The Vapor that Wore My Husband’s Face

The night began like any other in our little house on Birchwood Lane. The rain had been tapping against the windows since sunset, a steady drumbeat that usually lulled us to sleep. My wife, Margo, and I were in our bedroom, propped up on pillows, watching an old mystery series on the wall-mounted screen. The room was dim, the only light coming from the TV and a faint amber glow from the hallway nightlight. No strange feelings, no creeping intuitions, just the mundane comfort of routine.

Around the hour mark, Margo shifted beside me. She had been quiet, but I assumed she was engrossed in the plot. Then she whispered, ‘Lyle, do you see that?’ Her voice was tight, strained. I turned to look at her, but her eyes were fixed on something to the left of the TV. I followed her gaze and saw it: a small, gelatinous sphere of pale blue light, about the size of a golf ball, drifting down from the ceiling. It descended slowly, as if weighted, then moved horizontally across the top of the screen, leaving no shadow, no shimmer, just a sickly glow that seemed to absorb the room’s light. It hovered there for a moment, then vanished into the wall as if it were smoke.

We both sat in stunned silence. The TV chattered on, oblivious. My heart hammered against my ribs. I looked at Margo, whose face was pale, her eyes wide. ‘Did you see that?’ she asked, her voice trembling. I nodded, unable to form words. I got up, my legs shaky, and approached the wall where the thing had disappeared. I touched it – cold, solid drywall, nothing unusual. I ran my hand over the surface, feeling for any draft, any seam, but there was nothing. Margo was now standing behind me, her hand on my shoulder. ‘We should call someone,’ she said. But who do you call for a ball of light that disappears into walls?

I tried to rationalize it. A reflection from a passing car? But the window faced the backyard, and no headlights had swept by. An electrical surge? But the lights didn’t flicker, and the ball didn’t behave like a static discharge. It moved with intention, as if it were searching for something. We turned off the TV and sat in the dark, listening to the rain. I told myself it was a trick of the eye, a tired mind playing games. Margo didn’t say much, but I could feel her tension in the tightness of her back as she lay rigid beside me. We eventually fell into a restless sleep.

The next morning, everything seemed normal. Sunlight streamed through the windows, and the rain had stopped. Margo made coffee, and we went about our Saturday chores. But I couldn’t shake the image. I found myself looking at that spot on the wall, expecting it to happen again. It didn’t, and by afternoon, I had almost convinced myself it was a fleeting illusion. Margo seemed to have moved on too, chattering about a sale at the grocery store. But that night, as we settled into bed again, we both hesitated, watching the ceiling. Nothing appeared. We watched TV for an hour, then turned in, the memory already feeling like a half-forgotten dream.

Three nights later, I woke with a start. The room was pitch black, and the rain had resumed, heavier this time, lashing against the windows. I lay still, listening. The house made its usual settling sounds – creaks and groans that had never bothered me before. But now they seemed sharp, deliberate. I reached out to touch Margo, but my hand met empty sheets. I shot up. ‘Margo?’ I called, my voice swallowed by the gloom. No answer. I fumbled for the bedside lamp, but it didn’t turn on. A dead bulb, I thought. I swung my legs out of bed and stood, my feet cold on the hardwood floor. The darkness was absolute, a thick substance I could taste.

Then I saw it – a faint glow in the hallway, the same blue light, pulsing gently. My heart seized. I stepped toward it, my feet moving without my permission. The glow receded, leading me down the hall to the bathroom door. It was open, and inside, the light pooled on the mirror, casting an eerie reflection. I approached, and I saw my own face, pale and drawn, but there was something wrong. The reflection didn’t move with me. It stared back, unblinking, and then it smiled – a slow, unnatural widening of my lips that I knew I wasn’t making. I stumbled back, but my reflection reached out, its hand pressing against the glass from inside. From my mouth, a voice – not mine – spoke, low and distorted: ‘I’ve been waiting.’

I screamed, a raw sound that tore from my throat. I turned and ran, tripping over my own feet, the light flickering around me. I collided with something solid – Margo, standing in the hallway, her eyes wide with terror. ‘Lyle! What’s wrong?’ she cried. I gasped, ‘The mirror – it moved.’ She grabbed my arm, trembling. ‘I saw it too,’ she whispered. ‘I was in the living room, and I saw a shape pass by the window. It had your face.’

We fled the house that night, driving to a motel on the edge of town, leaving everything behind. The next morning, we returned in daylight, half-expecting to find nothing amiss. But the house felt different, watchful. We packed a few essentials and decided to stay with her sister until we could figure things out. As we were leaving, I glanced back at the bedroom, and there – on the wall where the light had disappeared – I saw a faint, smoky patch, about the size of a handprint. It was gone when I looked again.

Now, weeks later, we’re in a new apartment, but I can’t shake the feeling that something followed us. Sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I see a flicker of blue. And when I look in the mirror, I hold my breath, waiting to see if my reflection will smile on its own. I’ve read about entities mimicking loved ones, wearing their faces to gain trust. But what could it want? I don’t know. All I know is that the ball of light was not a trick, not a figment. It was a summons, a herald. And I’m afraid that wherever we go, it will find us again, and this time, it won’t be content with just a glimpse.