Chapter 3 — He Watches Me Sleep
695 Words
I locked the door.
I checked it twice.
Then a third time.
The bolt slid into place with a dull click that should have comforted me. It didn’t. The room still felt occupied, as if locking the door had only confirmed something already decided.
I left the lamp on.
I lay on the bed fully clothed, heart beating too fast, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Every sound made me tense—the hum of old wiring, the whisper of wind against the windows, the soft tick of the clock creeping closer to midnight.
I told myself I was imagining things.
That the cracked mirror, the frost-mark, the voice—they were stress, exhaustion, fear playing tricks on my mind.
My wrist throbbed faintly, cold pulsing beneath my skin.
I pulled the blanket higher.
The clock clicked.
11:59.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Go to sleep,” I whispered to myself.
The light flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then—darkness.
I gasped, sitting upright just as the room plunged into shadow. The air thickened instantly, heavy with that same electric pressure.
“I told you to lock it,” he said.
My breath caught painfully. “I did.”
A pause.
Then—approval.
“Yes,” he murmured. “You listen better when you’re afraid.”
The mattress dipped.
Just enough.
My body reacted before I could stop it—every muscle locking, breath stalling halfway in my chest. I stared straight ahead, afraid that if I turned my head, I’d see him fully.
And some part of me wasn’t sure I could handle that.
“You’re shaking,” he observed quietly.
“Leave me alone.”
A soft sound—almost a laugh—brushed my ear.
“If I wanted to leave,” he said, “you’d already be alone.”
Cold crept along my side, not quite touching, but close enough that my skin prickled painfully with awareness. The space behind me felt crowded, intimate in a way that made my stomach twist.
“You watch me,” I accused.
“Yes.”
No denial. No shame.
“You shouldn’t,” I whispered.
“You sleep like you’re waiting for something,” he replied. “Curled inward. Guarded. As if you expect the world to hurt you if you relax.”
My throat tightened.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you stop breathing when you dream,” he said softly. “I know your pulse jumps when you think you’re alone.”
I swallowed hard. “Why are you here?”
Silence stretched.
When he spoke again, the amusement was gone.
“Because someone has to keep you alive.”
The words settled over me, heavy and final.
“I don’t need you,” I said, though my voice shook.
The pressure behind me increased. Not touching—never touching—but close enough that my body betrayed me anyway, heat blooming where cold should have been.
“Liar,” he murmured.
His presence leaned closer, so close I felt the cold of his breath brush my ear.
“If I disappeared,” he whispered, “you wouldn’t sleep at all.”
My fingers clenched into the blanket.
“Stop,” I breathed.
“Tell me to go,” he said, voice low and controlled. “Say it like you mean it.”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
The silence between us stretched, thick with something dangerous and undeniable.
Slowly, the pressure eased.
Satisfied.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Rest.”
The mattress lifted.
The air lightened.
I lay there, trembling, staring into the dark long after his presence faded. My heart refused to slow, my body humming with confusion and fear and something else I didn’t want to name.
Sleep took me eventually.
When I woke, pale morning light filtered through the curtains.
For a moment, everything felt normal.
Then I noticed the imprint on the pillow beside mine.
Perfectly shaped.
As if someone had been lying there, watching me.
And on my wrist, the frost-mark had darkened—
curling into the shape of a sigil I didn’t recognize.
But somehow… understood.
- Writer
