Chapter 3: The Third Eye

“Mom, that’s not Uncle Ben. Uncle Ben died on the Amtrak. He was split in two by that thing.”

I stared hard at my mom.

Her face went white, lips trembling. I could see the horror dawning in her eyes, the edges of denial fraying.

She gasped.

It was a brittle, broken sound, the kind you make when the world shifts under your feet. She clutched her purse tighter, knuckles going bloodless.

I told her: that thing was brought here by Uncle Ben. He stole its egg, and we’d been hunted ever since.

My voice was low, urgent. I told her everything—the way Uncle Ben had smuggled that strange, slick egg onto the train, the way it pulsed with a weird heat. How everything went to hell after that. I tried not to think about the guilt burning in my chest.

In the end, to save himself, Uncle Ben even planted the egg on me, trying to pass on the disaster.

I remembered the way he’d looked at me, eyes wild, sweat beading on his forehead. He’d shoved the egg into my hands, whispering apologies, desperation etched into his face.

But he ended up caught in his own trap and died on the train.

Karma, I thought bitterly. He’d tried to outrun fate, but the thing had torn him apart without mercy. Even now, I saw his face in my nightmares.

My mom’s voice trembled:

“But... your uncle is standing right behind the glass door.”

I suddenly looked at the glass door by the nurse’s station.

The glass reflected the chaos of the room—people moving, lights flashing, security hustling past. And there, just behind the swirl of movement, was a face I knew all too well.

A human face was reflected in the glass—it was Uncle Ben.

My breath caught. He was just standing there, eyes fixed on me, his features arranged in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

But... his face was no longer human.

There was something horribly wrong about his expression, the way his lips curled, the unnatural stillness of his features. My skin crawled, a primal fear rising up from the depths of my mind.

Between his two eyes, there was a third eye.

The third eye blinked, slow and deliberate. I recoiled, bile rising in my throat. It was a detail no human face should ever have—a sign, a warning, a perversion of what was once familiar.

I shuddered in terror.

My hands shook so badly I almost dropped my mom’s sandwich. I pressed back against the wall, instinct screaming at me to flee.

That face gave a strange smile, then vanished quickly.

The smile widened, impossibly, then the whole image flickered—gone, like a TV channel switching off. Only the faintest impression remained, burned into my memory.

Only then did I realize:

Uncle Ben wasn’t behind the glass door, but was projecting his face onto it from somewhere else.

It was like a bad special effect in a horror movie, but real, terrifying. The thing had learned new tricks, ways to haunt us from afar. I scanned the crowd, searching for the source, but the glass only reflected my own pale, frightened face.

I looked around, but there was no sign of him.

The crowd pressed in, voices blending into a blur. I hugged my mom close, my heart thudding against my ribs, eyes darting for any sign of danger.

The people in black began to take action.

They moved quickly, passing out crisp white pamphlets—no time for explanations. Each page was stamped with a government seal, the kind that made people pay attention.

They handed out a small manual to everyone—a survival guide. The rules were as follows:

1. Human facial features are normal. If you see anyone with abnormal features, inform the people in black immediately.

2. Humans always walk upright on two legs. Anyone walking in any other way is not human.

3. Every fifteen minutes, turn on your phone and check your facial features. If you notice any changes, inform the people in black immediately.

4. Do not trust any messages on your phone, and do not attempt to make calls. It will kill you.

5. You can unconditionally trust the people in black. They are the only ones who can protect you.

The rules felt like something from an urban legend, but the fear in everyone’s eyes was very real. The room buzzed with whispered questions, the sound of frantic tapping as people reread the instructions on their phones.

I gasped.

The world seemed to spin, the words blurring on the page. The rules confirmed my worst fears: it had changed, grown stronger, more cunning. I bit my lip, trying not to let my panic show.

That thing must have evolved.

Once, it had limits—ways to identify and avoid it. Now, it could be anyone, anywhere. I felt a cold sweat break out down my back.

On the Amtrak, it could only imitate one fixed person’s appearance. Sometimes it slipped up, showing two mouths or three eyes.

But now, it could be anyone in this room—my mom, the nurse, even the little kid clutching his stuffed bear. I shuddered, realizing how vulnerable we all were.

Even so, on that train, only one and a half people escaped. I still remember the bald commander’s legs being severed.

I forced the memory down, focusing on the present. I couldn’t afford to let the past paralyze me. I owed it to my mom to stay sharp.

But now, these new rules clearly showed it had gained new abilities—it could even confuse people in other ways.

People murmured anxiously, some checking their reflections in phone screens, others sneaking glances at those around them. Paranoia was contagious; it spread like wildfire through the crowd.

It... had become even more terrifying.

My hands clenched into fists. I made a silent vow: whatever it took, I would keep my mom safe. I scanned the room, cataloging exits, counting the people in black, every nerve taut with anticipation.

I looked around. Just on the second floor, there were about a hundred people. With all the inpatients, clinics, and nurses upstairs...

I did the math in my head. So many lives. So much at risk. If it got loose—if it decided to kill everyone here—there would be no stopping it.

If so many people were all killed by it...

Would guns really help?

I glanced at the agents, their hands tight on their weapons. Somehow, I doubted it. This thing played by its own rules.

I could only hope they found it quickly.

I squeezed my mom’s hand, whispering, "We’ll be okay. Just stick with me."

A blood-red countdown appeared on the infusion area screen: five minutes left.

The digital display ticked down, each second an eternity. The crowd’s anxiety ratcheted higher. The whole room seemed to hold its breath.

It had been ten minutes since that half-body appeared—exactly fifteen minutes.

The timing was precise, almost ritualistic. I wondered if it was mocking us, playing a game only it understood.

When the countdown ended, everyone would have to take out their phones and check their facial features.

People clutched their phones like lifelines, eyes darting between the clock and the pamphlet. I could feel the tension mounting, thick as thunderclouds before a tornado.

My mom looked worried:

She leaned close, voice a trembling whisper. "I threw my phone in the trash can by the elevator on the fifth floor..."

My heart skipped a beat.

I realized, in a flash, that her discarded phone might have thrown off the thing’s hunt. Maybe we’d bought ourselves a little time—maybe it wasn’t tracking us directly anymore. But the relief was short-lived.

So, in the elevator, that thing wasn’t coming for me—it was tracking my mom. It only saw me by chance, following the phone signal.

I pressed my lips together, refusing to let fear win. I squeezed my mom’s hand harder, trying to transmit strength I barely felt myself.

I’d thought I was already exposed to its gaze. Maybe my mom still had a chance to escape on her own.

Now it seemed it wouldn’t let anyone go.

I couldn’t tell my mom this now.

She was scared enough. I gave her a reassuring smile, the kind parents give their kids before a big test, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.

I thought for a moment:

"Mom, do you have a makeup mirror in your bag?"

She nodded.

I said, "Then we’ll just use the makeup mirror—it’s the same."

I tried to sound breezy, like this was all just a precaution. I rummaged in her purse, found the compact, and pressed it into her hands. "We’ll check together."

Time ticked by, second by second.

The room was silent except for the ticking clock, the nervous shuffling of feet, and the occasional cough. People glanced at their phones, waiting for the signal.

When the countdown ended, the people in black began reminding everyone to take out their phones and use the front camera to check their faces.

A man in a black windbreaker walked the aisles, monotone voice repeating, "Please check your face in the camera now. Report any irregularities immediately."

Suddenly, a scream pierced the air.

It was high and thin, echoing through the room like a fire alarm. People jumped, heads swiveling toward the source.

A woman’s voice, trembling:

"T-t-two mouths..."

A hush fell. Everyone stared, some people edging away, others craning for a look. The agents in black rushed over, hands on their guns. My stomach twisted—because I knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning.

And as the agents closed in, the woman with two mouths grinned—both sets of lips moving at once. I realized the real nightmare was just beginning.