Horrid 9. The Man Who Sewed His Shadow to Mine

He was a silhouette in a crowded subway, a smudge of darkness that didn't move when the train lurched. When he passed me, I felt a sharp, stinging tug at my heels, like a needle threading through my Achilles tendon. I looked down. My shadow was no longer my own. It was distorted, elongated, and fused at the feet to a heavy, black shape that moved independently of my body.

Now, I can’t go into the light. When the sun hits me, my shadow fights. It claws at the pavement, trying to drag me into the sewers, into the cracks in the sidewalk, into the dark places where "He" lives. At night, I can feel him sewing more of us together. My shadow now has three extra arms and a head that isn't mine. I’m becoming a patchwork of darkness, a silhouette being stitched into a grand, obsidian tapestry of the lost. Soon, there won't be enough "me" left to cast a reflection at all.