He wandered the house like a man searching for a fire he could smell but not see.

Chapter 8 of Echoes In The Walls

_____

The next morning, all the cameras were gone.

Jett had set them up — one on the hall table, one mounted just above the doorframe outside his room. Both motion-activated. Both brand new. The other two at the other end of the hall.

Now they were missing. Gone without a trace.

No mounts. No wiring. No footage. Not even the holes where the screws went.

He went downstairs and found Kenneth first.

“No. I never touched them,” the security guard said, arms crossed in that way Jett had come to hate — stoic, firm, unmoved.

“Then what happened to them?”

“I assumed you took them down.”

“I didn’t. Why would I? I just put them up.”

“Well,” Kenneth said evenly, “they didn’t get up and walk away.”

“No,” Jett said, taking a step closer. “But someone did take them down.”

Kenneth didn’t flinch. “I think this is well beyond me. Maybe you should see someone. Professionally.”

“I am seeing someone. I see them every night. In the halls. In the mirrors. And none of you are doing a goddamn thing about it.”

Maria, who had come with coffee at the tail end of the exchange, turned back and went back to the kitchen without a word.

*     *     *

Avery arrived to find Jett pacing the second-floor landing in circles, muttering to himself.

“You lost the cameras?” she asked gently.

“I didn’t lose them,” he corrected. “They were taken. I left them there. They were recording.”

She nodded. “Okay. Let’s say that someone took them. What do you think they’re doing with the footage?”

“What do you mean? He’s not watching it,” Jett said. “He’s erasing it. Covering his tracks.”

“Jett . . .” She lowered her voice. “Listen to yourself.”

“I saw him last night.”

Her expression changed. A bit of shock. And open concern.

He continued: “I saw him in the hallway mirror. He looked like me. Same face, same hair. But . . . wrong. Off. Older. Hollow-eyed. Like . . . like he’s been waiting. Like he’s been living here longer than I have.”

Avery didn’t interrupt.

He was breathing fast now.

“He smiled at me.”

She waited.

“And it was my smile,” Jett whispered. “The old one. The stage smile. The one I used to wear when the fans screamed and I couldn’t feel a thing inside.”

He leaned on the railing, knuckles white.

“What if I’m not the only version of me in this house?”

A long pause. “Then we should find out what that means,” she said gently. “But first, you need rest.”

“There’s no time for sleep.”

“No, there is,” she said quietly. “That’s what this house is doing to you. Trapping you inside of it.”

He turned to her. “You think I’m losing it.”

“I think you’re scared you’re losing it. And that’s worse.”

He stared at her for a few moments, then walked away without another word.

*     *     *

He didn’t eat that day.

Didn’t shower.

He wandered the house like a man searching for a fire he could smell but not see.

By early evening, he returned to the west wing.

The locked door. The forgotten room.

He unlocked it with shaking hands and stepped inside.

The air was different. Cooler. More used.

There were two new things in the room.

First: the guitar pick. His pick. Red celluloid. It sat on the windowsill.

The second: a note.

Folded. Yellowed paper. Sitting on the floor beside the unused mattress.

He picked it up slowly.

His name was written on the front.

KENNY

Not “Jett.”

His old name. His real name.

He opened it.

This wasn’t for or from Kenneth, his security. It was to KENNY.

The handwriting was jagged. Familiar. But it wasn’t Sierra’s. Or Avery’s. Or Kenneth’s. Or Maria’s. Or any of his bandmates.

It looked like his own. But slanted. Crooked. As if written in a hurry, or by someone whose hand had forgotten the motion.

The note read:

You’re almost ready to see me. But I’m not done yet. Stay awake. Please. And don’t forget again. — K.

Jett dropped the note like it had burned him.

*     *     *

That night, he didn’t go to bed.

He turned on every light in the house. Lit candles in the corners. Played old tour tapes at low volume just to keep the silence at bay.

But the silence came anyway. And with it, the voice.

It echoed from the vents this time. Soft. Familiar.

His voice. Not singing. But talking.

“You left me here.”

Then: “You promised you’d come back.”

And then: “You forgot.”

Jett stood in the hallway, fists clenched.

“I didn’t forget!” he shouted into the air.

No answer. Just a low vibration in the walls. Like something shifting beneath the surface.

He ran to the mirror again. This time, there was no reflection at all. Just the hallway behind him. Empty. As if he wasn’t standing right there in front of it.

_____

(c) Secret Agent Man
info@secretagentman.net