If you take one thing from this entire story; please, for the love of God, always watch the shadows.
I’ve always been a skittish person. As a kid, I was easily scared by the dark, kiddy horror stories, and the horrifying mystique behind the unknown. As such, I quickly became someone who jumped at the smallest bump in the night, something I’ve consequently carried into adulthood. Listen - nights are long and dark, and in them lives shadows with seemingly no start and no end, scraping at the corners of my vision and wavering ominously in the dark.
Safe to say, I’ve never been a night owl.
Not even my lovely fiancee, Mark, was a match for this fear, despite his loving arms holding me nightly, as my eyes watch the shadows dance. He whispers that there’s nothing out there, that I’m safe, that nothing can get me. But I know better.
You see, recently, there are new shadows.
I’ve as good as catalogued the shadows that remain outside my bedroom window. The palm tree that sways chaotically in the slightest wind, the streetlight that looms, long and dark, over my nightstand. Hell, there’s even a tiny anthill of shadow cast by my wastebin, sitting aside the windowsill.
But as I drifted into terrified half-consciousness last night in Mark’s arms, a routine I know well, I noticed something.
A new shadow.
It stood tall and dark - somehow darker than the others. It was impossibly person-shaped, despite the lack of an accompanying form, and simply stood at the end of my bed, it’s dark tendrils of shadow floating impossibly over my feet. And in that moment, it was almost like…I could feel it. The tendrils were disgustingly cool, and I jerked horrifiedly as they snaked slightly, almost tickling my foot like a beloved pet would.
I sat up in bed with a speed I’ve never observed in human beings, and maturely screamed,
“Mark! The light! The shadows!”
Mark, accustomed to my shenanigans, was quick to act, awakening from a sluggish slumber and yanking the bedroom light’s cord, before rushing to hold me.
“It’s ok, sweetie, you’re safe now.”
Though he knew best how to calm me, I found little comfort in him.
Because then, in that moment, even with the lights on, I could still see the shadow.
I remember shaking, pointing, begging desperately for Mark to squint in the limited lighting of our bedside lamp and see. But he couldn’t. In fact, he gave me that loving look he always gives, the one that means ‘you’re being irrational, but I love you nonetheless’, before attempting to wrap me into unconsciousness with a tight hug and flicking our light off.
I didn’t sleep a wink.
I haven’t moved an inch.
Because as I lay here, in the early hours of the morning, with the sun staring into my window with glaring intensity,
The shadow is still there.
And it’s closer.
Worst yet, every time I close my eyes - even just to blink - it’s closer again. It’s up to my knees now, and Mark still can’t see it. Please - keep an eye out for new shadows.