I pushed open his door, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure whoever—or whatever—was inside could hear it.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of his nightlight. My son was sitting up in bed, clutching his blanket, eyes fixed on the corner of the room.
“Mommy…” he whispered, pointing.
At first, I saw nothing. Just shadows. Just the usual shapes—his toy chest, the chair, the pile of clothes I’d been meaning to fold. I almost laughed in relief.
Then the chair moved.
Not a creak. Not a shift. It slid—just an inch—across the floor.
I froze.
“Did you see him?” my son asked quietly.
A cold wave washed over me. “See who, baby?”
“The big man,” he said. “He comes when you’re sleeping.”
I forced myself to step further into the room, every instinct screaming at me to run. “There’s no one here,” I said, though my voice trembled.
That’s when I heard it.
A slow, deliberate breath.
Not mine. Not my son’s.
From behind me.
I turned sharply—but there was nothing. Just the open doorway and the dark hallway beyond. Yet the air felt… crowded. Heavy. Like someone was standing inches away.
My son suddenly ducked under his blanket. “He doesn’t like when you look at him,” he mumbled.
A chill crept up my spine. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I did,” he said. “You said it wasn’t real.”
The room fell silent.
Then, right beside my ear, so close I felt the warmth of it—
A whisper.
“Now she knows.”
I grabbed my son and ran.
