One can be too clean.
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An after-hours nurse, Rin had made cleanliness his life—Marie Kondo would have called his dedication to sterility an obsessive-compulsive disorder.
Nothing could be out of order.
Or dirty.
Not a speck of dust.
He got into bed one morning, put out after his shift.
But woke with a start. His apartment was clean—too clean. He was a neat freak, but this level of cleanliness was enough to send someone as fastidious as he was over the edge.
Odd—an operating theatre too clean.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
There was NOTHING to look at.
Nothing except broken images that looked like outstretched hands—
Gangly.
Wieldy.
Like glitching glass veins.
Pulsing.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
Startled, Rin touched a window to see a hand—
Not his.
NEVER his.
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KNOCK.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
The glass pulsed. To the knock’s rhythm.
The veins in the glass throbbed harder.
Brighter.
Red.
Then white.
KNOCK.
Thud. His chest answered.
The window fogged.
Scrawled letters on the frosted pane.
KNOCK.
Cracks appeared, a mangled spiderweb, across the mirror.
His own pulse skipped. It sounded just like the knock.
The fingers grew longer.
More gangly.
Pressing harder on the pane.
KNOCK.
It rocked—like a petrified heart.
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The crack in the windows widened—light bled through, as if bones had split.
In the middle of the fracture—an eye.
It blinked—and winked.
Too close.
Too knowing.
Another knock—within his chest.
Then a finger passed through the glass.
It pointed—at him.
Dripping static and leaving a dripping trail of red.
Rin’s ribs tightened, locking him in place.
The rhythm had bound him.
The apartment door rattled to its urgent beat.
Then, something within the mirror moved.
The lights followed the pulse—Vibrating.
Too exact.
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The mirror’s surface stretched—-bulging, bated breath from within its depths.
The eye within the fracture multiplied, blinking.
Syncing with the knock.
The veins in the window lashed—its binds tightening.
The door creaked—the knob turned.
A tad.
The lights flickered again—Rin’s pulse quickened to the same rhythm.
Static crept into the air—his ears buzzed.
Then, a shadow.
Seeping in from the gap below the door.
A crack within the mirror formed.
A mouth.
Gaping.
Teeth within—sharp.
The door handle twisted fully.
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The mouth moved.
Not speaking—whispering.
The shadow under the door thickened, spreading across the floor——
An irremovable stain.
The door shook uncontrollably.
Then—stopped.
Silence.
KNOCK.
From within the room.
White lights flared—turning a garish red.
The mouth opened wider—-the frame ripped apart.
It. Crawled. Out.
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It slithered out of the doorframe, bending—
To him.
It approached, raking its fingers across the wall.
Creating sparks from within each scrape.
Then, the mouth snapped shut.
But the light from the glass still bled.
The shadow under the door seeped around him, circling his feet.
Locking him in place.
His face-half his, half static.
His teeth flickered.
The knocking continued—from within his chest.
In time with his breath.
Pulse.
Fear.
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The sparks from the wall burned the veins in the glass—fire crawling through arteries.
The shadow wound tighter around his ankles, dragging him.
Rin saw himself at work, masked, a scalpel in hand.
Wiping the operating table the surgeon was working on—
Incessant.
Continuous.
The thing’s mouth opened—not to breathe out, but breathe in.
Sucking his breath.
His chest collapsed with its rhythm—each knock sucked a heartbeat.
The mirror quaked, a fractured web.
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The fire veins were a virtual tarantula, bursting through the mirror’s cracks.
The Thing drew a final breath in—
Deep.
The glass veins snapped—
A shower of red light.
The shadow around Rin shrilled, yanking the fissure, along with the Thing.
Rin fell back on his chair, collapsed.
Breathing.
His room, as it was.
Just cracks.
In the mirror.
And himself. Scalpel. Disinfectant.
And cloth.
In his mouth.
The knocks continued.
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The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 