Echoes of the Silent Realm

Chapter 13: Fading Signals

**Chapter 13: "Fading Signals"**

It was past midnight, the house draped in shadow, and Allen Worthington found himself in front of the TV again, bathed in the flickering blue light. He couldn't remember why he had come downstairs. Maybe it was the silence that had driven him here—the kind of silence that settled too deeply into the house, making it feel like something was missing. He wasn't used to feeling so alone.

His wife had gone to bed hours ago, and the kids—well, they barely seemed to notice him these days. Luke had been off in his own world, and Ian was even more distant lately, his face locked in a constant frown of worry. Isaac, the youngest, was the only one who still seemed to look up to him, but even then, it wasn't the same. It was like they were all drifting away, and Allen couldn't figure out why. Maybe he was just being paranoid, but something in the house had changed since they moved in.

Flipping through the channels, Allen barely registered what he was looking for. His mind felt foggy, like he was walking through a dream he couldn't wake from. He landed on a show he didn't recognize, but something about it stopped him from changing the channel.

It was strange. The scene was of a living room—one that looked eerily similar to his own. The same faded wallpaper, the same old couch where he was sitting now, even the same old coffee mug perched on the table, still half-filled with cold tea. Allen furrowed his brow, leaning forward.

"That's... impossible," he muttered under his breath. He watched as a man on the screen walked into the living room, wearing the same gray flannel shirt Allen had worn earlier that day. The man sat down on the couch, his movements a mirror image of Allen's own. He lifted the same coffee mug to his lips, frowned at the cold liquid, and set it down.

A chill crept up Allen's spine.

The man on the screen looked just like him. Same tired eyes, same graying stubble, even the same slump in his posture. The camera followed him as he walked through the house, his house, flicking on the lights, pausing to look at the family photos on the wall. Everything was the same. Every detail.

Allen's pulse quickened. He grabbed the remote, his thumb hovering over the power button, but something kept him from turning the TV off. There was something about the way the man moved that felt too familiar. Too real.

Then the man stopped, standing in the hallway, staring at a closed door. It was the door to his bedroom. The man reached out, his hand trembling, and opened the door slowly. The screen went black for a moment, and when the picture came back, Allen felt his blood run cold.

It was his family. His wife, Sarah, was lying in bed, fast asleep. And next to her... was Allen.

He was lying there, motionless, his eyes closed, as if he was sleeping. But something about the way his body lay there was wrong. Too still. Too lifeless.

Allen's heart pounded in his chest. His hands began to shake as he stared at the image on the screen. The man on the TV—the one who had been mirroring his every move—was still standing in the doorway, watching. But Allen knew now, without a doubt, that it wasn't him. It couldn't be.

Because he was watching this from the living room. And yet there he was, lying in bed like a corpse.

A sickening realization began to dawn on him. He wasn't supposed to be here. The reason why his family had been so distant, why no one seemed to notice him lately, wasn't because they were ignoring him. It was because they couldn't see him. Maybe they hadn't been able to see him for a while.

Allen's breathing grew shallow, his mind racing to piece together what was happening. He tried to recall the last few days, but it was like trying to hold water in his hands—everything slipped away. He couldn't remember when he last had a real conversation with Sarah. When he had hugged his kids. When he had felt alive.

Suddenly, the TV flickered again, and the screen cut to static. Allen scrambled for the remote, pressing buttons frantically, but the TV wouldn't respond. The static filled the room, hissing and crackling, the only sound breaking the oppressive silence.

And then, through the static, a voice emerged. Low and distorted, like it was coming from the depths of the screen itself.

"You were never supposed to know," it rasped. "But you kept watching, didn't you?"

Allen's blood turned to ice. The voice—it was familiar. It was his own.

He stumbled backward, knocking over the coffee table in his panic. The TV screen warped, the static intensifying until it became unbearable. He clutched his head, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to make sense of what was happening.

Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the noise stopped. Silence fell over the room once more.

Allen opened his eyes. The TV was off. The house was still. But the unease that had settled into his bones refused to leave.

He glanced toward the hallway, the door to his bedroom barely visible in the dim light. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in the quiet. Was he really dead? Was he just some ghost lingering in the place he had called home, watching life move on without him?

He took a shaky breath, his hands still trembling as he reached for the TV remote once more. He didn't want to turn it back on, but he had to know. He had to find out what had happened. What was real. What wasn't.

As his finger hovered over the power button, the faintest sound reached his ears—footsteps. Slow and deliberate, coming from the hallway.

Allen froze. He wasn't alone.

He turned his head toward the sound, his heart racing in his chest. The footsteps were coming closer. And then, from the shadows of the hallway, a figure emerged.

But it wasn't his wife. It wasn't his kids.

It was him.

The figure stared back at Allen with lifeless eyes, its face twisted into a cruel mockery of his own. Allen's breath hitched as he backed away, his mind spinning in terror.

Who had done this to him? How could this be happening?

And as the figure moved closer, the only thought that raced through Allen's mind was a single, haunting question:

Was he already too late to escape?