Last night, I woke to a strange sensation—a prickling cold crawling across my skin. The room was quiet, but the shadows seemed darker, pooling at the edges of my vision. As my eyes adjusted, I realized that something was standing at the foot of my bed. A figure, dark and formless, with an intensity that rooted me in place. I couldn’t make out a face, or even a distinct body—it was like the darkness had risen from the corners of my room and decided to take shape. I tried to scream, but the air caught in my throat, frozen in fear. All I could do was stare back, my heart pounding so loudly I thought it might burst.
I must have blinked—just once—and it was gone. My eyes darted around the room, scanning the space for movement, but the shadow had vanished into the night. Trembling, I pulled the covers up to my chin, trying to convince myself it was just a dream. But the unease wouldn't leave me. The chill of the presence stayed with me, pressing on my chest until, eventually, exhaustion overpowered fear and pulled me under.
Morning arrived in a muted haze, sunlight seeping through the curtains. The events of the night felt distant but still unsettling. I rubbed my eyes, trying to shake the strange heaviness that hung over me. As I stumbled out of bed and into the kitchen, my phone rang, the screen flashing my mother’s name. I answered, still half-asleep.
“Hello?” I mumbled.
“Why were you standing in my room last night?” Her voice was sharp, a note of irritation laced with something else—fear. My breath caught, and I felt my pulse quicken again.
“What? Mom, what are you talking about?” I managed, trying to process her words.
“Don’t play games with me,” she snapped, but her voice wavered. “I woke up and saw you standing there. You didn’t say anything. You just stood at the foot of my bed, staring at me. I called your name, but you didn’t move. Then you were just… gone.”
A chill ran through me, colder than the one I’d felt in the night. I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter to steady myself. My mother’s words painted an image that matched my own nightmare perfectly—too perfectly. The same figure, the same silent presence, watching without moving.
“Mom, I swear, I wasn’t there,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “It must’ve been a dream.”
Silence settled between us, heavy and uneasy. I could hear her breathing, the hesitation before she spoke again. “Maybe. But it felt real.”
We ended the call, but the unease lingered, gnawing at the edges of my mind. I couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever had visited me last night had somehow reached across the distance to my mother as well. I tried to push the thought away, convincing myself it was just a coincidence, but a growing sense of dread refused to be silenced.
That night, I hesitated before going to bed. I left the lights on, the door open, and tried to ignore the gnawing fear that something was waiting for me. I drifted into a restless sleep, my dreams thick with shadows and whispers, but nothing came to visit—at least, not that I could remember.
The next morning, my mother called again. Her voice was trembling. “It happened again,” she said, and I could hear the fear cracking through her words. “I saw you. You were just standing there, staring at me.”
A chill settled in my bones, colder than anything I’d ever felt before. “Mom, it’s not me,” I said, my voice shaking. “Whatever it is… it’s not me.”
We both knew, deep down, that this was something beyond either of us—something that wasn’t going to leave just because we ignored it. That night, I stayed on the phone with my mother until she fell asleep, listening to her breathing, trying to convince myself that I could protect her, even from miles away. But when the cold crept back into my room and I felt the weight of eyes on me once more, I knew that whatever it was, it wasn’t finished with us yet.
The darkness stood at the foot of my bed again, and this time, I could almost make out a face—almost see my own eyes staring back at me, empty and unblinking.