The Third Hour

I’d been devouring a series of grimdark fantasy novels, the kind where ancient curses and forgotten gods lurk between the pages. That night, I’d finished the second book and started the third, my eyes burning as the clock ticked past two in the morning. My apartment was a small studio, the only light from the dim glow of my laptop screen and the orange flicker of a candle I’d lit for atmosphere. The story had me gripped: a protagonist trapped in a labyrinth of mirrors, chased by a thing that wore her own face. I told myself I’d stop at the end of the chapter, but the chapter ended on a cliffhanger, and I had to know what happened next.

At three in the morning, the candle sputtered and died. I didn’t think much of it, just blew on the wick and set it aside. I finally closed the book and lay back on my bed, the covers twisted around my legs. The room was dark but for the faint blue of the streetlight filtering through the blinds. I closed my eyes, but sleep didn’t come peacefully. Instead, I drifted into that queasy half-state between waking and dreaming.

My legs started to go numb, a prickling sensation creeping up from my toes to my thighs. Then my arms, from my shoulders down to my elbows, felt like they were filled with static. I wanted to move, to shake them out, but my body refused. I was pinned to the mattress, as if an immense weight pressed down on my chest and limbs. Panic fluttered in my throat. I tried to lift my head, but it was like it was made of lead. I could feel my heart hammering, but I couldn’t scream.

In my peripheral vision, I saw the door of my apartment, slightly ajar. It had been closed; I was sure of it. The hallway beyond was dark, but a deeper darkness seemed to pulse there, a void that drank the light. I strained to see, but my eyes wouldn’t focus. I felt a cold draft on my legs, and a bizarre sensation of my pajama bottoms being pulled down, as if someone were tugging at the waistband. I tried to shake my head, to snap myself out of it, but I was frozen.

I focused all my will on moving my head. In my mind, I screamed, ‘Move! Move!’ And finally, with a jolt like electric shock, my head snapped to the side. I gasped, and the paralysis broke. I sat up so fast the room spun. I was alone. The door was tightly shut, and the candle was still burning, though I had never relit it. The pajama bottoms were bunched around my thighs.

My heart was still racing. I flicked on the bedside lamp, flooding the room with harsh yellow light. There was nothing there. But as I pulled my pajama bottoms back up, I noticed a smell, faint but unmistakable: the acrid tang of ozone, like after a lightning strike. And on my forearm, just below the elbow, there was a red mark, thin and straight, like a whip line, that I hadn’t had before.

I tried to convince myself it was sleep paralysis, a common phenomenon, heightened by my late-night reading and the unsettling imagery in the books. But sleep paralysis doesn’t leave marks. And it doesn’t make you smell ozone. And it doesn’t make your candle relight itself.

The next night, I didn’t read. I went to bed early, leaving all the lights on. At three in the morning, I woke to the same pressure, the same numbness, the same pull on my pajamas. But this time, I could see something. A figure at the foot of the bed, hazy and indistinct, like a heat shimmer. It had no face, just a smooth void, but I felt it looking at me. And it was holding something—a thin, dark cord, like a strip of leather. It brought the cord down across my arm, and I felt a sting, followed by a burning cold.

I forced my head to move again, and when I shot up, the figure was gone. But on my other arm, a matching mark had appeared.

I haven’t been able to sleep properly since. Three nights in a row, I’ve woken at the exact same time, to the same paralysis, the same pull, the same marks multiplying on my skin. I’ve tried sleeping with all the lights on, sleeping in the living room, sleeping with a friend. Nothing helps.

Last night, I stayed awake, determined to confront it. At 2:58, I felt a chill. At 3:00, the pressure began. But this time, I didn’t fight it. I kept my eyes open, and I saw the figure more clearly. It was tall, gaunt, dressed in tattered grey. Its head was tilted, as if examining me. And it spoke, in a voice like scratching on stone, ‘You’ve finished the third. Now I can see you.’

I don’t know what it wants. But I know I’ll never pick up another book from that series again. I’ve already thrown them all away. But the marks are still there, and I’m afraid that when the count reaches thirteen, I won’t be able to wake up at all.