The Poking at the Back of My Head

Ever since I can remember, there was something wrong with the old farmhouse. It wasn’t just the creaks and groans of a house settling, or the wind whistling through the gaps in the window frames. It was the constant, malevolent presence that seemed to seep from the walls themselves. My father and brother, both heavy drinkers and worse, would come home with a fury that shook the floorboards, and I swore their anger summoned something else. It was a feeling, mostly, a constant poking at the back of my head, or a cold brush against my legs when I walked down the hallway. At night, when I tried to sleep, I’d feel something rub against my side, my thigh, as if something was lying beside me, watching me with hungry eyes.

I never saw it, but I felt it everywhere. Even when I walked outside, down the dusty lane to the main road, I felt its gaze on my back, making my skin crawl. It was worst in the house, especially in my brother’s basement apartment, with its damp concrete walls and the smell of old beer. I’d hear the shelves in the living room rattle for no reason, the cabinet slam shut when my mother was in her room, too far away to have touched it. My cat, a skinny tabby named Wren, would sometimes stare at a corner of the ceiling, her ears flattened, and hiss at nothing.

I finally escaped when I got a small apartment in town, a squat building of pale brick. The rent was cheap because the previous tenant had died, a woman who’d been a recluse. I moved in with my few boxes and Wren, hoping for peace. The first few weeks were quiet enough, but then it started again. The poking at odd times, a touch on my shoulder when I was reading, a whisper of someone’s breath on my neck when I opened my closet. My new home was starting to feel like a tomb.

Then came the night of June nineteenth. I was in my bedroom, trying to sleep. Wren was curled on her chair in the corner, but she suddenly lifted her head, her eyes fixed on the dark space between my bed and the wardrobe. She started to growl, low in her throat, then her fur stood on end, and she stared straight ahead, her stare so intense it made me freeze. The presence was so strong I could almost taste it, like copper and dust, and I felt a weight on the foot of my bed, as if something had just sat down. I didn’t dare move. I just lay there, my heart pounding, as Wren’s growl turned into a hiss, and then she bolted from the room, leaving me alone.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the living room, the lights on, until dawn. When I finally mustered the courage to go back into my bedroom the next morning, I was trembling. I couldn’t step inside. I just stood at the threshold, staring at the empty room that somehow felt more occupied than anything I’d ever known. I’ve been sleeping on the couch since then, but even that’s starting to feel a dangerous, because the poking has begun here too, just a finger against my ribs, and a voice that whispers my name in a room with only me. I don’t know what it wants, but I know it’s getting bolder, and I’m afraid to close my eyes, because I know, one night, I’ll feel its breath on my face, and I’ll see it at last.