The Laptop’s Glow

It was a Tuesday when I first noticed the hum. Not from my refrigerator or the streetlights outside my apartment, but from the old laptop I kept on my nightstand. I’d bought it years ago at a thrift store, and its fan had always whirred, but this was different—a low, pulsing drone that seemed to sync with my heartbeat. I ignored it, assuming it was just the machine struggling with another update. That night, I left it open, the pale blue light casting strange patterns on my ceiling.

I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew, the hum had become a vibration under my pillow. My eyes snapped open, and I saw a figure crouched beside my bed, its face inches from mine. The laptop’s glow illuminated its features, but they were wrong—too sharp, too hollow. Its skin stretched over a skull that was too prominent, and its eyes were sunken pits of blackness. It was bald, and its lips were pulled back in a rictus of a grin, revealing rows of needle-thin teeth.

I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The thing reached out a long, bony hand and grasped my shoulder, pressing me back into the mattress. Its grip was ice-cold, and I felt an unnatural strength pinning me down. ‘Don’t fight,’ it whispered, its voice like rustling leaves. ‘I only want to taste.’ Its face descended toward mine, and I realized with horror that it was trying to kiss me.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my mind racing. In my panic, I remembered a prayer from my childhood, a litany of angels. I began to whisper their names, my voice trembling, ‘Michael, Gabriel, Raphael…’ The creature’s grip tightened, and I felt its anger radiating like heat. It pulled back, and I heard a hiss, like steam escaping a pipe. I opened my eyes in time to see it raise its free hand, the fingers elongated and sharp as talons, ready to strike.

Just as the blow was about to land, the world snapped back into focus. I was alone in my room, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding against my ribs. The laptop was still on, but the hum had stopped. I lunged for the light switch, flooding the room with harsh white light. The corners of the room were empty, but I felt a lingering presence, a cold spot near the door that slowly dissipated.

I called my friend Leo at 3 a.m., trying to keep my voice steady. ‘You won’t believe what just happened,’ I said, and I told him everything. He was silent for a long moment, then he whispered, ‘You should get rid of that laptop. It’s not normal.’ I laughed nervously, but his words stuck with me.

The next day, I tried to turn the laptop off, but the power button was unresponsive. The screen flickered with static, and in the static, I thought I saw a face forming. I slammed it shut and shoved it in a drawer. But even closed, I could feel its presence, like a malevolent weight in the room.

That night, I slept with the lights on, and I didn’t dream. But when I woke, the laptop was open, its screen glowing softly. The hum had returned, deeper now, almost like a growl. I knew then that it wasn’t the laptop itself that was haunted—it was the light it cast, a doorway for something that had found me. I’ve never been able to shake the feeling that it’s still watching, waiting for me to slip back into that half-awake state where it can reach me again.

Now, I never sleep with the lights off. I’ve thrown away the laptop, but the hum has followed me, a faint undercurrent in the silence of my new apartment. Sometimes, when I wake in the middle of the night, I catch a glimpse of a shadow in the corner, and I wonder if it’s just my imagination. But I know better. That thing is patient, and it knows my weakness—the vulnerability of sleep. And I’m afraid that one night, no lamp will be able to banish it.