Not My Kind
Inspired by true events.
Part 1: The Invitation
The invitation was vague, but flattering.
A major paranormal and horror convention, with speakers from all over the world.
You were asked to present on Phenomenology and Entity
Manifestation in Liminal Environments.
Whatever that means.
You've done your share of cons before, but this one feels different.
The energy is heavy the moment you pull up to the hotel.
You brush it off at first.
It's your first event in over a year, and time away can make everything feel strange.
The building itself is a hybrid. Partly renovated, partly peeling wallpaper and stale smoke from decades past.
The air thickens as you step into the lobby.
Everyone is smiling. Too much.
The air thickens as you step into the lobby.
Everyone is smiling. Too much.
The guy at the front desk stares a second too long before handing you your badge.
"Welcome. We've been expecting you." His voice feels automated, like he's said it a thousand times. Maybe he has.
Your name tag isn't printed.
It's handwritten.
You glance over at the others on the table.
Yours is the only one like that.
While waiting for your room key, you drift toward the vendor space.
Banners. Books. Psychics. Crystals.
Paranormal tech.
A few tables with velvet cloths and polished displays. The usual.
But the buzz in the air feels charged.
***
Part 2: The Reset
(You chose to walk the vendor hall and settle in.)
The fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead.
Everything feels a little too bright.
The vendor room is busier now, and the conversations hum at a low, nervous frequency... like everyone's just pretending they're not waiting for something.
You take a slow lap, nodding to familiar faces.
Some people, of course, are surprised to see you.
You give them a wink just for the reaction.
You pass by booths stacked with ghost-hunting gadgets, cryptid-themed patches, and stacks of self-published books.
One table offers "protective relics," and at this point you almost consider buying yourself one.
There are books with titles like "Portal Mechanics in Appalachian Caves"
"The Humanoid Archive."
Some of the booths are beautifully done.
You appreciate the effort.
You're handed a glossy flyer by a man with gray gloves.
It's covered in symbols. Some look familiar.
One looks exactly like something you once saw carved into the wall of a location that still gives you dreams.
But when you glance back at the flyer
It's blank.
Your phone buzzes.
"Panel moved to 6pm. Room 212."
No sender. Just the notification.
No text. How is that possible?
You start to wonder if maybe that eleven-hour drive is getting to you.
You pause and look around.
The room has gone quieter. People are shifting, turning, moving as if on cue.
And then the crowd parts.
There he is.
The man everyone's been whispering about.
field.
The one whose story reshaped the
He walks slowly through the vendor hall.
Smiling.
Too still.
Too smooth.
Something about him doesn't match the memory.
He looks just like he did in the documentaries.
Exactly like that.
Not older. Not changed. The same.
Your old colleague appears at your side, voice low.
"That's not how I remember him looking..."
"Doesn't he look... I don't know... reset?"
You joke back,
"Maybe he has a good body double.”
But you can't stop staring.
It's like looking into a mask with something intelligent behind it... trying to mimic interest.
"Big crowd," he says softly, like a man rehearsing how to sound human.
You manage a polite nod, unsure what else to do.
He doesn't linger.
Just nods and walks back to his booth.
You stare after him, pulse still fluttering in your throat.
Something about his presence felt... hollow.
Not absent.
Just not your kind.
You're handed a glossy flyer by a man with gray gloves.
It's covered in symbols. Some look familiar.
One looks exactly like something once saw carved into the wall of a
location that still gives vou dreams
Suddenly, a slap on your shoulder.
"Wow, didn't think they could dust the cobwebs off you."
You jump. You know that voice.
An old colleague.
"Hey, did you hear who's coming?"
"You-know-who is actually on the schedule."
It's obvious. Everyone is talking about one thing.
One person.
Someone whose experience changed everything in this field years ago.
"I heard he hasn't made a public appearance in over a decade."
"They say he doesn't even remember what happened anymore."
"What if it wasn't really him who came back? You ever wonder that?"
You already know who he means.
And yes, he's on the schedule.
You didn't expect that.
You'd be lying if you said you weren't just a little excited to meet him.
***
Part 3: The Imitation
(You chose to keep your distance and just watch.)
He finishes his slow procession through the vendor hall and stops at the last booth on your row. The event staff clears a spot for him as if it was always meant to be his.
He settles in. No rush. Every movement is oddly measured, like someone performing a role they’ve practiced but never fully understood.
You watch him unpack a few items with care. A book he wrote 20 years ago. A stack of identical headshots, each one a perfect match to how he looked in the documentaries. Not older. Not changed. Exactly the same.
A line forms before he even finishes setting up.
“That’s just great,” you mutter to your colleague. “Looks like they set him up right next to me.”
“Well, if he starts hissing and shedding his skin, I’m out,” they whisper back with a half-laugh.
You try to chuckle, but your stomach tightens. You head over to your table to your own setup and start arranging your display materials, anything to anchor yourself in the normal.
But the feeling doesn't leave.
It grows.
You sense him before you see him... again. A strange pressure. Like your air has been rerouted.
You're hesitant, but look up anyway.
He's standing at your table.
Right there in front of you.
Watching you.
Smiling.
Too wide.
Too still.
Does this guy even blink?!
It's like looking into a mask with something intelligent behind it... trying to mimic interest.
"Big crowd," he says softly, like a man rehearsing how to sound human.
***
Part 4: The Anniversary
(You chose to brush it off and grab a drink at the bar.)
You leave your booth behind, needing distance. The hotel bar is dim, retrofitted from something older, with velvet-covered stools and wood paneling that still smells like 1987. You slide into a seat and signal the bartender.
He walks over with a half-smile, towel over his shoulder. His eyes catch yours a second too long.
“So, you know tonight’s the anniversary, right?”
You pause. “Anniversary of what?”
He glances toward the vendor hall, where things have quieted down.
“When they found our friend over there,” he says, tilting his chin ever so slightly toward the man everyone’s been whispering about.
You don’t say anything.
“Back then, it was just a camping trip,” he continues. “Couple guys up north, deep woods. All went missing. No distress call. Just… gone.”
Then he says it. “What are you?”
You freeze.
“…Sorry?”
He continues wiping the counter.
Your phone buzzes before you can question him again. Blank screen. No message.
You push your glass away and head for the elevator.
On your floor, the hallway feels darker. Longer. That strange humming again… low, steady, like a swarm of bees behind the walls.
Your key doesn’t work.
You try again. Nothing.
Back in the lobby, the clerk apologizes and hands you a new card.
“Room 313. That one should work.”
You nod, take the elevator back up.
As the doors open, you catch a figure at the end of the hall.
Standing perfectly still.
You blink.
Gone.
You quickly make your way to 313.
Wait…
Your room is cracked open before you even touch the key.
And the hum gets louder.
***
Part 5: Room 313
(You chose to step inside the room slowly.)
You step into room 313 slowly.
The door, already cracked, swings inward with barely a touch.
The hum that’s been trailing you grows louder.
There’s a low static in the air… almost like a pulse. And for a second, you think the wallpaper is breathing.
Your room is dim, but not empty.
HE is already inside.
Sitting in the chair across from the bed, perfectly still.
That too-wide smile again, as if he’s been waiting.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” you ask.
He tilts his head with the slightest smile. “Oh c’mon, drop the act. It was cute downstairs, but enough is enough.”
The hum intensifies, rattling something deep in your chest.
“Oh wow. I guess you don’t remember.”
“You didn’t recognize me downstairs,” he continues. “I guess it’s taking you a while to get used to that one, huh?”
You blink. “What are you talking about?”
He leans forward, voice calm. “You’re supposed to keep up appearances for the humans. That’s the deal. I mean… people were surprised to see you in the vendor hall, but that’s to be expected. The memories bleed through sometimes. Gets confusing.”
Your stomach drops. Images flash… blurry, fragmented… like someone else’s dream. A campsite. A fire. Screams. Then nothing.
“You don’t remember the woods, do you?” he asks, watching your face closely.
“You were there. We both were. The others didn’t make it. You… took your time picking one. I figured maybe you got cold feet. Or maybe the body fought back.”
Your breath catches.
“But you fit into that skin better than I expected. Honestly? You almost had me fooled.”
He chuckles softly. “Takes a while sometimes. The human memories bleed in. Get loud. If you’re not careful, you forget who you really are.”
He stands now, taller than you remembered, and steps closer.
“I think it’s time I change mine out. People are starting to get suspicious,” he says. “But I’ll miss the attention.”
He stops inches from your face.
“Don’t worry. You’re doing great. You’ll remember more soon.”
The hum peaks.
Something behind his eyes flickers.
And for a second, you see it. What’s underneath.
You turn, suddenly cold.
Your reflection in the mirror stares back at you.
The smile. Too wide. Spreads on its own.
Behind you, the numbers etched into the door shimmer faintly: 313.
A palindrome. A mirror of itself.
Like you.
Not him.
Not human.
Not your kind.
End of Story 2.
