The Faceless Man

 

The Faceless Man

It was nearly midnight when Vikram’s car broke down on an empty road. The nearest town was miles away, and his phone had no signal. The only sign of civilization was an old, abandoned house at the edge of the road.

With no other choice, he decided to check if someone lived there. The house was ancient—its wooden walls covered in ivy, windows broken, and the front door slightly ajar, as if inviting him inside.

Hesitant, Vikram stepped onto the creaking porch and knocked. No answer.

A gust of wind pushed the door open wider. Inside, dust floated in the dim light of the moon. The furniture was covered in white sheets, and the air smelled of mildew.

“Hello?” Vikram called out.

Silence.

A staircase led to the upper floor, where a faint flicker of light caught his attention. He thought he saw a shadow move.

Then, he heard it—a soft whisper.

It was coming from upstairs.

Logic told him to leave, but something about the voice drew him in. Slowly, he climbed the stairs, his heart pounding. The corridor was long and dark, lined with doors on either side.

The whisper came again, this time more distinct. “You shouldn’t be here.”

His breath hitched.

At the end of the hallway, a single door stood slightly open. A dim candle burned inside. With shaky hands, Vikram pushed the door open.

The room was empty except for an old wooden chair placed in front of a tall mirror. The candle flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls.

Then, he saw it.

The reflection in the mirror showed a man sitting in the chair. But there was no one in the actual chair.

Vikram’s blood turned cold.

The man in the reflection was wearing a black suit, his head tilted slightly downward. His hands rested on the armrests, fingers long and thin.

And then, slowly, he lifted his head.

Vikram’s scream caught in his throat.

The man had no face.

No eyes, no nose, no mouth—just smooth, pale skin where his features should have been.

The faceless man tilted his head, as if studying Vikram. Then, he lifted his hand and pointed.

Not at Vikram.

At the mirror.

Vikram felt an unbearable chill spread through his body. The whisper returned, surrounding him from all directions.

"Join me."

The candle flickered violently. The room darkened. Vikram tried to move, but his legs refused. The mirror seemed to ripple, like water, and the faceless man’s hand slowly reached toward him—through the glass.

Panic surged through Vikram. He turned to run. But as soon as he did—

His own reflection didn’t move.

His chest tightened in terror. Slowly, he turned back to the mirror.

The faceless man was gone.

And in his place, the reflection was now Vikram’s—but his face was missing.

A suffocating darkness swallowed the room.

The next morning, a truck driver spotted Vikram’s abandoned car on the roadside. The police searched the area but found no sign of him.

The house was empty.

But in the dusty mirror, a new figure could be seen sitting in the chair.

Waiting.