The Figures in the Corner

Many nights have passed since the first time it happened, and now it is a nightly ritual I cannot escape.

Each evening, when I enter my room to rest, an object from my highest bookcase is always waiting for me in the center of the quilt. After I return it to its place and settle under the covers, the murmuring begins. The voices are low and muddled, a quiet discussion I cannot understand. Sometimes, I catch a word that sounds like my own name, as if I am the topic of their quiet debate.

My old habit is to peek through my barely-open eyelids, checking the room’s corners. I always see them then: four dark forms gathered near the dresser, their attention fixed on me. If I turn my head to look at them directly, they vanish into the gloom. So I have learned to observe them from the edge of my sight.

They stand there, talking among themselves, watching me as I pretend to sleep.