The Waiting Hour

I’ve always known that the veil between worlds grows thin at dusk. My grandmother used to say that the in-between hours are when the dead and the restless take their evening stroll, and I’ve found that my own encounters mirror that truth. From my first childhood sighting—a flicker of charcoal by the barn at seven in the evening—to the present, my ‘visitors’ have always preferred the stretch between six and dawn.

Last Tuesday, I was alone in my flat, tapping away at my thesis, when the familiar pressure returned. It started as a subtle warmth on my knee, then a hand slid up to my thigh. I didn’t flinch; I’ve learned to master my fear. A breath whispered against my ear, not quite words, more like the rustle of dry leaves, followed by a low chuckle that felt like it vibrated in my bones. I kept my eyes on the screen, pretending it was just the wind, but the weight of a hand persisted.

Exhausted, I finally retired, but sleep didn’t come easily. When I did drift off, I found myself in a dream that was lucid and heavy. I was in my bed, the morning light a sickly gray beyond the curtains. Then the air above me thickened, a dark haze coalescing overhead. I propped myself on my elbows, my heart hammering, and watched the shadow begin to shape. It formed a young man’s face, late teens or early twenties, but his features were hazy, as if I were seeing them through frosted glass. The nose was similar to the stalker’s, the jawline softer. He stared at me with an intensity that made my skin crawl, and then he smiled—a smile too wide, revealing teeth that were too white.

I woke with a start, the digital clock reading 3:33 AM. The room was still, but the air was charged, like the moment before a storm. I knew then that the boy in my dream was a new player, a kindlier face to the same menace. I got up, made myself tea, and sat by the window, watching the city lights flicker in the distance. A movement in the reflection caught my eye—the silhouette of a man behind me, but when I turned, nothing was there.

Since that night, I’ve noticed a change. It’s not just the stalker anymore; I feel a second presence, softer, almost protective, but I know better. They’re all the same in the end. Last evening, as I settled in to read, I felt a hand stroke my hair, and a whisper said, ‘Soon.’ I’ve grown accustomed to these touches, but ‘soon’ feels different. It feels like a promise.

I’ve started to keep a journal, documenting every moment they appear. The times are always between six and dawn, when the world is quiet and the dead have room to roam. I’ve learned to live with them, but I can’t shake the feeling that tonight will be different. At 6 PM sharp, the lights in my flat began to flicker. I felt a cold breath on my neck, and this time, a voice spoke clearly: ‘Soon, you’ll see.’ I don’t know what they mean, but I’m afraid it’s not a threat. It’s an invitation.

Tonight, I’m sitting in the dark, waiting for the clock to strike six. The shadows in the corners are stretching, reaching out with thin fingers. I know they’re there, watching, waiting for me to finally acknowledge them. I’ve kept my secret for so long, but maybe it’s time to give in. Maybe ‘soon’ is now.