Am I seeing things?
I don’t know. It happened suddenly, without warning, like a ripple in reality that left me questioning its shape. But I need answers—or maybe just a connection.
Have you ever felt watched? Not by something human, not by something that belongs here,
but by a presence that lurks just beyond comprehension? Something dark, something unknowable?
The first time I saw it, it was an ordinary night—at least, that’s what I tell myself. I had come home late, my body weighed down by exhaustion, my mind dulled by the monotony of work, the gym, the endless rituals of existence. The air was thick with heat, clinging to my skin, oppressive and inescapable.
I had been living alone for weeks now. The cooler stood in its usual place, just outside my door, beside the bathroom. I lifted the lid. Nearly empty. Only a shallow inch of water remained, just enough to taunt my thirst. I searched for the pipe but couldn’t find it. The thought of hauling heavy buckets to refill it felt unbearable. Defeated, I let it be and collapsed onto my bed.
Sleep took me quickly.
Sometime in the dead of night, I woke. A sound—soft, deliberate. Water. Dripping.
The heat had worsened; the bedsheet beneath me was soaked, clinging to my skin like a second layer. My breath felt thick, sluggish. I turned my head toward the door.
And that’s when I saw her.
At first, she faced the cooler, motionless, her posture eerily still. The dim light stretched long shadows around her, but she cast none of her own. She seemed to be studying something inside the water—or perhaps something inside herself.
Then, in a blink, she turned.
Now, she was facing me.
A silent, crushing weight filled the room.
It’s impossible to describe her fully, because she wasn’t like anything that should exist. She had a form—a tall, broad-shouldered figure, limbs too long, too unnatural. But she lacked depth. No shadows clung to her, no contours shaped her presence. She was flat, a silhouette cut from the darkness itself, a being carved from some otherworldly void.
Her body bore deep, jagged cuts, as though something had slashed her apart and stitched her back together with shadows. Were they wounds? Or had she made them herself?
And yet, despite every unnatural thing about her, I knew—I knew—she was a woman.
I don’t know how. I don’t know why. But I felt it in my bones, in the marrow of my fear.
Then, the horror deepened.
As my mind struggled to comprehend her presence, I became aware of something far worse.
She wasn’t just standing by the cooler.
She was also standing beside me.
I could feel her—just inches away, pressing into my awareness, her presence unmistakable. And yet, I could still see her across the room, unmoving, watching.
It wasn’t a trick of the mind. Not a shadow. Not a second figure.
She was both places at once.
The same.
The one.
And then—her hand moved.
Hovering just above my head, her fingers curled slightly, making the soft, deliberate motion of stroking someone’s hair with care. A mother’s touch. A lover’s caress. But she wasn’t touching me. Not really. And yet, I felt it—felt the ghost of fingers running gently through my damp hair, a sensation as real as my own breath.
Then, she whispered.
The sound was not of this world. It was layered, stretched, warped—as if spoken through the hollow of existence itself. A voice without air, without throat, without breath. And yet, I understood.
"Don’t worry," she murmured, her voice threading into my bones. "I will take care of you. I won’t let you feel this heat."
A chill unlike any other seeped into my spine.
I recoiled, my breath sharp and unsteady. My hand moved—instinct, fear, defiance. I reached for hers, desperate to push her away.
But there was nothing.
She was gone.
Vanished, like she had never been there at all.
I bolted upright, drenched in sweat, my body trembling. The air felt thick, cloying, laced with an unsettling dampness that carried the scent of something… wrong. My pulse pounded in my skull, in my throat, in my ribs. But the worst had not yet come.
Something happened.
As I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, the moment my bare feet touched the ground—
Water.
Cold. Still. Too much.
It swallowed my ankles, seeping between my toes, lapping against my skin like a silent tide. My breath hitched. My spine locked.
I looked toward the cooler.
It was filled.
To the top.
I did not fill it.
And yet, it overflowed.
