The Constant Hover

I moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of the marsh six months ago, seeking solitude after my marriage fell apart. The house was cheap, and the landlord was eager to rent it, warning me only about the drafty windows and the occasional flood. From the first night, I felt it—a pressure in the air, a weight in the dark, like a gaze pressing against my skin. I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, sure that something was just beyond my periphery, waiting for me to turn my head. I’d jerk awake, heart pounding, and flick on the lamp, but the room was always empty.

By autumn, I convinced myself it was my own grief playing tricks. Then my sister visited for a weekend. Over tea, she paused, frowning. ‘You know, I keep feeling like we’re not alone. Like something’s standing right behind me.’ I froze, because I hadn’t said a word about my own feelings. That night, I didn’t sleep. I watched the shadows in the corners writhe, and for the first time, I saw it—a shapeless black orb, about the size of a basketball, hovering just above my bed. It pulsed like a heartbeat, and when I blinked, it vanished.

My partner, Alex, came to stay the next month. We were in bed, half-asleep, when he suddenly whispered, ‘There’s someone standing by the bed. A dark figure.’ He pointed to the foot of the mattress, his hand trembling. I turned, but there was nothing. We left that night and slept on the couch. Alex swore he saw a tall, man-shaped shadow, silhouetted against the window, its head tilted as if studying us. He refused to sleep in that room again.

The visits grew more frequent. The orb would appear over my head while I slept, drifting closer until I woke gasping. I told myself I wasn’t inviting it—I’m not a spiritual person, no negative thoughts, no family curses. But it seemed drawn to me, and only me. Alex would watch it from the doorway, but it always left when he entered. ‘It wants you alone,’ he said, his voice grim. I started sleeping with the lights on, but even then, I’d feel its gaze.

One night, I confronted it. I sat up in bed, stared straight into its black core, and shouted, ‘What do you want?’ The orb trembled, then descended slowly, hovering inches from my face. I felt a cold breath, like something exhaling, and then it whispered—not in words, but in a feeling: a deep, ancient loneliness, a hunger for recognition. It had been watching me, not with malice, but with a desperate need to be seen. It had attached itself to me because I was the first person in decades who had the courage to stay.

I didn’t leave that night. I stayed, and I let it hover. And when Alex came to check on me, he found me sitting cross-legged, the orb bobbing in front of me like a curious pet. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked. I looked at him, and I smiled. ‘I’ve decided to keep it.’ But as I spoke, I noticed the orb had grown bigger, and its shadow on the wall looked like a hunched figure, its head tilted. It wasn’t a pet. It was a companion, and it had no intention of letting me go.