The Unseen Sitter

After three months of weekend shifts at the county lockup, I finally got released on a Sunday evening. My name is Daniel, and I just wanted to crawl into my own bed. My house is a modest two-story, and my room sits on the second floor, overlooking the backyard. It’s not fancy—just a bed, a ceiling fan, and a nightstand with a digital clock. That night, I climbed the stairs at around ten, exhausted. But sleep was elusive. My mind kept replaying the clang of the cell doors, the murmur of the night guards, the smell of disinfectant. I tossed, turned, fluffed the pillow, but the tension wouldn’t leave. Finally, around two in the morning, I drifted off.

I woke with a jolt at 3:47 AM. The clock’s red numbers glowed in the dark. I was on my back, arms at my sides, blankets pulled to my chin. The room was still, save for the soft whir of the ceiling fan. But something felt off. A presence, heavy and watchful. I held my breath, listening. Nothing. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it—a figure, tall and gaunt, standing by the foot of the bed, darker than the shadows. My heart hammered. I tried to convince myself it was a play of light from the moon through the window, but the moon was hidden behind clouds. The figure didn’t move. I blinked, and it was gone. A wave of unease washed over me, but I chalked it up to exhaustion and closed my eyes again.

But the feeling persisted. I turned to my side, pulling the covers over my head like a child. A minute later, I heard it—a soft rustling, like fabric brushing against the floor. I peeked from under the covers. The space by the bed was empty, but the air had grown cold. Goosebumps rippled across my arms. I reached for the lamp, but the switch clicked without result. The bulb must have burned out. I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, but my hand knocked it off, and it clattered to the floor. As I bent to retrieve it, my fingers brushed something cold and damp—like stone. I yanked my hand back, a cold sweat breaking out.

I decided I couldn’t stay. I swung my legs out of bed, ready to run to the living room downstairs. But as my feet touched the floor, I saw a small shape in the corner—a child. A boy, maybe seven, in a white nightgown, standing perfectly still, his face obscured. He was just watching me. My breath caught. I whispered, ‘Hello?’ No response. He tilted his head, as if puzzled. Then, he pointed a small finger toward the hallway. A chill ran down my spine. I shook my head, backing away. The boy took a step forward, and I stumbled, falling back onto the bed. When I looked up, he was gone.

For a long while, I sat there, trembling. The clock now read 4:12. I convinced myself I was hallucinating, a delayed reaction to stress. I lay back, determined to ignore it. But then I felt it—a gentle pressure on the edge of the mattress, as if someone had sat down. The mattress dipped slightly, and a faint whispering sound, like a child singing a nonsense rhyme, filled the room. My blood ran cold. I squeezed my eyes shut, muttering prayers, anything. The singing stopped. The pressure lifted. I opened my eyes and found myself staring at the ceiling.

I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew, morning light was streaming in. I was alive, safe. I laughed at my own foolishness, blaming the jail’s stale coffee and my vivid imagination. But as I got up to use the bathroom, I noticed something on my nightstand—a small, smooth stone, gray and marbled, that I had never seen before. I picked it up; it was cool to the touch. I turned it over, and scratched into the surface was a tiny, crude drawing: a stick figure with a circle for a head and a line for a mouth, but the mouth was a jagged zigzag. I dropped it as if burned.

That was six months ago. I moved out of that house shortly after, but the stone is still in my possession, tucked away in a drawer. And sometimes, in the dead of night, when I’m in a new, unfamiliar room, I feel a gentle tug on my sleeve, and I catch a glimpse of a small figure in the corner of my eye, always pointing toward some unseen doorway. I’ve never turned to look fully, because I know—if I do, the boy will be there, waiting, with that zigzag smile etched on his face, ready to show me where he wants me to go.