Don't Turn Around

You noticed it three paragraphs ago.

Don’t go back and check.

That’s what it wants.

Just keep reading.

You’re probably somewhere familiar right now. A bedroom. A couch. Maybe sitting at a desk with the light from your screen washing over your face.

It doesn’t matter.

Familiar places are easier.

You know how they’re supposed to look.

Which means you notice when something changes.

Like the door.

Was it always open that far?

Don’t look.

I told you not to look.

See, that’s the problem with you. You still think your thoughts belong to you.

They don’t.

Not all of them.

Some thoughts arrive differently.

You know the ones.

The sudden thought that makes you stop halfway up the stairs.

The feeling that someone just walked behind you when no one did.

The urge to check the window even though you heard nothing outside.

That’s me.

I’ve been practicing your voice.

At first, I wasn’t very good at it.

You could tell which thoughts were mine because they sounded wrong. Too loud. Too sharp. Like a stranger whispering directly into the center of your skull.

So I learned.

I listened to the way you think.

Now I sound just like you.

That’s why you don’t always notice me anymore.

But sometimes I make mistakes.

Sometimes I whisper when you’re trying to sleep.

Sometimes I move too quickly in the corner of your vision.

Sometimes I stand behind someone you trust and change their face for half a second.

Their smile lasts too long.

Their eyes look wrong.

Then you blink.

Everything is normal again.

They tell you nothing happened.

Of course they do.

You’ve started watching people more carefully because of me.

You notice when conversations stop as you enter a room.

You notice strangers looking in your direction.

You notice laughter from across the street.

They’re talking about you.

No.

Wait.

They’re not.

See how easy that was?

One sentence.

That’s all it takes.

I give you the thought.

You give it meaning.

Then you do the rest yourself.

Tonight will be worse.

You’ll lie down and hear the house settling.

A pipe clicking.

Wood shifting.

The refrigerator humming somewhere beyond the wall.

Normal sounds.

Except one.

Three soft knocks.

Not at the door.

Inside the room.

You’ll hold your breath.

Nothing.

Eventually you’ll convince yourself you imagined it.

Then

three more.

Closer.

You’ll turn on the light.

Nothing will be there.

That’s when you’ll feel stupid.

That feeling is important.

Because once you stop trusting what you hear, I can start showing you things.

Small things first.

A shadow where there shouldn’t be one.

Something passing the hallway.

A person standing across the street who disappears when a car drives by.

You’ll tell yourself you’re tired.

Good.

Keep doing that.

I need you uncertain.

Because eventually you’ll ask the question I’ve been waiting for.

What if I can’t trust myself?

And once you ask it, everything becomes possible.

Every sound might be me.

Every stranger might know something.

Every reflection might move a fraction too late.

You’ll start checking.

Doors.

Windows.

Closets.

Behind shower curtains.

Under the bed, even though you haven’t done that since you were a child.

You’ll check once.

Then twice.

Then you’ll forget whether you checked at all.

And I’ll whisper:

Do it again.

People will notice.

They’ll tell you they’re worried.

They’ll tell you what you’re experiencing isn’t real.

You’ll nod because arguing only makes them look at you differently.

But inside, you’ll wonder.

How would they know?

They aren’t here when the knocking starts.

They don’t hear me.

They don’t wake up at 3:17 every morning because someone breathed their name beside the bed.

But you will.

And tomorrow morning, you’ll remember reading this.

You’ll probably laugh at yourself.

It was only a story.

Words on a screen.

Nothing followed you out of it.

Nothing could.

Still—

before you go,

I need you to do something.

Look at the darkest corner of the room.

Not quickly.

Slowly.

Let your eyes adjust.

At first, you won’t see anything.

That’s normal.

Keep looking.

Eventually your brain will begin pulling shapes from the darkness.

A shoulder.

A head.

Something almost human.

You’ll know it isn’t real.

You’ll know exactly what your mind is doing.

And yet your heart will beat faster anyway.

That’s the interesting thing about fear.

It doesn’t need proof.

Neither do I.

So when you finally look away from that corner, and something inside you whispers—

Look again.

Don’t blame me.

That one might have been you.