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Mirrors. They seem to tie into most horror stories in some way, don't they? Maybe it's the way you can see yourself. So clearly, yet not perfectly.

But my story isn't about mirrors. It isn't about glass, metal, or any other reflective surface.

It's about wood.

And now here's the part you think you've cracked it. I must be talking about a door, or some type of wooden board game.

But no. The most important thing is this piece of wood.

It isn't the only thing, but you've probably already worked that out. Clever reader, take a gold star.

Except gold can reflect and there's no reflecting in my tale. I'm the only one that can reflect. What do you think I'm doing right now?

But anyway, I'm going off track (like a train). Wood.

The road was empty when I saw the piece of wood. The street I lived on was never busy, so that wasn't rare. But the wood was.

And before you ask: no there weren't any odd markings. It wasn't coated with blood. I'm not that stupid. Who do you take me for?

In fact, what drew me to it was the perfect smoothness that drew me in. I don't normally care about that sort of thing, but I decided to pick it up, just to take a closer look.

And then the car hit me.

Hah, weren't expecting that were you? You thought the wood would be cursed or something. Typical horror. You can deny it, but I see it in your eyes. You've been looking over the pages and pages of black and white words too long. If you were expecting it, I would applaud you, but I can't really.

But I digress. The car hit me. Smack bang. And I died.

Now, you're expecting a talk with God, a deal with the devil. But no. I'm just in empty blackness. Except, sometimes.

I can see it now. Faint blue light. It showed up when you appeared, and now it's shown up somewhere else.

Congratulations if you already guessed what would happen. I'm trapped now. Stuck in computer screens, waiting for new people. (prey)

Nah, that was a joke. I won't say you'll be sucked in from reading this. That would ruin the story when it doesn't happen.

But you're probably dissatisfied. 'Where's the terror?' You're thinking. But you already know.

The real terror is that this isn't real, and none of the other stories are. You write these afterlife stories because you need to believe that however bad, there is something. But you won't know. You'll never know.

And for humans like you or me: isn't that the most terrifying thing of all?