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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/AhAhA_itsAri on 2024-10-18 19:19:50+00:00.
I had always been afraid of being alone. I hated the dark. I hated the little noises and creeks that the house would make when I was little. Nobody thought I would ever move out and be on my own, and truthfully, I started to feel that way too. Until I found my small, cluttered apartment on the outskirts of town. The neighbors were scarce and quiet, but I didn’t mind because it was in the good part of town. The apartment itself was, like I said, small. Barely big enough to fit one person inside the kitchen, and the bedroom was the size of a walk-in closet, but I didn’t care because it was mine and the rent was cheap. I worked as a secretary for an accounting firm, which doesn’t pay too well, but the people there are kind and I’ve made friends with many of them. So, countless, mindless days I would spend filled with work, running errands, and occasionally meeting my friends for drinks. It was boring, and it was simple, and I loved it. Until I couldn’t anymore.
It was four months ago to the day. I was returning from the grocery store when I first felt it: that tingling, prickling sensation, like eyes boring into the back of my skull. I stopped mid-stride, glancing around the dimly lit street. It was empty, aside from a stray cat darting into the shadows. I shook it off, attributing it to fatigue and the coming darkness. Despite pulling myself together and moving on my own, I was still a good bit afraid when the night came. There were way too many possibilities, and not enough of me to fight them off. The store wasn’t too far from my apartment though, so I quickened my pace and when I got home, the weird sensation had faded from my mind.
But, over the next few days, the feeling grew. Subtle things began to shift. I would leave my keys on the kitchen counter, where I religiously left them in plain sight because I was prone to losing things, only to wake up the next morning and find them on the coffee table or stuck in the couch. My mail was shuffled and some of it was opened, as though someone had rifled through it. I brushed it off and attributed it to my forgetfulness, but in the back of my mind I knew it wasn’t me. At night, I heard faint creaks—footsteps—coming from the hallway. Each time I would check, the apartment was as still as ever. I began sleeping with a nightlight, and I definitely felt silly doing so, but it gave me some peace. I decided it was just the natural sounds of the apartment settling, but I lived on the bottom floor and, up until this point, my apartment didn’t creak and no one lived above me.
One night, I caught a glimpse of something—or someone. I had gotten home later than usual, probably around 1 a.m. I fumbled for my keys at the door, and I just so happened to glance across the street and saw a figure. Just standing there. Unmoving, watching. I froze in place for a minute and just stared back at the person. I snapped out of it and I turned the key, hurried inside, and slammed the door. By the time I had the courage to peek out the window, the figure was gone. I was officially scared. I stood there at the window for a while, and after not seeing anything or anyone strange, I retired to my room. Maybe it was just my mind playing tricks. Stress from work, too little sleep. But something had changed, a creeping presence had wormed its way into my thoughts. No matter where I went, I couldn’t shake the sense that someone—or something—was always near.
Paranoia gripped me like a vise. The feeling of being watched intensified until it was suffocating. The few neighbors I had now felt like enemies. I didn’t know how they were getting in, or who was following me. I was scared to stay put, and too scared to leave. My once comfortable apartment now felt like a prison, each shadow harboring something unseen.
One morning, after waking from a fitful sleep, I took my usual morning shower. I was washing the conditioner from my hair when I heard what sounded like the quiet resistance of fingers on damp glass. I froze in fear once again, my mind racing. My bathroom door creaks loudly from the rusty hinges and I knew for certain no body had opened it. I was the only one with the key to my apartment and I always double checked my locks. I stayed stuck in the shower until the water turned cold, body paralyzed, the whole time listening intently for any sound of another presence in there with me. I couldn’t see anyone through the shower curtain when I finally found the courage to open my eyes. I slowly turned off the water and reached out carefully to grab my towel. When I stepped out of the shower, I found a message scrawled on the bathroom mirror, written in the condensation from the shower: "Just let me in." I stared at it, pulse roaring in my ears. Sobs racked my body as I realized that I wasn’t crazy and someone had been here. The words were faint, almost ethereal. I turned to the door, and it was locked, just as it had been when I entered.
I called the police, but their investigation turned up nothing. No signs of forced entry, no evidence to suggest anyone had been inside. I shoved my phone in his face, forcing him to look at the picture I snapped of the mirror again. The officer looked at me with that practiced, half-pitying expression I would come to despise. He didn’t believe me. Nobody would. None of the locks were broken, no windows smashed or opened. No fingerprints. Just the picture I had taken. Did he think I was making this up?
My days became a blur of anxious rituals—triple-checking the locks and windows, drawing the curtains, and listening to every creak of the building. Every sound sent me to the verge of tears. At night, the nightmares started. They were vivid, terrible dreams of being hunted by a faceless figure, always just out of reach. I would wake drenched in sweat, my heart racing.
My phone began to vibrate at odd hours—unknown numbers, never any sound on the other end. But the worst part was the photos. It started with one, a picture of me walking down the street, taken from a distance. Then another, of me at the grocery store, and a third of me sitting on the couch in my apartment, alone. The last picture was taken from my kitchen. I hadn’t seen anyone. I hadn’t heard anyone. I once again went to the police. I showed him the pictures I received and he collected my phone as evidence. Once again, it turned up nothing. The sender couldn’t be traced.
My mind frayed. It was like this person was getting inside my head, twisting my thoughts, making me doubt everything and everyone. I tried to talk to my friends about it, but they either laughed it off or grew distant, uncomfortable with my growing paranoia. What’s wrong with them? Why is everyone so casual about all of this? Do they think this is a game?? I became suspicious of my friends, and the ones who did try and reach me, I didn’t give them the opportunity to do so. My sleep became shallow and broken, the hours blending together as fear gnawed at my sanity.
The presence grew more brazen. I started finding my windows unlocked, though I never touched them. One night, I woke to a cold breeze drifting in through the bedroom window, curtains flapping. I know I’d had it closed and locked before I went to bed. Heart hammering, I bolted upright, scanning the room for any sign of an intruder. There was none. Yet I knew something had been there. The air felt charged, thick with an unseen weight, pressing down on me. I was slowly going insane. The nightmares worsened. No longer confined to sleep, they began to seep into my waking hours. The world around me felt distorted, stretched. Every shadow seemed to move, every flicker of light a threat. I saw the figure in my peripheral vision—just standing there, watching—but when I turned, it would vanish.
And then the whispering started. At first, just faint mutterings at the edge of my consciousness, barely audible, like a faint wind. But, the voice grew clearer. "I see you. I’m close. So close. Just let me in." I no longer heard it just on the verge on sleep, I heard it right over my shoulder as I was watching TV, making coffee, staring out of the window. It wasn’t a voice I recognized—it was something else, something inhuman, cold. I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I barely left my apartment, kept every light on, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t escape it, couldn’t sleep. My mind was slowly unraveling.
One night, in a desperate attempt to confront the entity, I stayed up, hiding a knife under my pillow. I heard the footsteps again, louder this time. A figure moved in the hallway—I was sure of it I could see the shadowy imprint of feet from underneath the door. I leapt out of bed, knife in hand, but when I swung the door open, there was nothing. No one in the whole apartment.
Except, when I was getting back into bed, I saw something in the mirror—a reflection, not my own. A dark silhouette, featureless, standing where I should have been, whispering to me all the while. It wasn’t long before I understood the truth. This thing wasn’t just stalking me. It was becoming a part of me. My paranoia, my fear—it was feeding off me, driving me mad.
I found myself outside more often now, pacing the streets at night, lurking in the shadows like the figure had once done to me. I could feel its influence inside my head, whispering to me, guiding my actions. The whispering wasn’t something to be afraid of. It was comforting. It would keep me safe. I didn’t feel watched anymore—I felt compelled. Com...
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