The Night it Came.
The night stretched on endlessly, and Harry lay wide awake in his bed, staring up at the wooden ceiling. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, the silence around him almost suffocating. The usual quiet of the church had turned into something eerie, like the stillness itself was watching him.
The air was thick with tension. Harry’s skin prickled. He knew—he could feel it—she was close.
Then came the clicking.
It was soft at first, like fingernails gently tapping on stone. The familiar sound sent a chill down Harry’s spine. There was no mistaking it. The dread that had been building in him all night now erupted into full-blown terror.
The door creaked open.
Slowly, cautiously, as if the hinges themselves feared making a sound.
And there she was—standing in the doorway.
Her silhouette was twisted and unnatural, a tall, thin figure hunched just slightly, her presence casting a long, dark shadow across the floor. The dim light from his bedside candle barely touched her form, but Harry could make out the unnerving outline of something not quite human.
Her eyes—those glowing yellow eyes—pierced through the darkness, locking onto Harry with an intensity that felt like it was dragging him into the very depths of her darkness.
His breath caught in his throat. His fingers tightened around the rosary beads beneath his pillow. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t look away.
A cold, suffocating chill filled the room. It wasn’t just cold—it was unnatural, as if the air itself had turned dead. Harry felt the weight of it pressing against him, pulling the warmth from his body, leaving him frozen and vulnerable.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t move. She simply stood there, staring at him from the doorway with those unblinking, predatory eyes.
Harry’s heart hammered in his chest, but he could barely breathe. The words of his prayers were locked in his throat, choked by the suffocating fear that gripped him. He could feel the darkness swirling around her, a presence so thick that it felt as though the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for something.
The clicking started again, sharper this time, as she took a slow step forward.
Harry’s pulse raced. Every instinct in him screamed to run, to escape, to do anything—anything other than lie there and face this thing. But his body refused to obey.
And then, as she moved closer, her long fingers reached toward him. The clicking grew louder, more insistent, each step causing his skin to crawl. The air around her seemed to vibrate with an energy that made Harry’s stomach turn.
With trembling hands, Harry finally managed to whisper, his voice barely audible, “W-who… are you?”
The words felt like a challenge—an absurd one, as if calling out to something so dark and ancient would bring him some semblance of control. But it was all he could do, and as the words left his lips, Harry immediately regretted them.
The air grew colder. There was no answer—only the silence, thick and oppressive, wrapping around him like a suffocating shroud.
Her fingers were so close now—so close he could almost feel the coldness of her touch. He could feel her watching him, waiting for something.
He couldn’t bring himself to speak again. His body was rigid, too terrified to move, too terrified to breathe. His grip on the rosary beads tightened until his fingers ached. The only thing that seemed real in this nightmare was the touch of the cold beads against his skin.
Another step.
Her presence loomed, filling the room with an overwhelming sense of dread. Harry didn’t know how much longer he could keep his eyes open. The terror was suffocating, blinding, and it felt like his mind was on the verge of breaking under the weight of it.
And still, she didn’t move.
She simply stood there, her figure dark and unyielding, her eyes never leaving his.
The silence stretched on, thick and heavy, until Harry couldn’t take it anymore. The question slipped out before he even realized he was saying it, his voice cracked and weak, a mere whisper in the cold air:
“What… what are you?”
The question was met only by an eerie stillness. For a moment, there was no sound. No movement. Just the suffocating quiet that seemed to wrap itself around Harry’s thoughts.
Then, just as slowly as she had appeared, the figure began to retreat, her dark presence melting back into the shadows of the doorway. The clicking faded, growing quieter, until there was only the lingering echo of her presence, suffusing the air like a shadow that wouldn’t leave.
Harry lay there, paralyzed, his body trembling as the door creaked shut. The room seemed to settle, but the air remained heavy, still thick with the sense of something sinister, something not of this world.
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He simply lay there, waiting for the nightmare to pass, knowing deep down that it wouldn’t. She would be back.
And next time… he wouldn’t be able to ask.