The Woman in Black

When I was eleven, my mom, sister, and I moved out of my grandmother's house into a small apartment complex on the other side of town. My mom said it was best that we needed space after all the fights with my grandmother. At the time, I didn't know if she meant space for herself or space for us, but I didn't argue. The apartment was different from what I was used to. It was quiet, almost too quiet, and smaller than the house I grew up in. I had no friends at my new school, no distractions to fill the hours after class, and my mom spent most of her time with her boyfriend, my cousin, on my dad's side. It was lonely, but I didn't know how to explain that feeling back then. I think now, looking back, I truly was depressed. But I didn't have the words for it at eleven years old. All I knew was that when the apartment fell silent at night, it felt like the walls were pressing in on me. Like the bed was sucking me into a dark abyss where only nightmares lived, like no matter how tightly I shut my eyes, nothing could change. I was stuck. And it terrified me.

I spent most nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling. Our apartment didn't have much. My mom did her best, but the rooms felt bare as if no one had planned to stay. My sister was too young to notice, and my mom was too busy with her new relationship. That left me alone with my thoughts, in a room that always seemed colder than the rest of the apartment. I didn't have a TV or a computer; I just had an old iPod Nano with broken headphones that sat useless on my nightstand. Most nights, I lay there, tucked under my blanket, counting the cracks in the ceiling or listening to the train that passed every now and again on a distant track, blaring its horn loudly into the night.

One night was different, though. I don't remember how long I lay there before sleep took me. It was the kind of sleep that didn't feel restful like my body gave up before my mind did. When I opened my eyes, or maybe I didn't open them at all, I wasn't in my bed anymore. I was floating, weightless, just below the ceiling, looking down at myself. At first, I thought it was a weird dream, one of those half-awake moments where nothing feels real. My body lay completely still on the bed, my face peaceful, as if I wasn't there. I thought that I must've died somehow in my sleep. That's when I noticed I wasn't alone.

A woman stood beside my bed, dressed head to toe in black. Her skin was pale, glowing faintly in the room's dim light. I couldn't see her face clearly, hidden behind a thin veil that swayed despite no breeze. She wasn't moving, just standing there, staring down at me as if she were waiting for something. My chest tightened with a creeping sense of dread. The longer I looked at her, the more real she felt. And then, as if she could sense me watching, she slowly turned her head.

The moment she saw me, everything shifted. I felt a force slam me back into my body. It wasn't gentle. It was like falling from the ceiling, air rushing past me, my stomach lurching. When I woke up, I was gasping for air, my heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. I stayed in bed, frozen, too afraid to move. Too afraid to even breathe. I told myself it was just a dream, but deep down, I knew it wasn't.

When I was eleven years old, though certainly not for the last time, I saw the woman in black. That's what I call her, anyway, but I never learned her true name or why she came into my life the way she did. After that night, everything felt different. Darkness had become unbearable, and the thought of closing my eyes kept me wide awake, sleepless, and fearful. I waited for something else to happen for weeks, some sign that what I'd seen was real. But nothing came. No strange dreams, no shadowy figures. Eventually, I convinced myself that maybe it really had just been a dream. A weird, terrifying dream that my mind had turned into something bigger.

But then I saw her again.

I'd fallen asleep on my side, curled up with my back to the wall. I thought weirdly that nothing could ever get past me if I had my back against the wall. If she came again, I would be able to see her from the very beginning. Of course, I was still eleven, and logic wasn't exactly my strong suit, so none of this mattered. When I opened my eyes, I wasn't sure if I was awake or dreaming. My room looked the same, lit by a white lamp with blue and pink flowers decorating the base. But I couldn't move. My arms, my legs, even my fingers, they were frozen in place. I tried to scream, but my mouth wouldn't open. I could only stare straight ahead. My breathing was so shallow that I thought I would suffocate. That's when I saw her.

She was standing at the foot of my bed, closer this time. Her veil still obscured her face, but I could feel her watching me, feel her studying the stiff form of my body, paralyzed. I wanted to run, to scream, to thrash against the invisible force holding me still, but I couldn't do anything. She didn't move; she stood there, silent and still, like always. It felt like hours, though it couldn't have been more than a minute. And then, just like before, I woke up gasping for air, clutching my chest as if that could possibly help.

That wasn't the last time I saw her. It started happening more frequently, always the same: I'd fall asleep, and at some point, I'd wake up unable to move. But each time, she was a little closer. I couldn't tell anyone. How do you explain something like that without sounding insane? So I tried to ignore her. But it was hard to ignore your literal waking nightmare. Each encounter got easier, though, like you do something repeatedly until eventually you get used to it.

As the years passed, I learned to live with her. Or at least, I told myself I had. The visits never stopped. No matter where I lived or how much I tried to convince myself, it was all in my head; she always found me. Each time, she's closer than the last. At first, she was just a shadow in the distance. Then she was at the foot of my bed. Now, she's inches away, her outstretched hand just inches from my body.

I'm 24 years old now, and she's still with me. I don't know what will happen when she finally touches me, but the thought fills me with a cold, creeping dread that I can't shake. Maybe that will be the day I die. All I know is that she's waiting, and one day, she'll reach me.

**As a side note, I just want to say that this story is completely true, and none of it is fiction. Thank you for taking the time to read my story.