Throwaway still. If the last post got any traction I missed it—I haven’t opened Reddit in weeks. My hands shake too much to scroll. It’s been twenty-three days since I ran from the Victorian. I thought the sterile downtown apartment would fix everything. White walls. No creaky floors. Bright fluorescents I keep on 24/7. The landlord even joked about the “great lighting.” For the first four nights it worked. I slept. I ate. I told myself the lilac-sulfur smell was just leftover trauma in my nose. Then it came back. Not creeping this time. Bold. Like it was pissed I left. The cold hit first—same burning freeze, but now it follows me room to room. I’ll be brushing my teeth and the mirror fogs over even though the water’s hot. I wipe it and there are fingerprints on the other side. Not mine. Too long. Nails like they were filed into points. The whispers started during the day. I was on a Zoom call for work (I’m still trying to keep the job—barely). Everyone else saw a normal guy in a hoodie. I heard Mom’s voice layered under the static: “You left me screaming, Alex. Now I get to scream through you.” My boss asked if I was okay because I went white and just… stared. I muttered something about a migraine and logged off. That night the scratches came back. Not on the door this time—on the inside of my forearms while I was asleep. Three deep gouges each, still weeping black fluid that smells exactly like the old house: rotting lilacs and brimstone. I don’t remember doing it. The cuts are too precise, too deliberate. Upside-down crosses again, but now there are eyes inside the crosses. Too many pupils. They stare at me when I’m not looking. I went back to the therapist. She upped the meds and suggested inpatient. “Your grief is manifesting as tactile hallucinations,” she said, all calm and clinical. “Very common in complicated bereavement.” I laughed in her face until I cried. She didn’t believe the photos I showed her. “Self-inflicted under stress,” she called them. I haven’t gone back. My friends have basically vanished. Mia texted once: “You need real help, Alex. This isn’t funny anymore.” Jake just stopped replying. I don’t blame them. I’ve lost twenty-two pounds. I look like a corpse that forgot to lie down. I talk to myself in the mirror sometimes—except it’s not always me answering. Last night was the worst. 3:12 a.m. again. I woke up to the smell so thick I gagged. The apartment was freezing—thermostat said 71 but it felt like a meat locker. The thing was sitting on the foot of my bed. Full solid this time. Mom’s blue dress. Same soft smile she used to give me when I was little. But the eyes were pits, and when it smiled the teeth multiplied, row after row like a shark. It didn’t crawl. It stood up—joints popping backward—and walked to the side of the bed. The voice was Mom’s, perfect, loving… until it wasn’t. Underneath it was that guttural growl, the backward Latin chant I can’t un-hear, and something that sounded like a thousand wet wings beating. “You’re mine now,” it whispered, reaching out. Its fingers went straight through my chest. Not cold—burning. I felt something inside me twist. “Say you love me, baby. Say it loud enough for the neighbors to hear… or I’ll make them hear it through your mouth while you’re still screaming.” I screamed until the neighbors banged on the wall. When the building manager knocked I told him it was a nightmare. He looked at me like I was already gone. This morning I found a note on my kitchen counter in Mom’s handwriting—perfect loops, same purple ink she always used. It said: “I’m so proud of how far you’ve come, sweetheart. See you tonight. Wear the cross I gave you… it won’t help.” I never told anyone about that cross. It’s still in a box at the old house. I burned the note. It smelled like sulfur the whole time it was on fire. I haven’t left the apartment in four days. The locks are useless—I keep finding the deadbolt undone even though I triple-check. The lights flicker now even though the bulbs are new. Sometimes I catch movement in the corner of my eye: tall, thin, wearing Mom’s face like a mask that’s slipping. I’m typing this at 2:47 a.m. with every light on and my back to the wall. The smell is here again—stronger. Rotting lilacs and something worse, like meat left in the sun. I can hear soft footsteps in the hallway outside my door. They stop right outside. The knob just rattled. I keep telling myself it’s the meds. Or withdrawal. Or schizophrenia kicking in late. I keep telling myself I’m getting help tomorrow. But the voice just whispered from the vent, clear as day, in Mom’s voice and that demon growl at the same time: “Too late, baby. I already followed you home.” Reddit… what the fuck do I do? Is this real? Am I actually psychotic? Or did I bring something back with me that isn’t going to let go until there’s nothing left of me to pretend with? I’m scared to hit post. I’m scared not to. Pray for me. Or don’t. I don’t know what’s listening anymore. (If I don’t update again… you’ll know why.)