The Pacing Above

My room is the smaller of the two bedrooms in the old farmhouse, tucked at the end of a narrow hallway. The window faces the overgrown orchard, and on clear nights, the moonlight casts twisted shadows through the gnarled branches onto my bed. I’ve never felt at ease here, not since I was a child, when I first became convinced that something was watching me from the far corner, near the wardrobe with its creaking door. My parents’ room, with its high ceiling and wide bed, felt safe, but this room felt like it belonged to something else.

I’m a sound sleeper now, but back then, I’d lie awake, hearing the floorboards groan even when no one walked. And there was always that sensation of cold air, like a draft from a window that didn’t exist. Sometimes, I’d catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye, but when I’d turn, it would only be a coat hanging on the wardrobe door, swaying slightly as if nudged by an invisible hand.

Our neighbors, the O’Connells, had two old hounds that had been eerily silent for years, but I noticed that about ten seconds before I felt that oppressive presence in my room, they’d start barking—a frantic, desperate sound that cut through the night. It was as if they could sense what was about to happen.

One evening, when I was about seventeen, my parents decided to drive into town for groceries. It was near nine thirty, and the sky had turned a bruised purple. I was settled in the living room, engrossed in an old RPG on my console, the volume low to not disturb the humming quiet of the house. The only light came from the TV screen, casting a blue glow across the room.

I heard the dogs start barking, loud and sharp, from next door. I paused, my thumb hovering over the controller, and waited. Ten seconds later, I felt the familiar cold settle around my shoulders, as if someone had opened a freezer door. I shook it off and tried to focus on the game, but the feeling intensified, and I heard a floorboard creak right behind me.

I turned, expecting to see an intruder, but the room was empty. Then, from my bedroom, came a sound—a rhythmic thumping, like footsteps pacing back and forth. It wasn’t the heavy, slow footsteps I heard from the loft; this was quicker, more agitated. I put down the controller and crept to the hallway, my heart pounding.

The door to my room was ajar, though I always kept it closed. I pushed it open, and a gust of cold air blew past me, carrying a faint, sickly sweet smell, like rotting apples. The pacing stopped, and the silence that followed was thick, oppressive. I stood there, staring into the darkness, and I could just make out a figure standing beside my bed—a tall, thin silhouette, darker than the shadows around it.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. It swayed gently, as if rocking back and forth, and then it took a step toward the wardrobe and vanished. The wardrobe door, which had been closed, swung open with a long, slow creak. Inside, my clothes hung motionless, but the smell of apples grew stronger, almost choking.

I slammed the door shut and ran to my parents’ room, where I stayed until they returned. When I told them, they laughed it off, saying I’d fallen asleep and had a nightmare. But the dogs’ barking had stopped as soon as I left the room, and I knew they had felt it too.

That night, as I lay in my parents’ bed, I heard the pacing start again, but this time, it was in the loft directly above me. And then, heavy footsteps descended the stairs, pausing at the door, and I heard a whisper, not of words, but of a dry, rasping breath. The doorknob jiggled, but didn’t turn.

I spent the rest of the night with my eyes wide open, listening to the sounds of something moving through the house, growing more restless until dawn. When the first light crept through the curtains, I finally slept, but even in sleep, I could still feel its gaze.

In the years since, I’ve moved away, but one thing remains: I can’t sleep in a room without first checking the wardrobe. And whenever I hear dogs barking at night, I hold my breath and wait for the ten seconds to pass, dreading what might come.