[ WP ] The dead walk the Earth amongst the living . However they 're not eating brains but rather living life normally , no one notices this except you . As you desperately try to warn others of this , a zombie approaches you and says `` No one will ever believe you ''

I woke up just like any other morning. It was a little after 11:00 in the afternoon with the sun trying it's best to peek through my blackout curtains. Peeling back the curtains flooded my room with the midday light, revealing autumn leaves littering the back steps, gently rustling in a light, crisp, New England breeze. As I gazed upon my yard, a setting I've gazed upon many times before, my morning routine and the mundane processes of the day played through my mind much like a computer booting up. I thought about my timing and what I could accomplish before I headed to my evening job; the errands I needed to run, the quick game or two I might have time to play before work, and whatever I may need to finish that I started the day before. However, I realized that I could n't exactly remember the day before. 
 
 I know I worked, I remember clocking out with the distinct, mechanical punching noise stamping my time card. I remember starting my walk home, or at least I think I went home. I do n't remember arriving. I do n't remember surfing my usual websites and streaming TV shows until my eyes grew heavy from fatigue as I am usually wont to do. Scrolling through the texts from the previous day showed no sign of invites to bars for an after hours drink. My friend did n't seem to want to practice guitar like we usually do on Thursdays. There were no new receipts, trash, or any remnants of stopping anywhere before my arrival home. As perplexing as my apparent memory loss was, I decided to wait and see if it happened again. Even with insurance a doctor's visit is too pricey on a paycheck to paycheck wage. With my new minor anxiety sufficiently shoved into the back of my mind, I continued my morning routine. Well, I guess it's more of an afternoon routine at this point. I took my shower and attempted to comb my hair without a mirror again because my roommate still has n't replaced the one his friend broke during his latest frat style party. I checked my email and ate a small bowl of cereal while browsing the weather reports and whatever people were posting to Facebook that supplied them with the fleeting attention they so desperately desire. After a mundane `` morning'' the time to return to work approached. Stepping out of my front door I inhaled deeply to prepare myself for the walk to work as I usually do. 
 
 I am almost instantly in the thick of today's batch of tourists, trying my best not to bump into any of them on the small colonial streets. Tourist dodging has become almost an art form to me, avoiding the window shoppers and careless groups talking in the middle of the sidewalk; sidestepping baby carriages and obese visitors most likely from the mid-west; doing my best to keep away from the joggers and the teenager cyclists ignoring the rules by riding on the sidewalks. That day was a particularly busy day with foot traffic almost coming to a standstill at times. The worst offenders were a group of window shoppers distracted by a dog walker brandishing a golden retriever on a loose leash, blocking the entirety of the sidewalk and forcing people to step into the street. This was unfortunately not a rare occurrence and I was at the point where I had to say something. It was when I approached the group that my heart sank into my gut. 
 
 Looking past the group of middle aged women letting out squeals of affection towards the pup, I saw what could only be described as rotting corpses in the shop window. Their skin was mostly a translucent pale with scattered bruising and scabs. One of these corpses had flays of skin dangling off of her cheek and shoulders, another had deep lacerations riddled across her body. I could only assume they were women due to the long hair, as sparse and tattered as it seemed, and that, for some reason, they all wore what were once beautiful gowns; now only shreds of material clinging to their ghastly forms. The nausea welled up deep inside me and only increased ten fold once I realized that they were *moving*. Not only were they moving, but they seemed to be interacting with a normal person and his dog. The blood ran ice cold through my veins as I realized that these were not some high quality Halloween display or a perverse form of modern art. These were *reflections*. My jaw hung agape as I attempted to scream, only to be chocked by crushing fear as the group turned their heads facing me. Before I could ask any questions, or respond to their inquiries of my horrified spectating, or even let out that scream I most desperately needed to evacuate; I found myself sprinting back down the street ignoring the sidewalk altogether. I stumbled many times due to my fixation on the windows of shops and passing vehicles. The reflections showing normal, healthy people casually intermingling with what I assumed to be demons or wraiths or, dare I say, zombies. 
 
 Running out of energy and sanity, I entered an empty, unpopular side street and sank against one of the brick columns adorning one of the street's shops. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what I saw, rocking back and forth in an attempt to calm myself. At that time an older gentleman stepped around the corner from which I haphazardly emerged and slowly made his way towards me, staring at me as if concerned. I was almost put to ease seeing this grandfatherly figure in his tweet jacket and grey slacks, gingerly walking on the brick sidewalk, his loafers gently tapping with each step. My ease quickly reverted to the terror that enveloped me before as the old man's reflection mimicked his movements in the windows across the street. It showed the same old man, pale as the others with his teeth exposed in a decayed cheek. The eye I could see was only a socket holding nothing but the darkness from it's absence. The tweed jacket was replaced with a decaying tuxedo, missing a sleeve that exposed a bony hand, covered in scabs. I attempted to stumble back to my feet as I saw more than enough to satisfy my flight or flight response, but fear kept me close to the ground. Half crawling, half tripping while attempting to sprint, I scurried the best I could until I reached the end of the street, a pier extending into the Atlantic bay. At this point the old gentleman/zombie/whatever he was was walking in the middle of the street, slowly trapping me onto the pier. I did n't want to try to run past him. Who knew if he had some mystical power that he could use to destroy me? I wa n't about to test that theory. While shuffling backwards down the pier, my voice cracked in terror as I shouted, `` What are you? Who are you? What do you want with me, or... or any of us?'' He said nothing. No response was given, no effort was made to threaten or comfort me. He simply kept walking in his slow and steady pace, making his way down the pier. `` I'll fight you if I have to!'' I yelled as a last resort to hinder his motives, whatever they were. `` I'll tell everyone what you are!'' After those words escaped my lips he paused only for a moment, and then he just fucking smirked with a crooked smile stretching across his wrinkled flesh. The man once again started his rhythmic stride as he finally replied in a raspy yet warm voice, `` What are you going to tell them? That I'm dead?'' I failed to summon up the courage to respond, albeit relieved that I now knew that he could indeed talk. He continued, `` Try as you might, no one will ever believe you.'' After another pause inflated with dread and confusion I finally mustered up the courage to ask, `` So it's true? You're dead? You ca n't be serious, how?'' 
 
 `` All of these questions will be answered in due time, but first you must calm yourself and accept that the world will be different for you from now on. It is easier this way.'' He now stood about four paces in front of me, stopped in an unaggressive, seemingly understanding posture. Why would the world be different? Why is it different for *me*? Is this an elaborate joke? Did I have some sort of aneurysm? I do n't remember the end of yesterday after all, maybe I did have a small aneurysm. What will be easier? All these questions flooded my mind at the rate of a runaway freight train until the old man's voice broke the internal chaos. 
 
 `` You do n't know yet do you?'' 
 
 `` Do n't know what?'' 
 
 `` Why you can see me the way that you do.'' 
 
 ``... No.'' 
 
 `` Look in the water, but do n't be scared. Just accept it'' 
 
 I gazed at his full reflection, a rotting figure dressed in the tattered tuxedo I saw before in the shop window, now wavering in the waters. He looked at me through his reflection with one eye still missing and the other sunken into his skull. What was left of his skin sagged out of his rags of clothing, discolored with bruising and scabs. A terrifying character, yet serene in his posture. As I studied his reflection he gently nodded to the reflection standing next to him. A young man also dressed in a tuxedo whose skin was not as pale as the others' but pale nonetheless. His right side of his body was bloodied and scraped while the left was mangled and distorted with chunks of flesh missing and puncture wounds and lacerations dotting his skin. And he was looking at me. He mimicked his movements like me. He *was* me.
