The Sixth Morning

Mara had never been a morning person. Even as a child, she’d resented the sun’s insistence on dragging her from the warm cocoon of sleep. Now, at thirty-two, with a job that allowed her to work from home, she’d perfected the art of ignoring her alarm, often slipping back into unconsciousness until the afternoon. Her partner, Kellan, was the opposite—a human sunrise, leaping from bed at the first chirp of his phone. It was a paradox that worked, until Kellan took a new job requiring him to leave at dawn.

The first week was hard. Mara, alone in the apartment, felt the strange quiet settle around her like a heavy blanket. On the third morning, she woke to a persistent, rhythmic thumping from the floor above. The tenant up there, a retired nurse named Mrs. Pemberton, was known for her loud footsteps, but this was different—a slow, deliberate tapping, as if someone were knocking on the ceiling. Mara ignored it, burying her head under the pillow. But it followed her into her dreams, a Morse code of menace.

By the fifth morning, the tapping had grown more insistent, and Mara began to notice other things. The mirror in the hallway would be slightly tilted when she passed, though she never saw it move. The leaves of her dying fern would rustle when there was no breeze. And the bed, her sanctuary, began to feel different. On the sixth morning, she woke to find the mattress trembling—a low, thrumming vibration that seemed to emanate from the frame itself. She sat up, her heart pounding, and looked around. The room was still, dust motes dancing in the slanted light. She thought of Kellan, already miles away, and felt a pang of loneliness so sharp it stole her breath.

She called him, needing to hear a human voice. ‘Hey,’ she said, trying to keep her tone light. ‘I think I’m going crazy. The apartment’s starting to feel haunted.’

Kellan laughed, but there was an edge to it. ‘Probably just the old pipes. Or maybe you’re finally losing it.’ He paused. ‘Actually, you never told me—do you remember waking up at all yesterday morning?’

Mara frowned. She didn’t. In fact, she realized with a jolt, she had no memory of the entire day before. She’d been so tired lately, but this was different. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t.’

‘That’s weird,’ Kellan said. ‘You called me yesterday. Said you’d had a bad dream. You sounded really scared.’

Mara’s blood ran cold. She had no recollection of that call. She hung up and tried to reconstruct her week. Gaps, gaping holes where hours should be. She looked at the bed, her heart skittering. The bed frame. She crawled under it, peering into the dusty darkness. There, tucked in the shadows, was a small, leather-bound book. She pulled it out, coughing as dust specks swirled.

The book was old, the pages yellowed and brittle. It was a journal, written in a cramped, spidery hand. The first entry was dated twenty years ago. ‘I am writing this to document the changes,’ it read. ‘The bed hums at night. I hear voices beneath the floorboards. I fear I am losing my mind.’

Mara turned the pages, her hands trembling. Subsequent entries grew more disjointed, the handwriting sloppier. ‘Left myself a note to remember. Forgot again. The bed moves. My reflection smiles when I don’t.’ The final entry, dated three days before the journal’s owner had disappeared, read: ‘It follows me. It is in my dreams now. It wants to wear me.’

Mara dropped the book as if burned. She looked at her own reflection in the mirror, half-expecting a smile that wasn’t hers. The humming started again, low and close, and she realized it was coming from the bed. She backed away, but the hall was suddenly darker than it should have been. The fern rustled, though the air was still. The mirror tilted, and in it, she saw the bed—and something else. Something kneeling on the mattress, facing away from her. A shape that was almost human, but too thin, with arms too long.

She ran. She didn’t look back. She grabbed her keys and fled the apartment, the humming chasing her down the stairs. She stumbled into the street, gasping, and called Kellan. ‘It’s in the bed,’ she sobbed. ‘Something is in the bed. Please help me.’

Kellan arrived that evening, his face pale with worry. They entered the apartment together, but the place was silent. The mirror was straight, the fern still. The bed was neatly made, the journal gone. Mara pointed to the spot under the bed, but when Kellan checked, there was nothing there.

‘You’re exhausted,’ he said gently. ‘You’ve been working too hard. Maybe you should see someone.’

Mara nodded, but she knew what she’d seen. That night, she couldn’t bring herself to sleep in the bedroom. She dozed on the couch, but the closer it got to dawn, the more a bone-deep exhaustion weighted her limbs. She felt a pull, a drowsiness so powerful it was like a drug. She fought it, but eventually, her eyes closed.

She woke to the sensation of being watched. The room was dark, and the humming was back. She was in her bed. The sheets were cold, and the mattress felt wrong—too soft, like it was swallowing her. She tried to move, but her body wouldn’t respond. From the corner of her eye, she saw a figure rise from the side of the bed. It was tall, and its head swiveled toward her with a creaking sound. It had no face.

Mara screamed, but no sound came out. The figure leaned in, and she felt a cold breath on her cheek. It whispered, in a voice that was almost her own, ‘I’ve been waiting for you. You’re my sixth morning.’

When Kellan woke the next day, Mara wasn’t in bed. He found her in the bathroom, standing before the mirror, brushing her hair with slow, deliberate strokes. She was smiling, but her eyes were empty. She turned to him and said, in a voice that was hers yet not, ‘Don’t worry, honey. I’m fine. I just had a bad dream.’

Kellan felt a chill spider down his spine. That night, he slept on the couch, and the following morning, he called in sick. He stayed away from the bedroom, but he watched Mara. She moved with a new grace, her gestures almost too fluid. She hummed a tune he didn’t recognize. One evening, she caught him staring and asked, ‘What is it?’

‘Who are you?’ he whispered.

She laughed, a sound like tinkling glass. ‘I’m your wife, silly. I’ve always been your wife.’

Kellan didn’t believe her. He searched for the journal, but the apartment was clean. He stayed awake through the night, watching her sleep. At 3:33 a.m., her eyes snapped open. They were black, completely black, and her smile was too wide. She sat up and said, ‘You’re not my husband.’

He ran. He didn’t grab his phone, didn’t grab his keys. He just ran. He burst out of the apartment and into the hallway, and stopped cold. The hallway was gone. Instead, he stood in a mirror image of his bedroom. And on the bed sat a figure identical to him, wearing his face. It smiled and said, ‘Welcome home.’

Kellan screamed. No sound escaped. The figure stood and walked toward him, and as it reached him, it wrapped its arms around him. He felt something cold slip inside his chest, and then the world dissolved. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, shaking. The room was quiet. Mara was gone. But on the pillow, neatly arranged, were his car keys and a note in his own handwriting: ‘I’ll be back for the seventh.’