The Finger in the Mouth

I’m writing this from my small cabin in the woods, where I’ve been trapped for the past week. It started about two weeks ago, when I began feeling a presence in my home. My partner, Leo, works night shifts at the logging camp, so I was often alone at night. I’d go to bed around ten, reading until I felt drowsy, then drift off to the sound of the wind in the pines.

One night, I had a dream that I was being suffocated. A pale, long-fingered hand was pressing down on my mouth, its index finger sliding past my lips and down my throat. I woke with a gasp, a choking sensation lingering. I thought it was just a nightmare, so I tried to settle back into sleep. But as I lay there, I felt a tug on the hem of my cotton pajama shorts. Something was gripping the fabric and pulling it up, insistent and firm. My skin prickled as I felt a cold, dry pressure against my thigh, as if a hand were palpating my flesh. I cried out for Leo, but he was still at work. I turned on every light and didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

In the days that followed, the presence grew bolder. I would hear light footsteps in the hallway when I was alone, and the floorboards would creak as if someone was standing right beside me. Objects would move: my coffee mug would slide across the counter, and books would fall from their shelves. But the worst was the touching. I’d feel a hand on my shoulder, a breath on my neck, or fingers trailing along my arm when I was reading. At first, it was just at night, but soon it started happening during the day. I began to think I was losing my mind.

One afternoon, I decided to investigate the cabin. I remembered that the previous owner had committed suicide in the living room, but I’d always dismissed it as local gossip. Now, I wasn’t so sure. I went into the attic, where I found an old journal belonging to a woman named Eleanor. She wrote about being pestered by a malicious spirit, describing the same sensations I was experiencing. She claimed that a man named Silas, who had lived here in the 1800s, had been a recluse obsessed with the occult. He had performed rituals to capture a spirit in a glass jar, but the jar had been shattered during a fire. Eleanor believed the spirit had attached itself to the cabin, and she detailed attempts to communicate with it through a homemade spirit board.

I felt a cold presence behind me as I read, and I turned to find my reflection in the grimy attic window, but it appeared distorted. The reflection smiled when I didn’t. I closed the journal and decided to seek help from a local medium, but the next morning, the phone lines were dead, and my car’s tires were slashed. I was stranded. The tapping on the windows grew more persistent, and I felt something crawl into bed with me at night, its breath on my neck.

Last night, I woke to find a dark shape crouched on my chest. It had the form of a man, but its face was smooth and featureless. I couldn’t move or scream. It slowly opened its mouth, revealing a needle-like tongue, and lowered its head toward me. I felt a sharp pain as it pressed its finger against my lips, and I tasted something like metal and rust. It whispered in a voice like dry leaves, ‘You are my vessel.’

I managed to wake, drenched in sweat, but I was not alone. The lamp on the nightstand flickered, and I saw a handprint on the wall, wet as if just pressed. I’ve barricaded the bedroom door, and I’m huddled in the corner with a flashlight. I can hear it breathing just outside the door. I don’t know if I’ll make it out, but I’m writing this in the hopes that someone will find it and understand what is happening to me. If you read this, beware of the finger that seeks your throat, for it is the harbinger of the invasion.