cold on my skin. He leaned in, and I could feel his lips brush my ear as he whispered, ‘You see me. But he doesn’t.’ I froze. In that instant, the real Elias walked past my door, humming a tune, heading to the bathroom. I looked at the figure in my room, and then back at the real Elias. The figure smiled, a grotesque imitation of my brother’s grin, and then faded away.

I never spoke of it again. I began to avoid bathrooms, avoided mirrors, avoided the night. But that thing, that doppelganger, it only wanted one thing: to be seen. And now, every night, I feel its eyes on me, even when I can’t see it. I lie in bed, pretended to sleep, and I know it’s there, waiting for me to open my eyes. For me to see it again. And the worst part is, I don’t know if it’s still wearing my brother’s face, or if it’s learned to wear my own.