My fingers tremble as they search for the tiny "off" button on my camera. With a sharpened breath, I press it, watching the red light fade into darkness. I need to upload the video, I tell myself, but my hand does not move. It remains on the camera, my eyes locked on the black light. Stop it, I tell myself, as I close my eyes. Stop. There is no Finn. There is no "Better Twin" crap. No, it was a joke. But even as these words echo through my mind, I can feel him. I can feel his eyes watching me, burning the skin on the back of my neck which falls under his gaze. I can only imagine how pale my face is as the blood rushes from it. In the silence, I can hear by heart beating, the blood throbbing through my veins, my ears.

I open my eyes again. I need to stop. Finn does not exist. With those final words, I plug my camera into my laptop, uploading the new footage onto YouTube.

I created Finn, but not intentionally. It was not a "cheeky little game," as I had told my viewers. Finn was more of an imaginary friend, as one would call him. Something my seven year old mind, in my loneness, created in desperation for companionship. I had very few friends growing up. Why this was, I do not know. Perhaps I was too quiet, too "creative," as my mother so often put it. Too weird, too fucked up. That was the real reason. I know that now.

But Finn didn't think so. Over a decade has passed since my first encounter with my imaginary friend, but I can recall each word spoken, each action preformed so vividly, one would think it to be recent. I had been sitting on the playground of my elementary school, watching the other students run around and shout and play—how envious I felt of these fortunate children, so able to surround themselves in companionship while I had been shoved to the background, forced to watch from the outside with only my loneness. I found a stick and began tracing the outlines of shapes and faces in the dirt on which I sat when I suddenly felt a set of eyes resting upon me and heard footsteps approach. "Hello."

My eyes widened as I looked up. I do not recall dropping the stick, but remember it falling from my hand, making a gentle "tap" sound as it hit the ground. How strangely you must imagine me for reacting the way I did, but allow me to explain my shocked expression. The boy, you see, was my duplicate. He stood just over four feet, as I did, his body thin and white, like mine. His hair and eyes were the same shade of dark brown as mine were. The only distinction between this boy and myself was where my hair had been parted to the left, his was to the right. The boy smiled, giving me the same goofy smile I so rarely did and raised his hand in a wave. "My name is Finn," he told me in a voice which echoed mine. "Can I play with you?"

"I'm Jack," I was still in awe of this new boy, but even in my shock, I felt my body flood with joy. Never before had someone asked to play with me. Never before had people even seen me. I nodded with a little too much enthusiasm then I'd like to admit too.

The boy plopped down bedside me and with his finger began tracing over and adding to the pictures I had already drawn in the dirt. What fun I remember having with this new boy, drawing and enhancing each other's creations. Suddenly, the bell had rung, the sharp, piercing ring cutting through our conversation and signaling the end of recess. I stood, turning to my new friend.

Words cannot describe how heavy my heart fell when I saw only air sitting beside me. The boy had vanished, leaving me behind in my isolation. Although, I can't say I was surprised by this act. I was used to it. They always left me. In the end, at least. So, with my limbs weighed down by my own disappointment, I carried myself back into the school building and went about the rest of my lessons in silence. Like always.

Hours later, I remember sitting in my room listening to my parents argue below me. They didn't think I could hear them, but I could. Their voices would carry through the walls of the house, bringing themselves to me. They would then be absorbed back into the plaster, allowing the hate and anger of every word they spat at each other to linger for hours on end. I sat, listening to every crude comment, every tear my mother cried. They hadn't always been this way. This anger, this hatred—this was recent. If I think later back, to my very earliest memories, I can recall the four of us sitting together, my father reading stories of foxes and pigs and knights. I remember the four of us being happy. So happy.

Four?

No. not four. Forgive me. There was only three. There was always only three.

But I digress. I recall sitting in my room, pushing the red truck my aunt had given me on the hardwood floor, listening to the war going on beneath me.

"Do they always fight like that?" The voice yanked me from whatever seven-year-old daydream I was deeply entwined in. I looked up, my eyes widening with both fear and joy. Finn was here! He smiled the same large, goofy smile he had given me on the playground and sat down, reaching for a brown teddy bear which laid limp on the floor beside us. "What are we playing?"

"I thought you left!" I exclaimed, instantly wishing I hadn't. This is your only friend, I told myself. Don't make him explain himself. Don't make him hate you.

But instead of being irritated, he smiled gaily. "I know I did," he said, standing the bear on the floor and moving the legs to walks toward me. The bear looked so worn out, I remember thinking. So aged. "I'm sorry. But I didn't want anyone to see me." He took his eyes off the bear and looked at me. "I'm your friend. Your twin, in fact."

"I don't have a twin."

"You do now." He rammed the bear into the truck, roaring, as though the bear were attacking the truck, trying to devour the toy man inside. "C'mon," he said. "Let's play!"

From that day, Finn never left my side. Sure, he would vanish from sight when other people approached us, but he would always stay with me. I could feel him, always beside me. And he would remind me with a brush of the shoulder, a small gust of breathe. Anything to remind me he was still there.

He was always there.

But he was imaginary, I tell myself as I log onto YouTube. I glance at my mail. 243 New Messages. Many of them are aimed to Finn. But those will go away when they see my new video.

It will all go away.

To some extent, I am sad about this. I don't want Finn to leave; he's my friend, my… my twin. But he's not real. He's my imagination. And I have to accept that.

I no longer have a choice.

I met Finn when I was seven and although I was overcome with a vast and admittedly blind love for him, I felt another deep seeded emotion emerging deep within me as the years passed. This feeling would gnaw at me, starting deep within stomach and eating away at me, moving up toward the center of my chest. It was not until recently could I truly put a name to this feeling.

Fear. What I feel is complete and utter fear. You hear people talk of being "afraid" or of being "scared shitless," but this is not fear. Fear cannot be described; it must be felt. It is silent and slow. It starts deep inside of you, devouring you, ripping through every ounce of logic and sense you may have once had until you are nothing more than fear. I'm sorry, that is the best description I could give. But trust me when I say, I know this feeling well. Quite well.

It was when Finn approached me about a year ago could I truly identify this fear.

"I am your friend, Jack. Am I not?" He asked. On his lips, his smile beamed merrily, as it always had, but in his eyes I saw something that seemed to magnify every moment of fear I felt the past decade or so of knowing him tenfold. I saw… darkness. I saw an evil, sickening, indescribable force that made me think only of darkness...

For a moment, I was petrified by my dear Finn. I stared, my body frozen, my muscles tense. He asked again, his smile still bright, and this time added: "In fact, I am more than your friend, aren't I Jack? Aren't I your twin?" Fear had stolen my voice, but I could feel my head nodding silently. He took a step closer to me and said: "Don't you want others to know of me, then?"

"How?" The croak of my voice nearly stopped my heart. "I thought you didn't want them to see you?"

"And I still don't," Finn told me. "But I want them to know of me." It was then Finn told me of his plan. I was to make a YouTube channel documenting my life and slowly add "Finn."

I lied in the video—the one I just made. I didn't use a whole set to make the videos—I photo-shopped everything myself. I made the video. I came up with the idea.

At least, that is what I try to tell myself. I try to forget that I saw Finn standing over me as I edited each video. I try to forget that it was he who scripted out each line, forcing me to rehearse until it seemed causal, relaxed. Real.

That's it. I've uploaded the video. I stare at the computer screen and see the words "upload successful."

It was a game, I tell myself. And now it's done. Finito. Over.

"Why did you do that, Jack?" The sound is no more than a whisper from behind me. I close my eyes. I don't turn around. I can hear the air howling outside, and I feel my arms mindless wrap around my in embrace. My eyes scan the room, and suddenly I am filled with an overwhelming hatred for my parents, for it was they who decided to buy this goddamn house. Why? Why did they have to pick such a big one? Why did they have to give me such a large room? It is not the size which bothers me, but… the space. It's so empty, even with my CDs, my clothes, my books scattered around. It's so… so open.

"Jack." The voice is closer this time. I can picture Finn, standing at the door of the room, starting to walk over. "Why did you do that?"

I didn't mean to. I… I had to. They would have sent me away, Finn. They must have heard me talking to you, years after I should have abandoned all traces of imaginary friends. I heard them talking, Mum and Dad! They were fighting, their words, still so shrill, tearing through the silence of the night as I tried to sleep. Then suddenly, they had gone quiet and I… I felt something… odd. I was not filled with fear, as I am with you, Finn, but I was frightened.

I walked slowly down the darkened steps. I don't know why, but some force told me not to turn on the light, to keep my pace slow and nimble. They didn't hear me, Mum and Dad, but I heard them. I stood outside the living room, my back against the wall, my face turned toward their voices. He's getting worse, my father said. My mother was crying. I heard the floor creek as my father walked over to her, wrapping his arms around her and allowing her face to bury itself into his shoulder, muffling her sobs. He spends all his time up in his room. It's more than an "active imagination." It's… he needs help.

My heart was pounding. I could hear the blood pulsing tin my ears. I wasn't breathing; I couldn't. Slowly, I turned away, keeping my steps soundless, my suddenly heavy breathing hushed. I had heard all I needed.

I locked the door upon reentering my bedroom, trying to organize my cluttered, racing thoughts. I know what I have to do, I recall thinking. But wanted to do anything but… but give up Finn. That was what I had to do. I had to give up my first and only friend.

That was why I made the video. He's imagery, I know that. At least, I tell myself that. I was the one who made the video, I was the one who started this dumb game. It was my mind which created Finn and it will be my mind which ends him.

And it would begin with the video.

But I can feel him. His eyes are like beams directed at the back of my head.

"Jack." His voice is deep, slow. Almost… inhuman. I can feel him walking to me from the other side of the room. His pace is slow, paced. He has no need to rush. He knows that.

But I will not turn around.

"I know you can hear me."

I can't. I close my eyes, feeling the chill of the too big, too empty room kiss my skin. He's standing beside me now, looking down at me. I can picture him, his ionic smile gone, his dark eyes filled with… with the evil force. I squeeze my eyes tighter and despite my attempts to relax, to act calm, I can feel my heart rushing faster and fast, my skin growing paler.

"Jack. Aren't I your friend?"

I want to scream. I can feel the scream in the back of my throat, chocking me as though I swallowed a rock. I clamp my jaw shut. Finn is not real, he cannot win. I won't let him.

Finn does not exist.

Andy Harries tightens his arms which wrap around his Rebecca's shaking body. She buries her face deeper into his silk shirt, and he can feel the tears seeping through the fabric. He doesn't mind, though. He cranks his neck to kiss the head of his sobbing wife. His eyes close, for he can feel his own tears beating against his eyes, his head throbbing, as he thinks about his son upstairs, talking to… Andy didn't know.

Andy should have known something was wrong. He should have seen the signs. His son didn't shed a single tear when his twin brother died just after their seventh birthday. Finn is just… strong, Andy had told himself. Finn never mentioned his brother, and Andy had simply assumed his developing mind simply… blocked him out. Andy felt pangs through his heart, thinking of his forgotten son, but decided that this was better. Why put his son through so much pain? But he should have known something was amiss, especially when Finn began calling himself Jack. But Andy merely thought it was Finn's way of coping with Jack's death.

How wrong he had been.