The Slate of the Night

I have always prided myself on being a man of reason, a skeptic who demanded proof before belief. But what I experienced in that apartment, in the heart of Prague, has shaken my certainty to its core.

It was our first family holiday in years, a chance to escape the drudgery of our small town. We had rented a grand old apartment near the Charles Bridge, all high ceilings, creaky wooden floors, and thick stone walls that whispered of centuries past. Our bedroom was dominated by a massive, dark oak bed with four heavy posts, and the children were thrilled to sleep on a mattress we pulled from beneath it. To block out the city lights, we affixed heavy hinged wooden shutters over the tall windows. The room fell into absolute darkness, save for the faint amber glow of my son’s nightlight.

On the first night, I was jolted from a restless sleep by my son’s small hand shaking my shoulder. ‘Dad, my head hurts,’ he whimpered. This was not unusual; our son, Max, suffered from a rare condition that caused occasional migraines. I soothed him with a gentle massage and a glass of water, and he drifted back to sleep. I, however, lay awake for a long time, listening to the strange groans of the old building, feeling an unsettling presence. I chalked it up to being in an unfamiliar place.

The next night, my daughter, Lily, woke us with a nightmare. She insisted that a ‘man with long fingers’ had been peering at her from the darkness. I checked the room, of course, found nothing, and comforted her. But when I tried to sleep, I noticed something odd: the amber nightlight, usually steady, was flickering erratically, throwing dancing shadows across the toy-strewn floor. As I watched, the flickering seemed to pulse in a rhythm, like a slow heartbeat. I shook it off, assuming the bulb was dying.

By the third night, the atmosphere had grown thick with tension. The children were restless, and my wife, Clara, whispered that she felt we were being watched. I dismissed it as paranoia. But that night, I woke to an intense, throbbing pressure in my skull. The pain was so severe I could barely see. In the dim glow, I saw both children standing at the foot of the bed, their faces pale, eyes wide, as if in a trance. In unison, they pointed to the far corner of the room, where the shadows pooled deepest. As I forced myself to look, the darkness seemed to deepen, to solidify, and from it emerged a figure—tall, gaunt, with impossibly long arms that ended in spidery fingers. It did not move, but I felt its gaze bore into me.

Terror seized me, but I was frozen. The figure raised its hand, and a single finger pointed at the old slate that hung above the fireplace—a relic we had thought merely decorative. On its surface, words began to appear, not written but etched in a faint, sickly light: ‘Leave, or take the pain.’

I blinked, and the figure vanished. The pressure in my head subsided. The children woke as if from a dream, unaware of what had happened. I knew then that we had to leave, but it was too late. The next morning, as we packed our bags, I noticed our son’s nightlight had burned out. In its place on the table lay a small, gray stone, smooth and cold, with a single red line running through it, like a vein. I picked it up, and a searing pain shot through my skull, causing me to drop it. When I looked again, the stone had vanished.

We left that day, but I have not escaped the pain. It comes and goes, always with the image of that long-fingered figure. And sometimes, late at night, I find myself staring at my own hands, wondering if they are growing just a little longer.