Don’t Turn Around

I first heard the warning as a whisper.

“Don’t turn around.”

It slid into my ear like a breath that wasn’t mine. I stopped walking instantly. The street behind my house was empty—too empty. No traffic, no voices, not even the sound of insects. The streetlight ahead flickered once, twice, then steadied, casting my shadow long and thin across the pavement.

I laughed under my breath. Lack of sleep does strange things to the mind. I’d been working late shifts all week, coming home after midnight, when the world feels unfinished, like God forgot to save His work.

I took another step.

Again, the whisper—closer this time.

“Don’t turn around.”

This time, my shadow moved before I did.

It twitched, bending slightly to the left, as if reacting to something behind me. My heart slammed against my ribs. I told myself it was just the light, just nerves. Shadows lie. That’s what they do.

Still, I didn’t turn.

From that night on, the warning followed me everywhere.

In the grocery store aisle, when I reached for bread.

On the bus, when someone stood too close behind my seat.

In my apartment hallway, when the elevator doors slid shut and I caught my reflection in the metal.

“Don’t turn around.”

It was never loud. Never urgent. Just calm—almost kind. Like advice given too late to matter.

I started testing it.

Once, at the bus stop, I turned my head just enough to glimpse the glass shelter behind me. For a split second, my reflection lagged. My body moved. My reflection stayed still. Then it snapped back into place, smiling when I wasn’t.

I stopped experimenting after that.

Sleep became impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt it—presence without weight, attention without breath. Something standing exactly where my back was turned. Something patient.

One night, I woke to the sound of breathing.

Not mine.

Slow. Measured. Right behind my ear.

“Don’t,” the whisper said gently. “Turn. Around.”

I lay frozen, staring at the wall as my heart hammered so loudly I was sure it could hear it. The breathing stopped. The room felt empty again—but I knew better now.

Whatever it was, it didn’t need to touch me.

It needed me to look.

Days passed. Then weeks. I learned how to live forward-facing. Mirrors were covered. Phone cameras stayed off. I trained myself never to spin suddenly, never to react. My neck ached constantly, stiff from caution.

People noticed. Friends asked questions. I lied.

Then came the message.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: It’s behind you.

My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the phone. The apartment was silent. No footsteps. No breathing.

A second message arrived.

You’ve done well. Most people turn around much sooner.

I stood slowly. My legs felt numb, like they no longer belonged to me.

A third message followed.

You’re tired. You deserve to know.

The whisper returned, closer than ever.

“Don’t turn around.”

I don’t know why I did it. Curiosity. Exhaustion. Or maybe it finally let me want to see.

I turned.

The room was empty.

But the mirror on the wall—one I was sure I had covered—was uncovered now.

And in it, I saw myself.

Still facing forward.

Still obeying the warning.

Still safe.

Behind that reflection, something stood smiling with my face. Its eyes were wrong—too calm, too complete. The smile widened slowly, as if it had been waiting years to finish forming.

The reflection raised its hand.

I didn’t feel my arm move—but it waved.

Understanding settled like ice in my chest. The warning had never been meant to protect me. It was a rule. A delay. As long as I didn’t turn, I existed. As long as I obeyed, it waited.

The whisper came one last time—not from behind me, but from my own mouth in the mirror.

“Too late.”