Mysterious Awakening

Upon first inspection, there was nothing remarkable about the scene of a middle-aged man sitting on a bed reading some newspaper. Yet, the room was bathed in darkness too deep for newspaper reading.

Furthermore, the man had held this posture from when Miles started surfing the web – a feat impossible for any average human to endure without changing.

The sole alteration was the man’s migration from the living room sofa to the bedroom’s bedside.

A simple shift in location from remote to near, yet this reduction in space didn’t instill a sense of comfort. Instead, an unexplainable sense of menace and fear surfaced.

Why would his father choose to sit by him and read a newspaper without any apparent reason?

Had he displayed this habit in the past?

Eyeing the portrait affixed to the room’s wardrobe and tuning into Rain’s frantic voice, Miles sensed that something was awry.

If Rain’s revelation about the file was factual, could this man genuinely not be his father?

He appeared to be, yet, he didn’t.

Could it be that his father had really died in a car crash in his youth?

In Miles’s perception, the man in front of him was, without a doubt, his father. Everything felt so natural, devoid of any deception.

“Yet, something feels out of place,” Miles pondered.

He drew his hand back, not daring to shift the newspaper that concealed the man’s face. Instead, he grabbed his cell phone, stood up suddenly, and retreated, seeking to create as much space as possible between himself and the newspaper-reading man.

Could his memories be tampered with, causing this confusion?

Was all of this merely a figment of his imagination and not actuality?

Or, could there be something peculiar about the entire apartment complex?

“No matter what, my priority is to get out of here. I can decipher the reality later,” Miles reasoned. He wasn’t sure if the issue stemmed from him, his father, or perhaps, the environment.

Stealthily, he navigated from the bedroom to the living room, taking care not to disturb his engrossed father while being unable to steal a curious glance at the man’s face.

Unfortunately, before he could scrutinize it, his gaze was drawn to a deep, crimson stain on the newspaper’s corner. The rich red color appeared ready to drip as if soaked in fresh blood.

A blood-soaked newspaper!

Who in their right mind would read such a thing?

Miles’s eyes narrowed, and at that instant, he was convinced by Rain’s claims. His father had indeed met his demise in a car crash during his childhood. The file she spoke of was real, which meant that the man pretending to be his father in front of him was an illusion. After all, the dead do not resurrect.

If his father was truly gone, then the only plausible explanation for the presence of the man on his bed reading the newspaper was… a ghost.

A shudder ran down his spine as he grappled with this newfound reality.

When did it all start?

When had this ghost breached the safety of his home, materialized in his room, and manipulated his memories?

Had he been unknowingly cohabitating with this apparition for years?

Had Rain not called, would he have remained blissfully ignorant forever?

The implications sent a cold dread coursing through him.

Just as he was about to exit the room, the newspaper-clutching man moved abruptly. His head rotated at an unnatural pace, aligning his gaze with Miles’.

A reflexive jolt of terror seized Miles because what should’ve been a face was nothing but a blank piece of flesh!

“RUN!” he muttered to himself, spinning on his heels to make a swift exit without another word.

The conviction was now unshakeable.

This man was, undeniably, a ghost.

As he turned, however, his sight was abruptly eclipsed as though he had collided with something.

It’s a thick newspaper with a foul-smelling odor, seemingly saturated in a deep crimson pool of fresh blood, and it’s clinging to his face with a tenacious grip. Driven by instinct, Miles attempted to wrench it off, only to discover the paper seemed to have fused with his skin. Each tug inflicted a searing pain and proved fruitless.

“Is the ghost beginning to attack me?” Miles instantly concluded.

He had previously survived two ghostly assaults back in school.

“The only force that can combat a ghost is another ghost.”

Through gritted teeth, an eye pushed through the flesh of his hand, emitting a faint red luminescence.

Empowered by this newly formed eye, his efforts to dislodge the affixed newspaper bore fruit.

The paper started to unstick from his face over the reaction, akin to a bandage being gingerly peeled away.

Unfortunately, the ghost was not done with him just yet because Miles could sense the man closing in from his rear. Needless to say, he’s either going to suffocate to death or be killed by the ghostly man in the rear.

“If it’s a game you want, then a game you’ll get. You may be a ghost, but I’m far from a mere mortal,” Miles snarled, sounding beastly.

Two red eyes sprung forth from his face.

As soon as they materialized, the newspaper overlaying them ripped apart like paper being torn. The horrid tug from behind abated considerably.

“Let’s do this,” Miles muttered, clenching his teeth.

The power of these eyes was a double-edged sword; each utilization edged him closer to his own demise. However, he had no alternatives because he would surely perish if he didn’t unleash the ghostly power within him.

Another eye sprouted on his forehead.

“Shh~!”

The bloody newspaper shielding his forehead ripped once more, causing the suffocating and dizzying sensation to subside heavily.

“Keep pushing!” Miles knew that the ghost’s power within him was still insufficient. So, at the word, a fifth eye appeared on his neck, causing a rip to form around the newspaper wrapped around his neck area.

Now, with a determined pull from Miles, the bloodied newspaper adhering to his head, riddled with tears, was effortlessly shredded.

His suffocating sensation and oppressive disorientation evaporated entirely, giving him room to gulp for fresh air.

Now, four eyes sprouted on Miles’s face, casting a faint red glow around his vicinity.

Without delay, he spun around to survey the room – it was empty save for the bloody scraps of newspaper scattered across the floor.

“I need to get out of here.”

Shaken and terrified, Miles didn’t dare remain. He disregarded his belongings, flung the door open, and bolted from the premises.

Shortly after his hasty exit, a figure materialized from the room he had just vacated.

This entity collected the strewn pieces of the shredded newspaper, painstakingly reassembling them.

Soon enough, the newspaper returned to its previous form, saturated in the same vibrant crimson hue. However, a human facial contour was now apparent on the blood-red canvas.

The face was a mirror image of Miles.

The figure collected the restored newspaper, then casually seated himself on a nearby sofa. Raising an arm, he fell into a rigid pose, fixated on the newspaper, identical to his previous stance.

Hours trickled by.

Suddenly, the figure stirred, lowering his arm and no longer a featureless ghost.

He now wore a face identical to Miles.

However, on this “Miles’s” face, the areas where the previous eyes had emerged were vacant, as if snippets from a flawless photograph had been carelessly cut out.

The face, while eerily familiar, was flawed.