The Visitor at the Head of the Bed

Seven years ago, during my final year of high school, my mother was on a trip to the coast, and she expected a pristine house when she returned. I took the opportunity to remodel my room, turning it into my personal sanctuary. I ignored my grandmother’s warning about the placement of my bed, its headboard facing the door, dismissing it as superstition.

At the time, I had a boyfriend, Marcus, who lived a few blocks away and loved to bike along the old railroad tracks that ran behind the neighborhood. My grandmother had told me that such paths were shortcuts for spirits, but I never took it seriously. One evening, Marcus came over, and we spent hours talking and laughing. He left around ten, promising to text me once he got home.

I fell asleep quickly, feeling at peace. But around midnight, I woke to a strange vibration, as if something were shaking the entire bed. It was a steady, rhythmic tremble, and I tried to sit up, but my body wouldn’t respond. My limbs were heavy, and a cold dread settled in my chest. I could only move my eyes, scanning the room in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains.

Then I saw it: a tall, dark figure perched on the chair beside my bed. It was featureless, an inky black silhouette that seemed to absorb light. It leaned forward, and I felt a wave of pressure, like the air itself was pushing down on me. I tried to scream for my father, who was asleep in the next room, but my voice was a silent whisper.

The figure’s head tilted, as if it were studying me. I strained to move my fingers, to will my legs to kick, but nothing happened. The shaking intensified, and the room grew colder. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying for it to leave, and when I opened them, it was gone.

I immediately called Marcus, my voice shaking, and he cycled over in minutes. He listened to my story, then looked at the chair. He noticed scorch marks on the wooden armrest, as if burnt by a hot iron. I had never seen those marks before. We both felt a chill, and Marcus admitted he had taken a shortcut along the old tracks that night, jokingly saying he was inviting trouble.

We stayed awake until dawn, and when light filled the room, we examined the chair. The scorch marks formed a pattern, almost like claw marks, and they seemed to be spreading. I called my grandmother, who listened carefully and said: ‘The head of the bed facing the door invites the dead to step in. And walking along the old paths, you brought something with you, my dear.’

That night, I slept with the lights on and the door closed, but the bed shook again, stronger this time. When I looked at the chair, the figure was there, but now it had a face—a hollow, gaping mouth and pale, soulless eyes. It pointed at me, and I felt a tug on my ankle. I yanked my leg away, and the figure vanished. I ran to my father’s room, and he came with me, but as he entered, he stumbled backward, gasping, ‘There’s something in the corner, behind you.’

We moved out of the house that week, and I never slept in that room again. To this day, I avoid placing my bed facing the door, and I never walk along the old tracks at night. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still feel that steady shaking, and I see that figure sitting in a chair, waiting.