The Counting Thing

I was thirteen when we moved to the edge of the Thornwood, a vast stretch of pine and scrub that swallowed the horizon. Our house was a converted ranger station, all creaking boards and drafty windows, and I loved it. The nearest neighbor was a mile down a gravel road, and at night, the forest pressed against the glass like a held breath.

That particular night, I was drifting off, the kind of half-sleep where the world gets fuzzy and your thoughts turn to static. My room was at the end of the hall, and my bed sat against the wall facing a large window that overlooked the woods. At the foot of my bed was a wide closet, its door always slightly ajar, revealing a jumble of boxes and old coats. On the far wall of the closet, I had my dresser.

I was just at the edge of sleep, that warm, sinking feeling, when a voice cut through. It was a man’s voice, deep and rough, as if it had been scraped from the bottom of a well. It said, ‘One.’ Then, after a pause, ‘Two.’ It was counting. Each number was a hammer blow against the silence, loud and clear, as if someone were standing right next to my ear.

I snapped awake, heart hammering. I sat up and scanned the room. Moonlight filtered through the window, casting long shadows. I looked toward the closet. And there, on my dresser, I saw a shape.

It was small, about the size of a child, but utterly black, darker than the shadows around it. It was hunched over, its arms wrapped around its knees, and it was rocking back and forth. Its eyes were two coals of red, burning in the dark, and they were fixed on me.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. The voice continued, now coming from the shape. ‘Three. Four.’ Each number was measured, deliberate, as if it were savoring the sound. It was counting my heartbeats, I realized, or perhaps counting down to something.

I wanted to scream, but my throat was locked. The thing tilted its head, and a grin split its face, a wide, toothy grin that seemed to glow faintly. ‘Five. Six. Seven.’ Its voice was deeper now, resonating in my chest. It stopped rocking and slowly unfolded itself, standing on the dresser, its arms hanging too long for its body.

I finally found my voice and let out a shriek. My door burst open, and my father stumbled in, flicking on the light. The shape was gone. The dresser was empty, save for a few loose keys and a forgotten sock. My father found me drenched in sweat, pointing at the closet, but there was nothing there.

I didn’t sleep for three days. I told my parents it was just a nightmare, but I knew better. I started leaving my closet light on at night, and I kept my door cracked so the hallway light spilled in. But the counting continued, every night, at random hours. It never got past ten. It would start, count slowly, and then stop abruptly, always just before I could pinpoint its source.

A week later, I was in my room doing homework, and I heard it again. ‘Five. Six.’ I whirled around, but the room was empty. The closet door was open, and I could see the dresser. The shape was there, but this time it was different. It was slightly larger, and its red eyes were brighter, more intense. It was counting, but it was also mimicking my movements. I reached for my phone, and it reached for something too, its arm lifting as if holding an invisible object.

I ran out of the room, slamming the door behind me. My parents were in the living room, watching TV. I told them I heard something in my closet, but they chocked it up to the house settling. My mother offered to check, but I refused, saying I’d rather just sleep on the couch.

That night, I lay on the couch, listening to the hum of the refrigerator. At 2:47 AM, the voice came again, but this time it was right above me, whispering in my ear. ‘Nine. Ten.’ I felt a cold breath on my neck. I jumped up, and the voice laughed, a low, guttural sound that seemed to come from inside my own head.

I grabbed a kitchen knife and stood in the middle of the living room, turning in circles. The house was silent. Then I saw it, in the reflection of the TV screen. The shape was standing behind me, its head tilted, its grin wider. It was taller now, nearly my height. Its eyes gleamed, and it raised a finger to where its lips should be, as if to shush me.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat with the lights on, clutching the knife, and I felt its presence in the room, watching me. The next morning, I told my parents I wanted to go to the church in town and pray. They looked at me strangely but agreed.

The church was small, and the priest, Father Michael, was an old man with kind eyes. I told him everything, expecting him to laugh or dismiss it. Instead, he grew pale. He told me that in the old country, there were stories of a being that counted, a demon of patience, that marked its victims until a hundred days passed. Then it would take them.

I asked what I could do. He gave me a rosary and told me to carry it at all times, to pray every night, and to never give it a name, because names gave power. I left the church feeling a little better, but the counting continued.

That night, I was in my room, the rosary wrapped around my wrist. The voice started again. ‘One. Two. Three.’ I began to pray, Hail Marys, Our Fathers. But the counting didn’t stop. It grew louder, more insistent, until it was a roar in my ears. I fell to my knees, crying, and then it stopped.

I looked up, and the shape was sitting on my bed, right next to me. Its red eyes were inches from mine, and I saw its face for the first time. It was not a child’s face, but a withered, ancient thing, with skin like bark and a mouth filled with needle-thin teeth. It reached out a long, bony finger and touched my forehead. ‘You are number one hundred,’ it said, and its voice was the sound of branches snapping.

I screamed and threw the rosary at it. The beads broke, scattering across the floor. The shape recoiled, hissing, and then it vanished. I was left alone, gasping, the silver cross lying on my pillow. I grabbed the cross and held it to my chest, but I knew it was only a temporary reprieve.

The next day, I told my parents I wanted to go to a boarding school, anywhere far away. They were confused but agreed, thinking it was teen angst. I left two weeks later, and I never went back to that house. I never told anyone the full story until now.

I’m thirty now, and I’ve moved dozens of times, but every night, at random hours, I hear a voice counting. It never gets past ninety. And I know, one day, it will finish. It’s just a matter of patience.