I had always felt different. It was more than a mere sense of unease; it was an unnameable discomfort that lurked at the edges of my perception. I live alone in an old house that seems to groan with the weight of its years. The creaky floorboards and faded wallpaper are all too familiar, yet there's something about this place that keeps me grounded.

The mornings are always the same. I wake up to the soft light filtering through my bedroom window, casting long shadows across the room.

I stretch, feeling the stiffness in my limbs. It's a peculiar sort of stiffness, one that I've grown used to over time. I suppose it's part of aging, though I've never been quite sure.

In the kitchen, I prepare my breakfast. The routine is simple: a bowl of oatmeal, a cup of black coffee. The taste is bland, yet comforting. My reflection in the kitchen window as I stir my coffee is a face I recognize but don't fully understand. The deep-set eyes, the pallor of my skin---there's something off, but I can't put my finger on it.

The neighborhood is quiet. People pass by in their cars, eyes focused ahead, minds preoccupied. I've tried to reach out, but the conversations always feel strained. It's as if there's an invisible barrier between me and the rest of the world.

One afternoon, while cleaning the attic, I stumbled upon a dusty old mirror. It was ornate, with intricate carvings around the frame, and covered in a thick layer of grime. As I cleaned it, I noticed something strange: my reflection seemed to flicker, like a candle flame in the wind. I dismissed it as a trick of the light and continued with my chores.

Days turned into weeks, and the feeling of unease grew stronger. My appetite had changed; I craved meat more than usual, and it was never enough.

I found myself wandering at night, drawn by an inexplicable hunger. I would return home with my hands stained and a gnawing emptiness that no amount of food could fill.

One evening, as I was walking through the dimly lit streets, I encountered a stray dog. It was thin and shivering, eyes wide with fear. I knelt down, extending my hand, but the dog recoiled. It was then that I felt an almost unbearable urge, a compulsion that made my heart race. I had never felt anything like it before.

'Come here, little one," I murmured, but the dog darted away. I watched it disappear into the darkness, feeling a pang of something unsettling. It wasn't just hunger; it was something primal and dark.

The next morning, I woke up with a strange taste in my mouth. My dreams had been vivid and unsettling, filled with shadows and distant cries. I brushed it off as a bad dream and went about my day, but the feeling persisted.

I began to notice subtle changes: my reflection in mirrors seemed to be less defined, my skin paler.

One day, while browsing through old records in a second-hand store, I came across a book about local legends and folklore.

It was a dusty tome, the kind that feels as though it has been untouched for decades. I flipped through the pages, intrigued by stories of creatures that roamed in the dark, feeding on the fears and flesh of the living.

One particular entry caught my eye. It described a ghoul---an undead creature with an insatiable hunger for human flesh. The more I read, the more my heart pounded. The descriptions were eerily familiar: the pallid skin, the flickering reflection, the unnatural hunger.

I laughed it off as mere superstition, but the seed of doubt had been planted. That night, as I lay in bed, the words from the book echoed in my mind. I found myself unable to sleep, my thoughts consumed by the possibility that I might be something other than human.

The next few days were a blur of confusion and dread. I began to notice that people avoided me. It wasn't just a casual avoidance; it was as though they sensed something wrong.

I tried to interact, but conversations felt strained and uncomfortable. The gnawing hunger became more pronounced, and my attempts to quench it only seemed to feed it further.

One evening, I encountered a young woman on her way home. Her gaze met mine, and I felt an immediate, overwhelming urge.

I followed her, driven by a hunger that had become almost unbearable. She stopped near an alley, her eyes wide with alarm as she sensed my presence.

"Who"s there?" she called out, her voice trembling. I reached out, my hand trembling as I tried to speak, but the hunger drowned out my words. I was so close, I could almost touch her, but I suddenly felt an intense revulsion---a realization of what I was about to do. I pulled back, fleeing into the night.

The next morning, as I stumbled back into my house, I found myself standing before the mirror again. The reflection that stared back at me was almost unrecognizable.

My eyes were hollow, my skin sallow. It was as though the mirror had captured the essence of my darkest fears. I touched my face, feeling the coldness of my skin.

Desperation drove me to seek answers. I scoured the old book again, searching for clues about how to rid myself of this curse.

The more I read, the more I realized that there was no simple solution. The ghoul was a creature bound by its own nature, unable to escape the hunger that defined it.

One night, I found myself drawn back to the mirror. The reflections seemed to twist and writhe, distorting my image into something monstrous.

I felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to break it. With a cry of anguish, I smashed the mirror into shards, watching as the pieces scattered across the floor.

In the days that followed, my sense of reality began to fray. The hunger grew more intense, and I struggled to control it. I wandered through the streets, my sense of self becoming increasingly fragmented. The more I tried to fight it, the stronger the hunger became.

Eventually, I came to a terrifying realization: the hunger was not just a physical craving but a part of my very being. I was no longer the person I once was; I was a ghoul, a creature driven by an insatiable need. The legends were true, and I was trapped in a nightmare of my own making.

The final confrontation came unexpectedly. A group of people, sensing something wrong, had gathered outside my house. They looked at me with a mix of fear and anger, their eyes accusing. They had heard rumors, whispers of a creature that roamed the streets, preying on the innocent.

As they advanced, I felt a primal rage rise within me. I tried to speak, to explain that I was not what they thought, but the hunger consumed my words. My attempts to flee were met with a barrage of accusations and shouts. The hunger, the curse---it all came crashing down upon me.

I realized then that I had become the very thing I had feared. The hunger, the reflection in the mirror, the whispers in the dark---they were all a part of me. The legend was not just a story but a reflection of my own monstrous transformation.

The crowd's voices grew louder, their accusations more frantic. I stumbled back, my mind reeling with the weight of my newfound identity. The hunger gnawed at me, a relentless force that I could neither ignore nor satisfy.

In a final, desperate act, I fled into the night, leaving the crowd behind. The darkness embraced me, and the hunger roared within me. The world outside was a blur of shadows and despair. I wandered through the streets, unable to escape the torment of my own existence.

As I moved through the darkness, I came across a new reflection in a store window---my face, distorted and gaunt, a haunting reminder of the curse I carried. I pressed my hands against the glass, feeling the coldness of my own skin.

The open sky above was obscured by the gloom of the city. I could hear distant sirens, the muffled sounds of a world that had become alien to me. The hunger, now a constant companion, drove me forward. There was no end in sight, no escape from the monstrous truth of my existence.

I wandered through the night, lost in a world that no longer felt like home. The hunger, the reflection, the whispers---they were all pieces of a dark puzzle that I had been unwilling to see. And as I stumbled through the shadows, I knew that my journey was far from over.

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1.480 words.