“She answered a phone call from her number.”


The shrill, invasive sound sliced through the quiet solitude of Laura Ulshafer’s writing room, a discordant shriek that yanked her from the lush meadows of her current manuscript. Usually, she’d ignore it. Inspiration was a fickle mistress, and interruptions were her enemy, especially now. For weeks, the words had refused to flow. She’d been staring at the same blinking cursor for hours, the blank page mocking her with its stark emptiness. Writer’s block had become a suffocating blanket, stifling her creativity and leaving her feeling hollow and unproductive.


Her writing room was her sanctuary, meticulously crafted to foster the creative spirit. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined two walls, their spines a rainbow of literary adventures and intellectual pursuits. A worn, leather armchair sat nestled in a corner, bathed in the soft glow of a Tiffany lamp, perfect for losing herself in the worlds crafted by others. Sunlight streamed through a large, arched window overlooking a vibrant garden bursting with roses, lavender, lilacs, and honeysuckle, their fragrant perfume often drifting in to inspire her. The walls were painted a soothing shade of sage green, adorned with framed prints of her favorite artists - Monet, Van Gogh, Degas, and O’Keeffe. A large, mahogany desk dominated the room, covered in organized chaos: stacks of research papers, notebooks filled with scribbled ideas, and a scattering of her favorite pens and pencils. The air always held a faint scent of old paper and beeswax polish, comforting and familiar.


But the caller ID stopped her cold: her number. A shiver, cold and unwelcome, skittered down her spine. Like a phantom limb aching, a disquieting sensation settled in her stomach. This was… impossible. Who would pull this kind of prank? She hesitantly answered.


“Hello?” she said, her voice barely a whisper.


Silence.


The voice that answered back was hers, yet not. It was distorted, laced with static, and dripping with an urgency that bordered on panic. “Laura, listen carefully. You’re in danger. There’s a stalker. Someone obsessed. They are close to you, they work for you, supposedly to help you. But they have a personal connection to you... jealousy, twisted and deep. They want to be you. They’re dangerous, Laura. Eventually, they’ll try to possess you... to become you.”


Laura’s breath hitched. “What? Who is this?”


Her voice continued relentlessly. “It’s me, a version of you that knows what’s coming. You need to be smart, Laura. Figure out who it is. It’s one of them. One of the five... Emily, your assistant, or Marcus, your PR guy. Brenda, your secretary. Jaxson, your bodyguard, or Eldon, your manager, figure it out, Laura. And trust no one.”


The line went dead, leaving Laura clutching the phone, her heart hammering against her ribs. The room, moments ago a sanctuary, now felt like a trap. Her voice warned her about someone who wanted to be her. The absurdity of it was almost comical if not for the sheer terror that gripped her.


The next day, she sat in a meeting with her publisher, Lamar Harrison, and the five suspects from the phone call, each radiating a curated version of helpful attentiveness.


Her assistant, Emily, was buzzing around, organizing documents efficiently. Emily was organized and efficient, perpetually juggling schedules and fielding calls. Emily had been with her for three years; She was hired when Laura’s first book became a best seller, loyal and dependable. Could she be this obsessed? Laura had always found her a little... eager to please. Too eager?


Across the table, Marcus, the PR guru hired to boost Laura’s book tour, leaned back in his chair, oozing charisma. Radiating charm and confidence, he was the master of spin, the architect of Laura’s public image. A whirlwind of ideas, constantly suggesting events and interviews. Maybe he seemed too eager, but Laura had chalked it up to ambition. Could he be so captivated by his creation that he wanted to inhabit it?


Brenda, the secretary, sat quietly, taking note. She was a quiet, unassuming woman who meticulously handled Laura’s correspondence and appointments. She seemed harmless, almost invisible. Was it a mask? Could that quiet exterior hide a raging inferno of envy?


Next to Brenda was Eldon, her manager, a sharp, fast-talking man who brokered deals and navigated the complexities of the publishing world. A seasoned veteran of the literary world, he radiated a pragmatic energy. He’d been representing her since the beginning of her career. He’d steered her career with a steady hand. Could his ambition have morphed into something darker that craved her current spotlight? Could he betray her trust, endanger her life for… for what? Control? Possession?


Next to Laura sat Jaxson, her bodyguard. Sitting ramrod straight, a silent sentinel. He was a brick wall of muscle and quiet observation, hired after a minor incident with an overly enthusiastic fan who’d grabbed her arm a little too hard during a book signing. He was always vigilant, always watching. Was he protecting her, or watching her? He was undeniably handsome. The handsome that could launch a thousand ships, or, in Laura’s case, inspire a thousand plot twists. More than once, she had used him, or aspects of him, to create the brooding, enigmatic heroes of her novels The quiet strength, the unwavering focus, the undercurrent of something dark and unknown – all Jaxson His eyes, usually scanning the room, met hers briefly, filled with a professional, detached concern Was the concern genuine Or was it the practiced gaze of a predator sizing up its prey?


The meeting droned on, blurring into a cacophony of marketing strategies and logistical arrangements, discussing the upcoming book tour, promotional strategy, and security protocols. Laura felt like she was playing a twisted game of Clue, each innocuous comment, each fleeting glance, potentially holding the key to a mystery Laura observed them all, searching for a flicker of malice, a hint of something sinister lurking beneath their carefully constructed facades Each smile, each gesture, felt loaded with hidden meaning.


The book tour began, and Laura was on edge, hyper-aware of every shadow and whispered conversations. A blur of airports, hotels, and book signings she found herself scrutinizing every gesture, every word, searching for the telltale sign of obsession Jaxson was always present, a reassuring but also unsettling presence Emily anticipated her every need, a gesture that suddenly felt invasive Marcus’s effusive praise rang hollow Brenda’s quiet efficiency seemed calculated, Eldon’s constant phone calls felt like surveillance, not support.


The last autograph was scrawled, the forced smile aching on Laura’s face. As the taxi sped back to her hotel, Chicago sprawled beneath her in a glittering tapestry of lights. Exhausted, she leaned back, relaxing, stealing a few moments of solace. The book signing had succeeded, but the relentless questions and constant pressure to be “on” had drained her.

Jaxson walked her to her room and checked it before allowing Laura to enter. “Everything’s clear,” he said, his eyes scanning the space with practiced precision. After telling him good night, she locked the door, double-bolted it, and felt a sliver of the tension bleed away.


She kicked off her heels, and the plush carpet was a welcome relief. A long, hot shower, a silk nightgown, and a glass of crisp white wine, Laura finally climbed into the king-sized bed. The city hummed a lullaby outside her window, and exhaustion pulled her under.


She had just drifted into the sweet oblivion of sleep when it happened.


A hand, rough and calloused, clamped over her mouth, cutting off her scream. Panic flooded her senses, icy tendrils gripping her heart. Someone was in her room, in her bed, violating the fragile sanctuary she’d built around herself.


They dragged her from the bed, the silk of her nightgown offering no resistance., She struggled, her legs flailing, but they were too strong. She was being pulled, her bare feet scraping against the carpet.


Towards the bathroom.


Fractured by the blinds, Moonlight spilled into the small space, illuminating a face achingly familiar yet warped, twisted with desperation and something far more sinister.


“You?... It’s You?” she whispered, the word catching her throat.