The first few nights were peaceful

I’ve seen strange things my whole life. Shadows where there shouldn’t be any, whispers when no one was there. But nothing prepared me for what happened one cold autumn night.

I had just moved into a small rental house on the outskirts of town. It was quiet, surrounded by trees, and perfect for someone like me—someone who didn’t mind being alone. Or at least, that’s what I thought.

The first few nights were peaceful. Then, one evening, I woke up for no reason. The room was silent, the air still. But something felt wrong.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow from the streetlamp outside, I saw it.

A figure stood at the foot of my bed.

It wasn’t moving. Just standing there. Tall. Thin. Its face was pale, too pale, almost like it had no blood at all. I couldn’t see its eyes, but I felt them watching me.

I wanted to scream, to move, to do something—but I couldn’t. My body refused to listen. I was trapped, helpless, as the figure slowly leaned forward.

Then, without a sound, it floated toward me.

It didn’t walk. It didn’t step. It just glided, closer and closer, until it was right beside me. The air turned freezing. My breath came in short, panicked gasps.

And then—it reached out.

Its hand, cold and smooth like polished stone, took mine. It squeezed, gentle but firm.

The second it touched me, my mind exploded with memories.

I was a child again, lying in bed, terrified of the dark. I remembered something—someone—grabbing my hand from under the bed. I had screamed so loud that night. But now, I knew. It was the same touch. The same cold, gloved grip.

It had been with me all along.

The next thing I remember, it was morning. Sunlight streamed through the window. The figure was gone.

I wanted to believe it was just a dream, but deep down, I knew better.

Something is watching me.

And it’s been watching me for a very, very long time.