Nights are Scary.

Nights Are Scary It was past midnight when Emma first heard the tapping. It was faint, like nails brushing against the windowpane. She froze, the soft glow of her bedside lamp barely illuminating her room. Outside, the wind howled, but this tapping wasn’t the wind. It was deliberate, rhythmic, and unmistakably close. Emma lived alone in an old, creaky house on the edge of town. The locals often whispered about the place, warning her of its history, but she had brushed off their stories as superstitions. Now, lying in her bed, she wasn’t so sure. She sat up slowly, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. The tapping stopped. Holding her breath, she listened. The silence was suffocating. Then came the creak—floorboards groaning under the weight of something heavy. Not outside, but inside. Her stomach churned as she forced herself to look at the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar. She was certain she had closed it before going to bed. A faint shadow moved in the gap, and she stifled a scream. Reaching for her phone, she fumbled in the dark, her fingers trembling. The screen lit up, but there was no signal. A cold sweat broke out on her skin as she tried to steady her breathing. She had to get out. Summoning her courage, Emma swung her legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floor felt icy against her bare feet. She tiptoed toward the door, every creak of the floorboards beneath her making her wince. When she reached the door, she hesitated, peering through the gap. The hallway was pitch black, but she could feel a presence. Something was there, watching. Suddenly, the tapping started again, louder this time, coming from the kitchen downstairs. Relief flooded her—maybe it was just a tree branch against the window. She clung to that hope and stepped into the hallway. As she made her way down the stairs, the air grew colder. Her breath came out in shaky puffs, visible in the dim moonlight filtering through the windows. The tapping stopped the moment she stepped into the kitchen. “Hello?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. The silence stretched on. Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw it: a figure standing by the window, tall and unnaturally still. It wasn’t human—its limbs were too long, its head tilted at an impossible angle. It turned toward her, its hollow eyes gleaming in the dark. Emma screamed and bolted for the front door. Her trembling hands fumbled with the lock as the figure moved closer, its movements jerky and unnatural. She yanked the door open and sprinted into the night, the freezing wind biting at her skin. She didn’t stop running until she reached her neighbor’s house, pounding on the door until they answered. When she told them what she had seen, they exchanged uneasy glances. “You’re lucky you got out,” her neighbor said grimly. “The last tenant didn’t.” The next day, Emma returned to the house with the police. They found the front door wide open and the kitchen window shattered from the outside. But there was no sign of the figure she had seen. All they found was a single handprint on the windowpane—long, spindly fingers pressed against the glass. Emma never went back to the house. But sometimes, late at night, she swore she could still hear the tapping, faint and persistent, as if it were searching for her.