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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I rouse from my nocturnal torment, with a hazy amnesia of the terror that just filled my head. With stalwart conviction d I purposefully open my eyes to view my surroundings— Yet the room seems wrong, a shadowy figure peripherally mocks me. I make a futile effort to turn my head and look at my foe. Invisible iron shackles make me a prisoner to my own bed. The air thickens, syrup-slow, pressing lungs that forget how to rise. My tongue lies dead behind clenched teeth; no scream can climb the throat’s sealed well. It draws nearer— not footsteps, but a thickening of darkness, a subtraction of light where light should not be taken. No face, only the suggestion of one: two hollows where eyes should burn, a mouth that is only absence smiling. It sits at the mattress edge, weight without mass, and the springs do not groan. I feel the cold seep in— not from window drafts, but from the place where its hand almost touches my chest, hovering, deciding. Heart hammers against ribs like a trapped bird, each beat loud enough to wake the house, yet silent to the world beyond my skull. Time stretches thin, seconds become centuries pinned beneath its gaze. I count them in pulse, in panic, in the slow drip of sweat that cannot fall. Somewhere distant, a streetlamp flickers— proof the ordinary night continues. Cars pass. A dog barks twice. Life moves on without me. And still it watches, patient as stone, as if my fear is a wine it has waited lifetimes to taste. Then— a tremor, faint as a moth’s wing. The iron softens. Fingers twitch once, a small rebellion. The shadow tilts its head, curious, almost disappointed. It begins to thin, edges fraying into smoke, receding like ink pulled back into the pen. I drag one breath— shallow, ragged, miraculous. The room rights itself. The lamp glows ordinary amber. The figure is gone, leaving only the memory of weight, the afterimage of absence. I lie still a long minute, afraid to believe I am free, afraid the next blink will summon it back. Outside, dawn is considering the horizon. I turn my head— at last— and the room answers with nothing but silence, and the slow, grateful rise of my chest.
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