The Weight of a Stranger

I remember it so vividly, even though it was only a few months ago. My life had collapsed like a cheap tent in a storm. My partner of five years had left me for someone else, and I was shipped back to my parents’ farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by acres of dead cornfields. I hadn’t slept properly in weeks, and I’d dropped from a healthy 130 pounds to a skeletal 102. My dreams were endless loops of formless things clawing at my family, at me, and I’d wake gasping, drenched in cold sweat.

That early morning, I remember the pale light filtering through the dusty blinds. I woke with the familiar dread, but this time something was different. I saw a silhouette by the door, tall and familiar. My heart stuttered. Could it be him? Had he come back? In my dazed state, I whispered, ‘Daniel?’ The figure nodded slowly. I felt a wave of relief wash over me, and I let my head fall back onto the damp pillow, my eyelids heavy. ‘I didn’t…’ I started, but my voice trailed off as I felt the mattress dip. He climbed in behind me, and I felt a cold length press against my back, an arm snaking around my waist. I sighed, thinking he’d finally come to his senses, and I let sleep take me again.

But something was wrong. His hand was ice cold, and it felt… wrong. Too long, too stiff. I tried to open my eyes, but they wouldn’t obey. I felt his breath, but it was like a draft from an open grave, carrying the musty scent of earth and rot. I tried to twist around, but my body was paralyzed. His arm tightened, and I heard a low, guttural whisper, not in Daniel’s voice, but something deeper, more ancient: ‘You left me so easily. I’ve been waiting.’

I forced my eyes open, and the first thing I saw was the door, ajar, with no one there. I turned, and there was nothing beside me. The bed was cold, but I felt a lingering chill on my skin. I sat up, my heart pounding, and I saw that the door to my parents’ room was open. I could hear my mother’s scream, and my father’s voice, then silence. I stumbled out of bed, my legs weak, and found them in the hallway, staring at something on the wall. It was a message, scratched into the paint with a sharp object: ‘I am still here.’

From that day on, I’ve seen him. Not Daniel, but the thing that wore his shape. It’s always there, at the edge of my vision, waiting. My parents don’t see it, but they see the marks it leaves, the cold spots, the missing items. I know it wants something from me, but I don’t know what. All I know is that I never truly slept again, and every night, I feel the weight of a stranger in my bed, curling behind me, waiting for me to acknowledge what I let in.