It's 3 a.m., and I'm lying in bed, almost asleep. Suddenly, I hear soft, scratching sounds coming from the wall next to me. I ignore it at first, thinking it's just the house settling, but it gets louder and louder… until it sounds like someone is right behind me. I turn over slowly, my heart pounding, and the scratching stops. Silence.
But then, a chilling whisper echoes in my ear, "I'm right here…" I freeze, every hair standing on end, feeling like someone's watching. I sit up, fumbling to turn on my light, but before I can, an ice-cold hand brushes against my arm, and the whisper becomes a low, breathy laugh.
The laugh lingers, echoing in the room, growing softer, then louder, as if it's circling me. It's not coming from just one place—it feels like it's everywhere.
I sit there, paralyzed, trying to convince myself it's just my imagination. But then I feel that icy breath again, this time right by my neck, and the laughter becomes a whisper, like it's inside my head.
"I've been waiting… waiting for you to notice me…"
Suddenly, something brushes against my shoulder—a cold, bony touch that sends chills down my spine. The laughter rises, louder, echoing in every corner, filling the room, until it feels like it's consuming me.
Then, the whisper comes again, closer than ever: "Don't bother turning around. I'm already right beside you."...
I snap awake, heart racing in the quiet of my room. It's morning, the sunlight streaming through the window. For a moment, I'm disoriented, unsure if what I felt last night was real or just a nightmare. My hand instinctively reaches for my neck, where the cold sensation had been—but there's nothing there, just the warmth of my own skin.
The room feels normal again. I'm safe. But there's an odd weight in the air, as if something is slightly out of place. The corner of my room seems to have something new—a faint shadow, not quite right. I rub my eyes and laugh at myself. It's just my imagination, I tell myself. I glance around, trying to shake off the feeling that something's off, but the sensation lingers.
I try to brush it off and begin my day, but as I walk toward the door, my eyes catch a small, unexpected detail—something that definitely wasn't there before.
A sticky note, tucked under the door. I pick it up, and in neat handwriting, it says: I'm still here. Waiting."