Watching, Watching, Waiting

A horror story for Halloween season. Pour yourself something warm, turn off the lights, and settle in.

I remember when you were just a shadow. A dark figure, emptiness, without any form. I could always feel you before I saw you. The cold, it settled into me, a dark, winter night, like worthlessness and shame. It turned me on myself in hate.

The eyes I thought you might have, I could not see them always. But you brought a gravity, a thickness pressing in on me, an attachment. Watching, watching, waiting. You were always waiting for something, for me.

Your appearance has sharpened over the years; there is definition, color. I can see your eyes now reflect back at me through the darkness. You have skin, a rich tan like mine. You have hands now, and they have fingers. And you have hair, it hangs on either side of what would be your face.

But no face, still no face.

One day I will see your face, I will know you.

How many years have you been with me now?

It was a horrible night, the first time I saw you. I was trying to fall asleep. Trying to drown out the yelling that was coming from the kitchen, closing my ears against the word ‘divorce.’ I was nine.

Once the shouting ended, I heard a door slam and the turning over of a car engine, then it sped out of the drive. Muffled footsteps on the carpet let me know mom was heading back to her room. I could hear soft crying from down the hall.

I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, wiping wet cheeks on the seam of my sheets.

The cold, the guilt, the shame, it hung and then set in, spread over me and drenched my skin like a freezing rain.

A movement in the corner of my eye shifted my focus to the other side of the room. I’d had a tall stand mirror with an elaborate brass frame perched aside my closet. It tilted slightly upward on its stand.

And there you were, a shadow right above the mirror. I could only see part of you. Watching me, waiting, you did not have eyes then. But the weight of your presence laid upon me like iron chains slung over my body and bolted into the floor.

My heart knocked against my chest. With short, shallow breaths I tried to keep still and quiet.

Run, I told myself, run out of the room. My brain tried to guide me, but my legs did not respond.

Minutes went by. With a deep breath, I threw off my top blanket and lunged.

At the foot of the bed, I turned towards the mirror to see you had disappeared. Two more steps and I was at the door. I touched the doorknob, only to feel a brush against my cheek.

I screamed. My mother ran into the room and flicked on the lights as I sat in a ball on the floor.

-----

I had been in high school, a senior.

My best friend, Jamie, always gave me a ride home. I waited at our usual spot, and waited. But no Jamie.

I walked around the corner and down the hall, towards the back of the school, to see her huddled with the rest of our friends. They were whispering, packed tight, it sounded like they were talking about who was going to do it. Do what? I thought.

As I approached, they heard me and one of the girls stiffened up, nudging the one next to her. Jamie turned around, her back had been to me. There was something on her face, a mixed look of disdain and regret. Something was wrong.

“We need to talk,” Jamie had said flatly.

In front of our friends, Jamie told me I was no longer welcome in the friend group. I made everyone feel uncomfortable, they didn’t want to hear stories about a made up shadow woman in my room, they didn’t want to hang out with someone who was always visiting the school counselor.

I stayed home from school the next day, lying in bed, crying. In between dosing off and tears, dark thoughts took over, I am weird, I am seeing things, none of this is real, I don’t deserve to have friends.

Night settled in. And as it came so did the ice in the depth of my stomach, the disgust, the contempt. I was alone, empty, and cold. A dense air rife with longing pressed down on my body, held me to the bed.

I rolled over, looking at the corner of my room. I gasped, you were there, and you had grown. Your silhouette had taken shape, limbs had formed into arms and legs. Still dark, still a faceless shadow. But you had eyes.

-----

We had been together six years when he told me he didn’t love me.

It had almost been enough time to forget about you, almost. You had stopped coming around when I was with him. And I got used to the idea of not seeing you.

Someone named Sam had seen to an end to that. Her shoes showed up in our car, her calls buzzed his phone late at night, her dark hair tangled into our bedsheets.

I believed him when he said he had joined a tennis club and the shoes had been left behind when the team swapped into sneakers. When he said that they had been taking late calls with clients in different time zones. When he said the hair must be from a mix up at the laundromat.

“I don’t love you,” he had said to me. And then he left me, I didn’t leave him.

I hadn’t realized what I wanted until I had him. There were no more dark beings, no more eyes staring at me from the shadows. I had a boyfriend, I had made new friends, I had people who wanted to be around me. I had love. I thought.

The night he left me, I screamed. I smashed plates and glassware and records.

I cried until my face was raw and my eyes ran dry.

I’m not worthy, I’m not lovable, I am a bad person, I thought as a cold stab pierced my heart and spread into my limbs. A numbness washed over me and then an oppressive ache set into my body, I was heavy and weak.

I looked over to the corner of the room and there you were.

The fear I had forgotten rose up in my throat and a silent scream shaped my lips.

I almost didn’t recognize you. Silhouetted into a woman with long hair, you were draped in a black fabric.

You made no movement, and you did not disappear.

“What do you want?” I cried hoarsely. You didn’t reply

-----

Ten years I’ve lived alone now. And you come and go over time. But I’ve noticed you more over the past few weeks. You don’t always show up when I’m awake. Sometimes it’s as I’m on the bridge of sleep, sometimes as I turn to roll over, or right as I pry my eyelids open in the morning. I wonder if you’ll talk to me, if you’re here for a reason.

Now your hair is a golden blond, your skin is tan, your eyes reflect back through the darkness. Staring back at me.

I lay awake, the sheets feel too tight, my skin dragging and dense, the silence of the night rings in my ears.

And then the cold, and the shame, a familiar and sinister chill.

I look to the corner of the room, your spot is absent. But you must be here, I think, I can feel you.

Slowly, I turn my head to the other side. My breath catches, you are closer than usual. Standing at the foot of my bed.

All my muscles tighten in a spasm and I bolt upright clutching the sheets to my chin

“What do you want?” I ask in alarm, and you vanish.

I stay sitting up, unable to sleep. I watch and listen for any sound, waiting for any movement, any sign of you.

-----

“And the presence has been with you for how long?” Dr. Spearman asks, peering at me over the tops of her glasses.

“Since I was nine,” I respond, “so twenty-five years.”

Taking quick notes, she doesn’t break eye contact. I look down at my hands, they are knotted in my lap.

“And how do you feel about it being there with you, in your room?” she asks.

“The same as always, I get used to it over time. I don’t always mind her being there, I...” I trail off, Sometimes I want her there.

“But sleeping,” I add, “usually I’m able to sleep. Now it’s getting harder.”

“Are there any other times you can remember—you want to share—about it being there with you? Any impactful memories?” she asks.

The hand holding her pen remains still. Under her notebook, the other hand picks at the binding, I can see small shreds piling up on her skirt. She doesn’t like these visits. She doesn’t believe me.

After an hour recounting the various times she has visited my room, the doctor takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes.

“Well, several days of no sleep can certainly affect someone’s psyche,” she says as she scribbles on a small pad, “I am prescribing you some sleeping pills, two at a time.”

Ripping off the top sheet, she stands up and hands it to me, the binder scraps falling to the floor.

“Thank you,” I say, “maybe that will help.”

-----

2:13 AM, my clock tells me. Seven nights of no sleep.

Popping two sleeping pills into my mouth, I take a long gulp of water from my nightstand.

“I need sleep,” I say aloud to the empty room.

The drugs were sliding me into sleep like waves grasping at the sand as they pull it back into the ocean, my mind going blank.

The nothing behind my eyes brings a peace that trickles down into my legs, making them limp and loose. I smile to myself.

Nothing, I think.

A dull twinge in my heart forces my eyes open. My blanket weighing down on my body like an anchor.

A cold presses in on me from the right and I turn. You are sitting there, on the side of my bed. Your face towards me, and your eyes, they have color now.

I want to move, want to touch you, want to run from you.

I am immobile. A faint sound crawls from my stomach into my mouth but doesn’t make it out. I try to move my arms and my legs, but it’s pointless. My eyes lose focus, you go blurry.

“What do you...” I whisper. And all goes black.

-----

The imprint from where you sat remains on my bed.

You were right there, right next to me. I will not take the pills again.

I want to talk to you, want to touch you, want to know your purpose.

Or will I run from you?

I sit up and wait. Sleep hangs on my shoulders, but I wait.

As I lean against my headboard, a dark pain unravels in my stomach and into my brain, weaving itself throughout my body and settling in like a leaden stone. I am not worthy, I am not loved.

You show yourself, as I knew you would.

Standing in your normal place, the corner of my room. Your features are more vibrant, your face still blurry but color now spreads throughout. Your eyes, I could make out the color now, they are blue.

“On my bed, there is an imprint. Did you sit with me last night?” I ask.

You stare at me, and I stare back. Your features coming into focus as I gaze at you in the moonlight. Your blond hair falls to the same length as mine, your eyes are hooded and blue like mine, your cheeks low and full like mine, your lips slant slightly on one side like mine, you’re my height, my shape, the scar on your wrist looks like the scar on mine.

A sweat breaks out on my neck. Your appearance is mesmerizing, familiar.

“What do you want?” I ask. I don’t want you to answer.

I can hear my own heart beat in the silence, my breath is caught in my throat and I cannot get air. I try to pull a breath in but it struggles in my lungs.

I hear another breathing, your breathing. You take long, audible breaths. I remain still, tension forces my legs stiff.

“You,” your voice whispers.

My blankets are ripped off the bed and I am flattened against the mattress. I fight under the crushing mass. You are on my chest, pressing down hard as I thrash. My arms are pinned as my legs flail but it is useless. I try to scream but my throat is blocked, a grip around my neck, choking me. A weight comes down upon my legs and I am smothered, my body stifled until I am completely motionless.

There is no air, no sound. Only blackness.

-----

I wake up in darkness. All around me. My hands run over the walls and corners surrounding me. I’m in a tiny space. My back presses against a wall and there is another wall at my feet. A fabric brushes against my face. I am cold. Everything I touch is cold. Standing up, I pat the wall and find what seems to be a door knob. I turn it.

Peering out from inside the space, it is night outside. I’m looking into a bedroom.

I scan the room, there is a mirror across from me on the other side of the room.

I can’t see myself. I see a dark mass reflected in the mirror. A vague, black shape.

I gasp, but no sound comes out. Clawing at my throat, I try to yell, but I have no voice. My hands find where my face should be, search for the rest of my body, it’s not there. I am a shadow, a shapeless thing. I am you.

But where are you? I think, What have you done to me?

I am in someone else’s bedroom. A young girl, she is sleeping. An arm hangs over the bed to show pink lamb pajamas that match her floral pink bedspread, her dark hair splayed over her pillow case.

I like this girl, I think, she is young, she has innocence... look how she holds her stuffed bear.

Fixated on her, I want to breathe her thoughts and feel her dreams.

I want to know her...

I want to be close to her…

I want to be her...

The young girl shivers, stirs. She looks over at the closet and lets out a scream.

I shrink back into the closet and I vanish. Into the darkness. A door appears behind me and I push it open. I walk down a long dark hall, it extends endlessly, doors on either side.

I will wait for this girl, I think, she is not ready yet.