The Pressure of the Arrival

The move had been a mistake, I realized that now. My new apartment in the city was supposed to be a fresh start, a place where the shadows from my old house couldn’t follow. But they did, trailing behind me like a loyal, malevolent hound. The first night here, I felt it—a cold presence in the corner of my bedroom, watching as I unpacked boxes. I tried to ignore it, convincing myself it was my imagination. But it grew bolder.

Last night, I woke to a suffocating weight on my chest, as if a boulder had been placed there. I couldn’t move, my limbs paralyzed, my lungs screaming for air. In the dim light from the window, I saw a figure looming over me—tall, black, featureless, like a hole in the fabric of reality. It tilted its head, and I felt its attention bore into me. I tried to speak, to pray, but only a strangled whimper escaped my lips. The pressure increased, and I felt something like fingers digging into my shoulders, squeezing with a strength that made my bones groan.

This wasn’t the first time. In my old apartment, I used to wake to the sensation of being watched, to whispers at the edge of hearing. But now, it was physical. It wanted to dominate me, to break my will. It was angry at my attempt to flee. I could feel its rage radiating like heat from a furnace.

I closed my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart. I thought of my grandmother, who used to tell me stories of the Arrival—a being from another realm that latched onto those who let their despair fester. It fed on fear and hopelessness, growing stronger with each passing day. I never believed her, until now.

A sudden chill ran through me as the weight shifted, and I felt the presence move closer to my face. A cold, tingling sensation spread across my skin, and I heard a raspy whisper, like dry leaves scraping concrete: ‘You cannot leave. You will stay here, and you will suffer.’

I tried to respond, to bargain, to plead, but my voice was gone. Tears streamed down my cheeks as the pressure mounted, pressing me deeper into the mattress. I felt my ribcage creak under the strain. In desperation, I focused on the one thing that had always brought me peace—a memory of my grandmother’s face, her gentle smile, the smell of her lavender sachets. I clung to it like a lifeline.

And then, something shifted. The pressure eased, just a fraction, and I could feel the creature’s confusion. It seemed to weaken when I thought of love, of warmth. It recoiled, a low hiss escaping from its unseen mouth. I seized the opportunity, forcing myself to think of every happy memory I had—the feel of sun on my face, the laughter of friends, the taste of fresh bread. Each thought sent a ripple through the darkness, and the presence began to shrink, to fade.

Gasping, I sat up as the weight vanished. The room was empty, but the remnants of its anger lingered, a bitter taste in the air. I knew it wasn’t gone forever. It would come back, stronger, more determined. But I had found a weapon, a flicker of light in the encroaching dark.

As dawn broke, I looked at the empty space beside my bed and whispered a promise: ‘I won’t let you win. I have the memory of love, and I will hold onto it until you starve.’

The presence, for now, had retreated. But I know it’s waiting, biding its time. And I know that our next encounter will be the final one. I just hope I’m ready.