When I was about six years old, my sister and I would lay out blankets on the floor whenever the summer heat became unbearable. In the coolness of our living room, I often drifted into sleep, but nightmares would soon chase away my rest. Each night, I dreamed of a shadowy figure lurking behind the heavy curtains, watching me with a gaze that sent chills down my spine. I couldn’t remember its face, but I knew it was human-like and it terrified me.
One particularly unsettling night, I was jolted awake by my sister’s terrified screams. Rushing out of my makeshift bed, I found her in the bathroom, trembling and pale, as our mother held her close. It turned out she had a stomach bug, and while they comforted her, I was sent back to my blanket fort.
As I lay there, trying to shake off the fear, I caught a glimpse of movement. There it was again, the figure from my nightmares, now more defined. It pointed a long finger at me from behind the curtain and a chilling voice echoed in my mind, “You belong to me.”
In a panic, I felt the edges of my blanket fort lift as if something was trying to trap me. Heart racing, I shouted, “No!” and kicked at the sides of my makeshift bed, desperate to break free from the suffocating darkness closing in around me. I was determined not to let the shadow take me into its world of nightmares.