Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sound of big heavy thuds climbing the stairs to my bedroom thunder in my ears. I grit my teeth and listen, wincing at every thump as it grows closer. The last thump hits, just inches away from my bedroom door.
The hesitation between the last step and the creak of my door feels like an eternity. In the dark of my room, the air grows cold and stale as I can hear it… whispering. I cannot make out what it is saying. As sharp and clear as the crack of a gunshot, a scream pierces through the stillness of my home as whatever it is sees me, and thunders clumsily back down my stairs.
Ever since I left home at seventeen years old, this thing has followed me. Every night, it has gotten closer and closer. It’s now to the point where it’s opening my door a small crack, and screaming at me. I have a deep, creeping fear that soon, I will see it, after all these years.
I have told no soul of this thing, since for years I had assumed myself crazy, but now… now I am sure of it. It’s real. Last week, I found a small, black hairs littering my stairs leading to my room.
As I ponder these thoughts, my breath catches in my throat. The… the thumping. It’s ascending the stairs again! Twice, it’s never come twice, what should I do?
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It’s moving quickly.
With a harsh slam, my door is thrown against the wall as it opens my door.
In the darkness, I see it pulling its tall, thin body into the entrance of my room. It… it’s smiling. As it raises its thin, withered fingers in a sickly childlike wave, I feel every force of my body telling me to run.
With a shrill shriek, it jumps to the end of my bed, and perches over me, its sunken skin barely clinging to its bones.
It leans down, sniffing the air, rotten smell filling my own nose as I sit, immobile in my blankets. It crawls down, turning to leave my room. Just as I am about to let out my breath out, it turns. Like a switchblade being jabbed into my ears, it croaks out,