The Fabric of the Unwoken

In the summer of 2019, I was working the graveyard shift at a sprawling data-storage facility on the outskirts of Norfolk, Virginia. The building was a windowless monolith of humming servers and cold air, a stark contrast to the small, salt-weathered cottage I rented by the Lynnhaven River. My sleep schedule was a wreck; I’d come home at 7 a.m., collapse onto the couch in my living room, and try to drift off with the TV droning on about commodity futures or some old horror movie. I always left the recliner tilted back, my phone propped on the armrest, set to camera. I’d snap two photos right when I woke up, barely moving. I had my reasons.

That particular morning, I’d been asleep for about three hours when I felt a sudden, oppressive weight on my chest. My eyes snapped open, but I didn’t move. I was lying on my back, staring straight ahead at the TV across the room, which was showing static. In my peripheral vision, I caught a flash of crimson on my body. I slowly turned my head, and my breath caught. There was a shape hovering over me—a figure, translucent and shimmering, its head tilted as if studying me. It wore a worn, rust-colored T-shirt so thin it seemed to merge with the air, and denim jeans of a deep, electric blue that were impossibly vivid against the dim room. Its legs straddled my hips, its weight pinning me down, though it looked utterly weightless.

My first instinct was to scream, but my throat was locked. The figure leaned closer, and I saw its face—or rather, the suggestion of one, a swirl of static and shadow where features should be. It opened its mouth, and out poured not a sound, but a cold, damp breath that smelled of river brine and rotting seaweed. It whispered, in a voice that scratched at the inside of my skull, ‘You see me now, don’t you?’ And I did. I saw every thread of its shirt, every stitch in its jeans, the faint outline of a name tag on its chest that read ‘D. Hollis.’

I blinked, and it was gone. The weight lifted, and I gasped for air, drenched in cold sweat. Shaking, I snatched my phone and snapped two photos, just as I always did. The first showed an empty couch, the second caught a blur of red and blue near the door. I didn’t look at them again until later. When I did, I noticed something odd in the second photo: a faint reflection in the TV screen of a man standing behind me, his hands reaching for my head. He wore the same red shirt and blue jeans. I hadn’t seen anyone behind me.

I tried to convince myself it was sleep paralysis, a trick of the light. But that day, I found a small, brownish stain on the throw pillow where my ear had been. It smelled of brine. And when I went to the bathroom, I noticed a thin red line behind my ear, like a paper cut, but deeper. The next night, I set up a tripod camera before sleeping, pointing at the couch. But I didn’t sleep; I watched the feed live. At 9:47 a.m., the figure materialized again, but this time it wasn’t hovering over me. It was walking slowly from the kitchen, dragging something heavy. It approached the couch, and I saw its face clearly for the first time: it was my own, but older, with sunken eyes and a trickle of blood from the ear. It wore my face like a mask, and then it smiled, and said, ‘You left the door unlocked.’

I sold the cottage a month later, but I still take two photos every morning. In the latest one, there’s a faint figure standing in the corner of my new apartment, wearing the same red and blue. I’ve started sleeping with my eyes open. It doesn’t help. Last week, I found a torn piece of fabric, red and threadbare, on my pillow. It wasn’t there before I slept. And now, as I write this, I feel a weight on my chest, and I’m slowly turning my head to see if the jeans are still that brilliant blue. They are. And this time, he’s wearing my face, and he’s smiling because he knows I’m awake.