The Paper Man

I remember that summer as a furnace, the air thick enough to chew, the nights a sticky torment. I was twenty-three, living in a crumbling walk-up in a city that never truly cooled. The window unit wheezed and rattled, offering little relief, and I’d taken to sleeping on top of the sheets, wearing nothing but a thin film of sweat.

It was on one of those sweltering nights that I made a foolish mistake. I’d been reading about old superstitions, about the thin places where the veil between worlds grows weak. Part of me, the restless, bored part, wanted to poke at that veil, to see if there was anything on the other side that might take notice of me. I remember whispering into the dark, a half-joke, a dare: ‘If there’s anything out there, I’m waiting.’

I fell asleep to the rhythmic hum of the city, but my dreams were not my own. I was in a room that was not my room, a place of peeling wallpaper and dust motes dancing in sickly yellow light. And there was a weight on me, an invisible pressure that pressed me into the mattress. I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, and all the while, I felt a malevolent presence watching from the corner. It was small, child-sized, but hunched like an old man, its features blurred as if made of crumpled paper. Its eyes were dark pits, and it seemed to absorb the light, making the room even darker. The sensation wasn’t violent, but it was invasive, a violation that left me gasping when I finally tore myself awake.

I sat up, my heart hammering, my skin cold despite the oppressive heat. The clock on my nightstand read 3:03 AM. The room was dark, the streetlight casting long shadows. I pulled the sheet up to my chin, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with temperature. I told myself it was a nightmare, a product of too much heat and an overactive imagination. But as I lay there, I could still feel the phantom weight, and I could swear I saw a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye.

The next night, I was exhausted but determined not to repeat my foolishness. I kept the lights on, watched a mindless comedy, and tried to bore myself to sleep. But when my eyes finally closed, I was back in that room, and he was there again, closer this time. I could see him clearer now: his skin was like old parchment, cracked and yellowed, and his limbs were too thin, jointed like a marionette. He didn’t speak, but his presence was a scream in my mind. He stood at the foot of the bed, tilting his head as if studying a curiosity. And then, he climbed onto the bed, his weight making the mattress dip, and he crawled over me, his papery fingers tracing the lines of my body with a terrible intimacy.

I woke up gasping, drenched in cold sweat, the covers tangled around my legs. The room was freezing, so cold I could see my breath misting in the air. But it was July, and the radiator was off. I flicked on the bedside lamp, but the warmth didn’t return. I spent the rest of the night huddled under the covers, my eyes fixed on the shadows, afraid to blink.

Over the next few days, the dream came every time I closed my eyes. He grew bolder, his visits longer. He would sit beside me, his papery mouth moving silently, as if trying to tell me something I was too afraid to understand. And the cold would follow me into the waking world. I’d be standing in the kitchen, making coffee, and a gust of icy air would brush against my neck, making my skin prickle. I started seeing paper fragments everywhere: on the floor, stuck to the window, even floating in my glass of water. But when I tried to pick them up, they crumbled to dust.

I became a prisoner in my own apartment, afraid to sleep, afraid to stay awake. I called my friend Mia, told her something was wrong, but she just laughed and said I was letting the city get to me. She didn’t understand. The paper man was real, and he was hungry.

Then one night, I woke up to find him standing over me, his face inches from mine, his blank eyes staring into my soul. For the first time, he spoke, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves. ‘You summoned me,’ he said. ‘Now you must pay.’ And I knew in that moment that I had opened a door I could never close.

I tried to run, but my legs were lead weights. I tried to scream, but my voice was gone. He reached out that papery hand, and I watched in horror as it began to unravel, becoming a swirl of paper strips that wrapped around my body, binding me to the bed. I felt the cold seep into my bones, and I knew that this was my end.

The sun was rising when I woke, but the light was wrong, washed out and grey. My body was sore, covered in a fine white dust. And on my nightstand, there was a small paper figure, a crude likeness of a little man, with a note scrawled in a hand I didn’t recognize: ‘See you tonight.’

I knew then that he wasn’t finished with me. And I knew that one day, I would wake up to feel that papery hand on my throat, and I would finally understand what he wanted. But until then, I keep the lights on, and I pray for a new dawn.