Sunday Short: The Last Set

The gym was nearly empty. It always was at this hour.

Adam liked it that way—less waiting for machines, no small talk, just the rhythmic clang of weights and the pounding of his own heartbeat. It was almost meditative. But tonight, something felt… off.

The air was thick, heavier than usual. The overhead fluorescents flickered, casting jittery shadows on the rubberized floor. He adjusted his grip on the barbell, brushing off the unease.

It was just exhaustion. Had to be.

He set up for deadlifts, loading the plates one by one. The weight felt right—heavy, but manageable. As he straightened up, he glanced at the mirror lining the wall. That’s when he saw it.

A man.

Not lifting, not stretching—just standing behind him, staring.

Adam turned instinctively, his breath hitching.

Nothing.

The gym was empty, just as it had been all night.

A slow chill crept up his spine, but he forced himself to shake it off. Fatigue and paranoia. That’s all it is. He tightened his grip on the bar, bent his knees, and pulled.

The weights left the floor, tension burning through his legs and back. But as he reached the top of the lift, the gym’s music—usually a steady thrum of bass-heavy beats—cut out.

Silence.

Then, whispering.

Not from the speakers. Not from outside. Right next to him.

"You’re not supposed to be here."

Adam dropped the barbell, the loud clang echoing through the empty gym. His pulse hammered against his ribs.

“Hello?” His voice sounded small, swallowed by the stillness.

No answer.

He grabbed his towel and gym bag, heading for the exit, his legs feeling unsteady. Just go home. Get some sleep.

But when he reached the door, it wouldn’t budge.

He yanked harder. Locked.

His breath hitched. That didn’t make sense. This was a 24-hour gym—there was no reason for the doors to be locked. He checked his phone. No signal.

Then, the whisper returned.

"One more set."

The machines groaned. The treadmills whirred to life on their own, belts moving at impossible speeds. The dumbbells rattled, their metal clinking together in a rhythm like an impatient heartbeat.

Adam turned in slow horror.

The squat rack—empty just moments ago—was now fully loaded. The barbell rested on the hooks, plates stacked impossibly high. The mirror reflected something that shouldn’t be there.

The man was back. But this time, his face was wrong. Sunken eyes, skin stretched too tightly over sharp bones, mouth twisted in something between a grin and a snarl.

And Adam realized—he wasn’t looking at a stranger.

He was looking at himself.

A cold, dead version of himself.

The reflection smirked. Then it moved.

Not the way reflections should. It stepped forward, while Adam stood frozen in place.

The voice—his own voice, but distorted, deeper—whispered again.

"One more set, Adam."

The lights above buzzed, then burst, glass shattering onto the floor. Darkness swallowed the gym.

A force—unseen but crushing—gripped Adam’s body, dragging him toward the squat rack. His feet scraped against the rubberized floor as he struggled, but it was no use. The weight on the bar seemed to vibrate with hunger.

He was forced down under the barbell. The iron rested against his shoulders, heavier than anything he had ever lifted. His knees trembled. His back ached. His lungs screamed.

"One more set."

The whisper was inside his head now, pressing against his skull like a vice.

The last thing he saw before the weight came crashing down was his own reflection, watching with hollow, unblinking eyes.

The gym returned to normal by morning. The usual early risers arrived, never noticing the faint, dark stain beneath the squat rack.

By the entrance, on the Wall of Members, a new name had appeared.

Adam.

No one questioned it.

And late at night, when the gym was empty, the treadmills would hum to life on their own. The weights would rattle.

And if you listened closely… you could still hear the whisper.

"One more set."