After my mother's death and our hasty departure from the house, life was never the same. My father and I moved to a small apartment in the city, hoping to leave the horrors of that cursed pillow behind. But I couldn't escape the memories. Night after night, I dreamt of my pillow—its twisted, evil face, the crooked smile, and the cold, haunting voice that had taken everything from me. Every time I closed my eyes, I could feel its presence. It wasn't just a dream anymore. It was a warning.
It had been three months since the incident, and I was starting to feel a bit more settled. I hadn't spoken about it much to my father, who was still reeling from the loss of my mother. He tried his best to be there for me, but the weight of what had happened bore down on him. We both were trying to heal, but there was an unspoken fear between us that the nightmare was far from over.
One night, after a particularly rough day at school, I came home to find my father sitting at the dining table, deep in thought. His face was pale, his eyes heavy with worry.
"What's wrong, Dad?" I asked, sensing his discomfort.
He looked up at me with a strained smile. "Nothing, sweetheart. Just work stuff."
But I knew it wasn't just work. Something was bothering him, something that had nothing to do with work. I decided not to push him further, though, because I was still trying to piece my own life back together.
That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I heard a noise. At first, it was faint, like a soft whisper, but then it grew louder. It sounded like something was dragging across the floor. My heart began to race. I hadn't heard that sound since… since the last time.
I sat up in bed, listening intently. The sound stopped, and the apartment fell into an eerie silence. I shook my head, convincing myself it was nothing more than my imagination. After all, the pillow was gone. It had been turned to ashes by the priest. There was no way it could come back. Right?
But then I heard it again. This time, it was unmistakable—a low, raspy whisper. It was coming from the hallway.
I jumped out of bed and ran to my father's room, throwing open the door. "Dad! Dad, wake up!" I shouted, shaking him awake.
"What's going on?" he asked groggily, rubbing his eyes.
"I heard something," I said breathlessly. "Something's in the apartment."
My father, still half-asleep, tried to calm me down. "Hazel, it's just your mind playing tricks on you. It's been a rough few months, I know, but there's nothing here. The pillow's gone."
"I swear I heard something," I insisted, my voice trembling. "Please, can you just check?"
Reluctantly, my father got out of bed and checked the apartment. Every door, every closet, every nook and cranny was inspected, but there was nothing. No sign of the noise, no sign of anything unusual.
"See?" he said, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "It's all in your head. You've been through a lot, Hazel. But we're safe here."
I wanted to believe him. I really did. But as I returned to my room, that feeling in the pit of my stomach wouldn't go away. Something was wrong. Something was coming.
The next morning, I woke up to find my room in disarray. The pillows on my bed were scattered across the floor, my blankets tangled and tossed. I hadn't done this in my sleep. I hadn't even moved. My heart began to pound as I remembered the last time my room had been left in such a state. The pillow. It was happening again.
I called for my father, who came rushing in. His face paled when he saw the mess, but he tried to remain composed. "It's probably just you tossing and turning in your sleep," he said, though his voice wavered.
"No, Dad," I whispered. "It's happening again. It's back."
My father didn't respond. He didn't need to. The look in his eyes told me everything. He was scared. Scared that the nightmare wasn't over.
That evening, my father invited the priest back to our apartment. Father Andrew had been the one who had rid us of the pillow the first time, and my father hoped he could offer some reassurance now. The priest arrived, carrying his book of prayers and a bottle of holy water, just as he had before.
Father Andrew walked through the apartment, muttering prayers under his breath. He sprinkled holy water in every corner, lingering in my room for a long time.
When he finished, he sat down with us at the dining table. "I don't sense the same presence that I did before," he said. "Whatever haunted you back then, it's not here now."
I wanted to believe him, but something deep inside me still felt uneasy. My father thanked him, and Father Andrew left, assuring us that we were safe. But I knew better. The pillow might not have been physically here, but its influence remained.
Days passed, and I tried to ignore the growing dread that had settled in my chest. But strange things started happening. Objects would move on their own, doors would creak open in the middle of the night, and I would feel cold air brushing against my skin, even though the windows were closed. Every time I felt that eerie chill, my thoughts would go back to the pillow.
One night, as I lay in bed, I heard the familiar dragging sound again. This time, I didn't hesitate. I threw off the covers and ran out of the room. I didn't care if it was real or not—I just wanted to get away.
I rushed to my father's room, but when I opened the door, I froze. There, lying on his bed, was the pillow. Not just any pillow—my pillow. The same one that had haunted me, that had killed my mother, and nearly taken my father.
I screamed, waking my father. He jumped out of bed, but the moment he saw the pillow, his face went white.
"How… how is that possible?" he stammered.
Before I could respond, the pillow lifted into the air, its crooked smile forming once again. It floated menacingly between us, and I could feel its icy presence filling the room.
"Stay back!" I shouted, pulling my father behind me.
The pillow hovered for a moment, its smile widening, before it lunged toward us. We ducked, narrowly avoiding it as it flew across the room, knocking over lamps and books in its path.
"We have to get out of here!" my father yelled, grabbing my hand. We ran toward the door, but the pillow blocked our way, flying back and forth in front of us like a predator toying with its prey.
"Dad, what do we do?" I cried, my voice trembling.
My father looked around the room, his eyes wild with fear. "We need to destroy it. For good this time."
But how? The priest had already turned it to ashes once, and it had come back. What could possibly destroy it now?
Just as the pillow was about to strike again, a knock echoed through the apartment. It was the priest.
Father Andrew burst into the room, holding a glowing crucifix. "Step back!" he commanded. The pillow paused, hovering uncertainly. The priest held the crucifix high, chanting in Latin as he moved toward the pillow.
The air in the room grew thick and heavy, the temperature dropping rapidly. The pillow screeched, its face contorting in agony. I covered my ears as the sound grew louder and louder, until finally, with a deafening crack, the pillow exploded into a cloud of ash.
Silence fell over the room. The pillow was gone, for good this time.
Father Andrew lowered the crucifix, breathing heavily. "It's over," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're free now."
But as I stood there, staring at the pile of ash on the floor, I wasn't so sure. The pillow may have been gone, but its presence still lingered in the air. And deep down, I knew this wasn't the end. The pillow would find a way back.
It always did.