My name is Daniel Carter, and I’ve always considered myself a rational person. I don’t believe in ghosts or monsters or any of the supernatural nonsense that others do. I’m a scientist, after all. I deal in facts, in things that can be measured and explained. But what I’m about to tell you defies explanation. It’s something that’s been haunting me for weeks, and I can’t shake the feeling that it’s only the beginning.
It all started about a month ago. I live alone in a small house on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by woods. It’s quiet, peaceful, the perfect place for someone like me who values solitude. I’ve always liked the isolation, the sense of being away from the noise and chaos of urban life. But lately, that isolation has taken on a different, more sinister tone.
The first time it happened, I thought I was dreaming. I woke up in the middle of the night, my room bathed in pale moonlight filtering through the curtains. Everything was still, silent, the way it usually is at that hour. But then I noticed something—a shadow at the foot of my bed. It was faint, barely visible, but it was there. I remember staring at it, trying to convince myself it was just a trick of the light. But the longer I looked, the more it seemed to take shape, to solidify into something more… defined.
I must have fallen back asleep, because the next thing I remember is waking up the next morning, the shadow gone, my room flooded with sunlight. I wrote it off as a bad dream, a figment of my imagination. But the next night, it happened again.
This time, the shadow was clearer, more distinct. It wasn’t just a vague shape anymore; it was tall, humanoid, standing perfectly still at the foot of my bed. I couldn’t make out any details—no face, no features—just a dark silhouette, like something had been cut out of the night and placed in my room. I tried to move, to sit up, but I couldn’t. I was paralyzed, frozen in place by some unseen force. The shadow didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. It just stood there, watching me.
I don’t know how long it lasted—minutes, hours, I can’t say. But eventually, the shadow began to fade, dissolving into the darkness, and I was left alone in the silence.
After that, it became a nightly occurrence. No matter what I did—sleeping with the lights on, staying awake as long as I could—the shadow would always appear, standing at the foot of my bed, watching. It never spoke, never moved. It just stood there, silent and menacing, like it was waiting for something.
I started to lose sleep, afraid of what would happen if I let myself drift off. My work suffered, my health declined, and I became a recluse, too terrified to leave my house. I searched for explanations, for some rational reason for what was happening to me, but I found nothing. Every night, the shadow grew stronger, more defined, until it was no longer just a shadow. It was something solid, something real.
And then, one night, it spoke.
I was lying in bed, the room dark and silent, when I felt the familiar chill of the shadow’s presence. I didn’t bother opening my eyes; I knew it was there. But this time, instead of just standing there, it leaned closer, its face inches from mine. I could feel its cold breath on my skin, and then I heard it—a low, raspy voice, whispering in my ear.
“Let me in.”
The words sent a jolt of terror through me, and I finally managed to move, to sit up and turn on the light. The shadow was gone, but the feeling of dread lingered, stronger than ever. I knew then that it wasn’t just a dream, wasn’t just a shadow. It was something else, something that wanted to be let in.
I haven’t slept since. I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I hear that voice, feel that cold breath on my skin. I don’t know what it is, what it wants, but I know it’s not going away. It’s getting closer, every night, waiting for me to give in, to let it in.
I’m writing this because I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. I’m afraid that one night, I’ll be too tired, too weak, and I’ll let my guard down. And when that happens, I don’t know what will come next. But if you’re reading this, maybe you can stop it. Maybe you can figure out what it is before it’s too late.
Or maybe it’s already too late for both of us.
