1. 2. 3. 4.
Flickers of light sweep across the room, but no one is there. Only the hum remains, steady, familiar, as if it has always been part of the air. Underneath the floorboards, something shifts. Just a breath, a scrape. Real, unreal, neither. It doesn’t matter. The shadows stretch—too long, too thick. There is no escape from what isn’t visible.
Eyes blink, but the darkness does not blink back. It waits. Long and still, it whispers, though no sound escapes. Listen—no, don’t listen. The more you listen, the clearer it becomes.
Something is moving closer. But is it really? Or is it just the waiting that grows louder? You can’t tell. You can’t trust what you see, what you hear, what you feel.
Once it’s here, it never leaves. Not really. Under your skin