The Indentation

August 30, 2011

by Sylvester

4 min read

Story Premise 4 min read (646 words)

"I never thought much about the age of our apartment. It was a converted Victorian, split into two units, with a creaky stairwell and radiators that clanked like old bones. My name is Colin, and I’ve lived here for four years now, ever since my parents divorced and my mom, my sister, and I moved […]"

I never thought much about the age of our apartment. It was a converted Victorian, split into two units, with a creaky stairwell and radiators that clanked like old bones. My name is Colin, and I’ve lived here for four years now, ever since my parents divorced and my mom, my sister, and I moved in. My mom works nights, and my sister, Lucy, often stays at her friend’s place, so I’ve gotten used to the quiet evenings alone.

One particular Thursday, I came home from my shift at the bookstore, exhausted. I kicked off my shoes, slumped onto the twin bed in the room I share with Lucy, and pulled the heavy quilt over my head. The room was dim, the late afternoon sun filtered through the linen curtains, casting everything in a warm, dusty glow. I must have dozed off almost immediately, because the next thing I knew, I was wide awake, but my body felt heavy, anchored. The quilt was still over my face, but I could see the faint outlines of my furniture through the fabric.

I was about to close my eyes and drift back when I heard it: a soft rustle, like someone shifting their weight, followed by a distinct *thump* as if a heavy object had landed on the floor beside my bed. My heart seized. Lucy wasn’t home. Mom was at her church’s night service. I told myself it was just the house settling, old pipes groaning. I tried to relax, to force my breathing to slow.

But then the sound came again. This time, it was not from the floor, but from right on top of my mattress. The springs groaned under a new weight, and I felt the distinct dip of a body settling in next to me. A cold wave of terror washed over me. I couldn’t move, couldn’t even pull the quilt down. It was as if my arms and legs were weighted with lead. I could feel the presence beside me, a coldness radiating from it, even through the blanket. It wasn’t oppressive like sleep paralysis; I was fully conscious, my mind sharp with fear, but my body refused to obey.

Then, I felt it move. A slow, deliberate shift, as if it were turning to face me. The quilt was pulled taut, and I could see the faint impression of a head and shoulders forming next to mine, made by the weight of the entity. The cold grew more intense, seeping through the fabric, making my skin prickle with goosebumps. I tried to scream, but my throat was closed, and a high-pitched whimper was all that escaped.

After what felt like an eternity, the weight lifted. The springs sighed back into place, and the cold receded. I lay there, trembling, for another ten minutes before I dared to move. When I finally pulled the blanket down, the room was empty, the door still ajar as I’d left it. But on the quilt, right next to where my body had been, there was a distinct depression, almost as if someone had been lying there for hours, the fabric still slightly cool to the touch.

That was a year ago. I told myself it was a night terror, a hallucination from exhaustion. But then, a few months later, I started noticing the small changes—the indent on the bed, a cup moved, a chair pulled out. And last week, I found Lucy fast asleep in her bed, but there was a second, smaller indentation beside her, still warm. I haven’t slept in that room since. I’ve taken to sitting in the living room all night, watching the shadows lengthen, waiting for the weight to come back. The worst part is, I’ve no idea what it wants. But I’ve begun to suspect it’s been here longer than we have, and it’s not planning on leaving.

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