The Hovering Sheet

One Tuesday afternoon, after school, my boyfriend Devin and I walked to his apartment. We lived in a sprawling, old complex called Willow Creek, which had creaky floors and drafty windows. As we pushed open Devin’s bedroom door, a small, dark shape darted from behind the door, skittered across the warped wooden floorboards, and vanished through a gap between two planks. At the same moment, a pair of Devin’s jeans, which had been lying in a heap, toppled over, as if nudged by an invisible hand. We both froze. I, being the nervous type, made Devin search through the piles of clothes and under the mattress, but there was nothing. No rat, no bug—just dust bunnies and the faint smell of mildew.

A few days later, we returned to his room. I was just about to turn the knob when I saw, through the crack of the slightly open door, a tall, black silhouette standing by the window. It looked like someone under a huge black sheet, with arms hanging straight down. As I pushed the door open, the figure glided silently behind the door, perfectly timed with its swing, so that by the time the door was fully open, it was hidden from view. I blinked, convinced my eyes were playing tricks. I stepped in, and Devin followed. The room was as usual—clothes scattered, a foam mattress on the floor, and a single window with tattered curtains. But something felt off. The air was colder, and there was a faint, sweet smell, like rotting fruit.

That night, Devin stayed over at my place. We tried to forget about the incident, but my mind kept replaying the image. The next morning, I walked back to my apartment alone, when I saw a figure in the distance, standing under a streetlamp. It was tall and black, like a sheet draped over a person. It didn’t move. I hurried inside, locking the door behind me. For the rest of the day, I felt a prickling sensation on the back of my neck, as if someone was watching me. I called Devin, but he didn’t answer. I left a voicemail, my voice shaking.

When Devin finally called back an hour later, he sounded shaken. He said that while he was in the bathroom, he saw a black shape slide under the door, just like the one we saw in his room. It moved across the floor and then disappeared into the wall. He laughed it off, but his voice was tight. We agreed to meet at his apartment that evening to investigate. When I arrived, the door was ajar. The room was dark. The curtains were drawn, and the air was thick. I called out for Devin, but there was no answer. I stepped inside, and the door swung shut behind me, slamming with a bang that echoed.

I turned around, and there it was—the figure, now clearly visible in the dim light. It was a billowing black shape, featureless except for a slight bulge where a head would be. It hovered a few inches above the floor, its ‘arms’ still pressed against its sides. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The figure began to glide towards me, moving with an eerie smoothness. I backed away, tripping over a pile of clothes. As I fell, I saw that the sheet was not just black; it had a faint, shimmering pattern, like oil on water. And beneath the hem, I glimpsed what looked like bare feet, but they were grey and wrinkled, with long, black nails.

I scrambled to my feet and ran for the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The figure was now just a few feet away. I could feel a coldness emanating from it, and the sweet smell intensified. I closed my eyes, bracing for impact. But then, I heard Devin’s voice, muffled, coming from the floor. I looked down and saw his hand protruding from a gap in the floorboards, waving frantically. ‘Help me! It’s got me!’ he cried. I fell to my knees, trying to pry the boards apart, but they wouldn’t move. The figure loomed over me, and suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder, ice cold. I looked up, and the figure’s head tilted, as if curious. Then, it spoke, in a voice that was both young and ancient, ‘You see me now.’

With a surge of adrenaline, I yanked at the floorboard, and it snapped, leaving a jagged hole. Devin’s hand grabbed mine, and I pulled with all my might. He emerged, covered in dust and grime, his eyes wide. Behind him, in the dark space beneath the floor, I saw more figures—dozens of them, all draped in black, all standing still, watching. We ran, bursting through the door, and didn’t stop until we were outside in the parking lot, gasping for air. We never spoke of it again, but we both knew it wasn’t over. That night, I woke to find a piece of black fabric on my pillow, and the smell of rot in my room. I moved out of that town the next week. But sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I still see that hovering sheet, waiting.