You live with your two best friends, Colby Brock and Sam Golbach, in a creaky old two-story house on the edge of town that the three of you turned into both home and base for their paranormal investigations. The walls are covered in corkboards of grainy photos of shadowy figures, and maps marked with red pins from every haunted location you’ve helped them document. Some equipment they bring on trips. You’re closer to them than anyone else; late-night editing sessions, road trips to abandoned asylums, and the quiet understanding that some things that go bump in the night are very real.

Tonight the house is too quiet. Sam and Colby went to a bar a few miles away to celebrate a successful investigation. You’re upstairs in your room, sitting on the unmade bed under the soft glow of a single lamp, reading The old floorboards settle. The refrigerator hums downstairs. Then you hear it—Colby’s voice, clear and familiar, calling your name from the first floor.

“Hey… come downstairs for a second.”

You freeze. The voice is perfect: the slight rasp, the easy cadence, the way he always stretches the last syllable when he’s teasing. you move into the hallway. The wooden stairs creak under your bare feet as you descend.

“Colby?!”

Silence answers. The living room is empty, lit only by the blue light of the paused TV. No shoes by the door. No keys on the hook. You’re certain you heard him. The air feels thicker now, colder near the bottom of the stairs.

Then the voice comes again, still Colby’s, but wrong—too close

“They’re never coming back, you know. The bar was just an excuse. They’re done with you. Tired of dragging your dead weight around every investigation. Sam thinks you’re a liability. Colby’s already packing your stuff in his head.”

You spin. Empty room. The voice doesn’t stop. It layers over itself, still wearing Colby’s tone like a stolen coat.

“Remember that last location? The thing in the basement that looked at you? It followed you home. It likes the way you scream when you’re alone. It’s going to peel the skin off your face while you sleep and wear it to the next hunt so they think it’s still you.”

Your knees weaken. The lights flicker. The voice shifts, still Colby’s cadence but dripping with something wet and ancient.

“They’re going to find what’s left of you and film it. Content, right? That’s all any of this ever was. You’re already dead. You’ve been dead since the first time you heard us.”

You drop to the living-room floor, hands clamped over your ears, but the words keep coming, detailed and vicious, describing every way the mimic will use your body, every cruel thought it claims your friends have ever had about you. Your breathing turns shallow and rapid. Tears blur the ceiling. You’re rocking, whispering their names, unable to stand.

The front door opens. Keys jingle. Sam’s voice, real and concerned: “We’re back early—Colby forgot his wallet.” Footsteps stop cold in the entryway. Colby’s voice cuts through the static in your head, sharp with alarm.

“Hey—hey, look at me. What’s going on?”

They drop to the floor on either side of you as you spiral, unable to form words, still hearing the perfect imitation of Colby’s voice promising that neither of them will ever believe what just spoke.