When a billionaire wants to kill you.....

Insanity

The next day, an unshakable sense of being watched clings to me, a heavy presence trailing my every step. I worked on a few blog pieces that Hellcom needed me to write about Interverse. A game that allows people to play virtually in our world based on our geographic area. It isn't new, but they continue to build on the game and make it real for the players. The game shows every area in real-time. Even shows what is there at the time they are playing. New security measures have been updated to address bugs and potential hackers. I needed to write a piece explaining the details of the upgrade, so the players know what to expect. While on my third round of coffee, I felt as though I wasn't alone. There was a presence in my room, and one I couldn't see. Fear grounded me to the floor. Every shadow and movement had me jumping out of my skin. Is it back? Half scared and half hoping it would finish what it started. Crazy. I don't even know what it is, but I crave another encounter.

I finished working on my pieces by sundown, and I finally took a break. Even my favorite hideaway, the cramped utility room where I’ve always found solace, feels violated, as if invisible eyes are boring into me. It’s waiting, this unseen force, lurking for me to slip up, to reveal some vulnerable piece of myself I’ve kept guarded. The darkness around me feels thicker, more oppressive than it should, as if it’s alive with secrets and intentions. As a child, I’d whisper to the shadows, half-believing they’d answer back, but that fleeting thought dissolves quickly. Now, older and more aware, the dark terrifies me in a way it never did before. With age comes the knowledge that more things—seen and unseen—seek to claim you, to pull you into their grasp. It’s a fear as visceral as the memory of my father arranging my marriage at eighteen, thrusting me into a future cloaked in uncertainty. That same dread grips me now, the feeling of being trapped, like a caged animal with no way out. I’m the type who’d gnaw off a limb to escape, to reclaim freedom at any cost.

The darkness consumes me, pressing in from all sides, suffocating. My only defense is the faint light within me—my will, my defiance—keeping the shadows at bay. But where can I run? There’s nowhere to hide when the threat feels so omnipresent, so intimate. The roof above me creaks, a deliberate sound, like someone shifting their weight in the attic. My breath catches, and I freeze, every muscle taut. Listening. The silence that follows is heavy, charged with the certainty that I’m not alone. Someone—or something—is up there, waiting, watching. My heart races as I duck out of sight, pressing myself against the utility room wall, seeking cover in the familiar clutter of boxes and tools. I fumble for a joint, lighting it with trembling hands, the sharp scent of smoke grounding me as I strain to hear more.

Each creak from above sends a jolt through me, my senses heightened, attuned to every sound. The darkness seems to pulse, alive with menace, and I can’t shake the feeling that it’s toying with me, testing my resolve. I take a slow drag, the haze of the joint dulling the edges of my fear, but it can’t erase the reality of my situation. I’m trapped, caught between the instinct to flee and the need to confront whatever’s stalking me. The attic groans again, and I imagine footsteps, deliberate and slow, pacing just out of reach. My mind races—could it be Lucifer, the entity from last night, or something else entirely? The uncertainty is maddening, but I hold my ground, listening, smoking, waiting for the next move in this strange, unsettling game.

Out of the darkness, a voice cuts through the silence, low and deliberate: “What is she doing?” My body jolts, adrenaline surging like a lightning bolt, and I leap from my spot in the utility room, heart pounding like a drum in my chest. My legs carry me without thought, straight to my room to collect my phone. I video call my mom, my voice trembling as I blurt, “Someone is outside watching me!” The words spill out in a rush, desperate for her to understand. She looks at me with that familiar mix of concern and skepticism, her eyes narrowing as she processes my panic. “You’re imagining it,” she says, her tone firm, almost dismissive. “No one’s out there. "You’re just paranoid—probably smoking too much.” Her words hit like a slap, frustration bubbling up inside me. To be honest, I’m not smoking enough to deal with this madness. The joint I lit earlier barely dulled the edge of my fear, and now I’m standing here, feeling like I’m teetering on the brink of something I can’t explain. Why do people—my mom, my friends, everyone—beg me to keep going, to live, to fight, only to turn around and call me crazy when I sense something they can’t? Their doubt piles onto my own, a heavy weight that makes me question my grip on reality. "Thanks mom."

"Go to bed. You will feel better in the morning. I love you, goodnight." Her face disappeared from the screen.

I waited a good ten minutes, pacing the hallway, trying to steady my nerves. The air feels thick, charged with the echo of that voice, its words looping in my mind. Was it real, or just another trick of my fraying thoughts? Slowly, I ease myself back to the utility room, my sanctuary now tainted by fear. The familiar clutter—boxes, tools, the faint smell of detergent—offer little comfort now. I light the joint again, my hands still shaky, the faint glow of the ember a small, fleeting comfort as I try to chase a buzz to dull the edge of my anxiety. The world outside falls unnaturally quiet. Even the wind, which had been rustling through the trees earlier, seems to have died, leaving an eerie stillness that presses against my skin. All I hear is the frantic thump of my heartbeat, loud in my ears, a relentless reminder that I’m still here, still alive, despite the creeping dread that something’s watching.

I fumble for my earbuds, shoving them in with trembling fingers, desperate to drown out the silence and the lingering sense of that voice. Music blares, a pulsing rhythm that becomes my temporary shield, blocking out the oppressive quiet. I take another drag, the smoke curling around me like a fragile barrier, as I try to forget my own damn name, let alone the shadowy thing hiding in the dark. The utility room feels smaller now, the walls closing in, the air thick with the weight of my fear. My mind races, replaying the voice, the way it seemed to know me, to see me. Was it real, or am I unraveling, my paranoia weaving phantoms from nothing? The silence outside is oppressive, unnatural, as if the world is holding its breath, waiting for my next move. I focus on the music, the beat pulsing through my earbuds, trying to anchor myself in something tangible. But the fear lingers, a cold weight in my chest, whispering that something is still out there, watching, biding its time. The joint burns down, the buzz settling in, but it’s not enough to erase the question looping in my mind: what’s hiding in the dark, and why does it feel so close?

Honestly, I just need something—anything—to pull my mind away from the suffocating weight of it all. The writer’s block that’s been choking my creativity refuses to let go, leaving me restless, adrift in a sea of unwritten words and unformed ideas. The fear from earlier, the voice in the dark, the sense of being watched—it’s all still there, lurking at the edges of my thoughts. Desperate for a distraction, I grab my phone and flip through my game library, scrolling past familiar titles that fail to spark interest. Then I stumbled across a dungeon crawler RPG, a gritty game built on grinding levels, battling through labyrinthine dungeons, and collecting loot. It’s addictive as hell, promising hours of immersion, but there’s a catch—it’s not solo-player-friendly. You need a team to tackle the tougher challenges, which makes me pause for a moment. Still, the allure of losing myself in this world is too strong to resist. I launch the game, and as the loading screen fades to torchlit corridors, the darkness that’s been clinging to me—the voice, the creeping fear—begins to recede, replaced by the flicker of pixelated flames and the grind of leveling up. For the first time in hours, I feel a flicker of relaxation, a brief respite from the chaos in my head.

I’m finally done smoking, the joint reduced to ash in the utility room, and I make my way to my bedroom, the haze in my head softening the edges of my anxiety. I cue up some cello music on my speaker, its deep, mournful notes filling the room, grounding me as I settle in with the game. The controls are clunky at first, requiring a learning curve that demands my full attention. I’m hooked, my focus narrowing to the screen as I navigate the game’s mechanics—combat, inventory management, and skill upgrades. The world is relentless, throwing waves of enemies at me, each one marked by a red dot, signaling a threat or an objective. Those red dots became my obsession, each one a tiny challenge I needed to conquer. Clearing them feels like reclaiming a piece of control, something I’ve been missing in my writing, my thoughts, and my life. Every defeated enemy, every cleared marker, pulls me further from the shadows that haunted me earlier.

The cello music weaves through the background, its somber tones a perfect counterpoint to the game’s intensity. My fingers move by instinct, chaining attacks, dodging traps, and scouring dungeons for loot. The game demands teamwork, so I join a random group online, their avatars darting across the screen as we carve through the game’s challenges together. It’s chaotic, but the rhythm of it—plan, fight, level up—drowns out the lingering unease. The darkness outside my window, the creaks in the attic, the voice that whispered in the utility room—they all feel distant now, like echoes from a dream I’m choosing to ignore. I’m not just playing; I’m escaping, sinking into a world where the rules are clear, and every red dot I erase is a small victory. The writer’s block, the fear, the uncertainty—they’re all on pause, and for now, I’m just a player, chasing the next level, the next win, the next moment of peace.

Something grazes my back. A low vibration that hums and purrs right into me. The entity? He is back. What is it doing? Watching me? I turn the music on to keep my mind away from the fact that I feel as though I am being watched. It stays behind me. The song "I Want Some More" comes on my playlist. Not one I have saved, but I instantly liked it. The thought hits me. Did the thing behind me put that song on my playlist? Does he want more of last night? What is he waiting for me to go to sleep? No. That can't be. I am just imagining this. The only problem is I can feel it touching me. Is that a hallucination? I thought that was seeing and hearing. What am I going to call him? I can't keep calling him the entity. It could be an alien researching me. I guess. I could call it an alien. Another caress up my back makes me jump. I sit down at my desk and continue to play the game. I'm just imagining it. That's not happening. Then something sits down with me. I can feel its body, but it's sitting inside me. My head keeps thinking nonstop about what it could be, but I keep getting the feeling I want to lie down. After completing all my tasks, I closed the game to put on music. The alien moved with me. I can feel it climbing onto my bed. It lies behind me and messes with my head. I can feel it caressing my body. I let the hum of its energy lull me to sleep.