The air in the room is so thick with silence that I can hear my heartbeat, a rhythmic pulse that suddenly sounds alien and wrong. It's midnight, but the kind of midnight that feels suspended in time, where darkness presses against the edges of reality like a predator waiting to pounce.
A thud echoes from the hallway, soft but unmistakable. My breath catches in my throat, and I freeze, ears straining to pick up any hint of movement. The old floorboards moan as if they, too, fear what’s creeping toward them. The shadows play tricks on the mind, but this is not a trick—no. The cold sinking into my skin, the way my muscles lock and shiver, this is primal, ancient. The instinct of prey.
Another sound, a wet drag, like something heavy and slick being pulled across the wood.
It slithers closer, and I can’t see past the suffocating dark. My mouth opens, but no sound escapes.
My fingers reach for the light switch, trembling as if even the smallest movement might betray my presence. They never reach it.
Something shifts in the room—a whisper of air displaced by the unknown.
The drag stops. Silence. The kind of silence that isn't empty but full, crawling with expectation. I want to shut my eyes, pretend it isn’t real, but I can’t.
Then, a voice. Raspy, slow, and so close it feels like a touch on my skin.
"I see you."
The breath freezes in my lungs, burning as if turned to ice. The dark takes shape, forming eyes—two pits of ink that reflect nothing, consume everything. A hand, pale as the bone beneath it, reaches out, each joint clicking like the ticking of a clock counting down. Its fingers brush my arm, and a chill spreads, deep and invasive, until even the blood in my veins recoils.
I try to scream, but my voice has fled, lost somewhere between disbelief and terror. The hand tightens, and in the black abyss of those eyes, I see it—myself, silent, small, trapped. And suddenly, I know there will be no dawn, no escape. The world has narrowed to the cold grasp of something that should not exist.
The clock in the hall chimes once, a hollow echo that feels more like a farewell than a reminder of time.