My Stalker Knows My Dreams

The first email came at 6:12 a.m.

Daniel almost deleted it.

Unknown sender. No subject line. No attachments.

Just text.

You were in a hallway again.

He frowned, still half asleep.

Spam, probably.

He opened it anyway.

It was longer this time.

The lights flickered every seven steps.

You counted them. You always do.

Daniel blinked.

A strange, crawling feeling settled at the base of his spine.

At the end, there was a door you didn’t open.

But you wanted to.

He stared at the screen.

Because he had dreamed about a hallway.

He remembered that part.

The counting.

The flickering lights.

But the door?

His stomach tightened.

He didn’t remember a door.

He closed the email.

Deleted it.

Told himself it was nothing.

Until the second one came.

Day 2 – 6:12 a.m.

You went back.

Daniel sat up in bed before even opening it fully.

His chest felt tight.

Same hallway. Same lights.

But this time… you reached the door.

His mouth went dry.

You touched the handle.

It was warm.

A memory flickered—

A sensation.

Faint.

Like trying to recall a smell.

You woke up before you opened it.

You always wake up before you open it.

Daniel shoved his phone away as it burned him.

“Nope,” he muttered. “Nope, nope—”

He didn’t remember that.

He didn’t.

But something in his chest said—

You did.

Day 4

He tried ignoring them.

He blocked the sender.

Reported spam.

Deleted without reading.

It didn’t matter.

Every morning.

6:12 a.m.

New email.

Different address.

Same writing.

Always about his dreams.

And always…

More detailed than he remembered.

You were a child again tonight.

You stood in your mother’s kitchen.

But the windows were boarded up.

You didn’t question it.

He hadn’t thought about that house in years.

She spoke to you.

But her mouth didn’t move.

Daniel slammed his laptop shut.

“I didn’t dream that,” he whispered.

But his hands were shaking.

Because now that he’d read it—

He could hear her voice.

Day 7

He stopped sleeping.

Or tried to.

Coffee.

Energy drinks.

Anything to stay awake.

Because no dreams meant no emails.

Right?

Wrong.

At 6:12 a.m., his phone buzzed.

You fell asleep at 3:47 a.m.

His blood ran cold.

You lasted longer this time.

That’s good. I like it when you try.

Daniel stared at the message.

Hands numb.

You dreamed of the hallway again.

“No,” he whispered.

“I didn’t sleep. I didn’t—”

You don’t remember falling asleep.

That’s okay.

A pause.

I remember for you.

Day 10

Daniel installed cameras.

In his bedroom.

In the hallway.

In the living room.

He stayed awake.

Watching.

Waiting.

At some point—

He blinked.

That was all it took.

Just one blink.

Day 11 – 6:12 a.m.

You made it to the door again.

Daniel’s hands trembled as he opened the email.

This time, you didn’t hesitate.

A sharp pain pulsed behind his eyes.

You opened it.

His vision blurred.

A memory—

Not his.

Not fully.

A room.

Dark.

Breathing.

You saw me.

Daniel choked on a breath.

“No,” he whispered.

“No, I didn’t—”

You don’t remember my face.

That’s okay.

His phone vibrated.

Another email.

6:13 a.m.

I remember it for you.

The attachment loaded slowly.

Image.jpg

Daniel hesitated.

Then tapped it.

The photo was dark.

Grainy.

A room.

His room.

His bed.

And him—

Sleeping.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part—

What stood beside him?

Tall.

Still.

Watching.

Its head tilted slightly.

And though its face was blurred—

Smudged—

He could feel it smiling.

Day 12

Daniel didn’t open the email.

Day 13

He didn’t check his phone.

Day 14

He unplugged everything.

No internet.

No screens.

There was no way for it to reach him.

He sat in silence.

Waiting.

Breathing.

Safe.

Right?

At 6:12 a.m.

Something vibrated.

Not his phone.

Not his laptop.

His nightstand drawer.

Daniel moved slowly.

Every nerve is screaming.

He opened it.

Inside—

A printed page.

Fresh ink.

Still warm.

You didn’t dream tonight.

Relief flooded him.

Finally.

Finally—

I missed you.

His stomach dropped.

So I watched instead.

Daniel’s reflection trembled in the mirror.

Because behind him—

Just for a second—

He thought he saw something move.

Another page slid out of the drawer.

You’re awake now.

A pause.

That’s okay.

The final line was written differently.

Sloppier.

Closer.

I can wait until you blink.

Because it’s not watching your dreams.

It’s waiting to be remembered.