Still not sure if anything's real

It started as just a regular dream—or maybe a nightmare. I can’t remember anymore. All I know is that when I woke up, death was standing in the corner of my room. Not the Halloween-costume kind. This thing was wrong. Twisted. A shape barely holding itself together, shifting in the dark like a shadow that didn’t know where to stand. Its face—or what should have been a face—was just an absence, a void that pulled the air from my lungs. I couldn’t scream. Couldn’t breathe. Just stared. And then I woke up. Again. Same bed. Same room. Same... thing. It stood there in the corner, watching. Waiting. The weight of its presence pressed against me like a nightmare that refused to fade. I pinched myself. Slapped myself. Even turned the bedside lamp on and off, but it didn’t move. Didn’t leave. Reality felt thin, stretched. I begged it to take me. To end it. Anything but this. And then my sister walked in. She wasn’t alone—her friends trailed behind her, laughing, filling the room with a false sense of normalcy. I almost cried with relief. But when I tried to explain, she just blinked at me, confused. Like she couldn’t see it. The thing in the corner. And then... I woke up. Again. This time, I was sure it was over. It felt real. I got out of bed, made breakfast, tried to shake it off. But when I tapped my sister on the shoulder later that day, she turned to me with a smile that wasn’t hers. It stretched too wide, the skin pulling too tight over her teeth. "I'm literally everyone," she whispered. And then I woke up. Over and over, I lived through the same day. Each time, I tried to convince myself it was real. Each time, I failed. Someone—a cashier, a stranger, my mom—would eventually turn to me, their face splitting into that sick, knowing grin. "I'm literally everyone." I stopped talking to people. Stopped leaving my room. It didn’t matter. They still found me. The delivery guy. The neighbor watering his lawn. The voice on the other end of a phone call. "I'm literally everyone." Eventually, it spoke to me directly. No disguises. No pretense. Just the void in the corner of my room, sitting on the edge of my bed this time, leaning in close. Its voice was every voice I had ever heard, layered and overlapping in an echo that scratched inside my skull. "I’m your subconscious," it said, and then, with something almost like pity: "You have the power to stop this. But you won’t, will you?" I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because deep down, I knew it was right. Then the cycle escalated. My whole town—the streets, the houses, the faces—became one great, shifting thing. Everywhere I looked, people were staring. Smiling. Murmuring the same phrase, over and over, in voices that weren’t theirs. I ran. Bolted out the front door, into the streets, past glowing eyes and grinning faces. I don’t know how long I ran, but I could hear them behind me, their footsteps in sync, the chant growing louder. "I'm literally everyone. I'm literally everyone. I'm literally everyone." And then I woke up. For the final time.