What Did I Just Witness?

The eight-year-old me clung to the worn familiarity of the downstairs couch. Sleep evaded me, not because of the flickering light from the TV, but because of the inky blackness that lurked beyond the living room. Every creak of the floorboard, every sigh of the wind seemed amplified in the dark, a monster waiting to pounce. My dad, a comforting presence beside me, was fast asleep. Mom wouldn't be home until late, another night shift at the hospital. The thought of being alone sent shivers down my spine.

For as long as I could remember, the couch had been my refuge. It was close to Dad, a shield against the encroaching shadows. Tonight, however, even his gentle snores couldn't quell the rising tide of fear. I reached for my dad's iPad, the soft glow a beacon in the darkness. I browsed YouTube, the inane videos a poor substitute for a lullaby.

Suddenly, a sound ripped through the air, shattering the fragile peace. It was the jarring screech of an amber alert, a sound that sent a jolt of terror through me. Even now, years later, the memory of that sound evokes a cold dread, a tightness in my chest that spirals into a full-blown panic attack. I scrambled to turn off the iPad, the innocuous cartoon characters on the screen a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside me.

Under the blanket, I huddled in a ball, willing myself invisible. The minutes stretched into an eternity, punctuated only by the pounding of my heart. A loud creak, unmistakable from the upstairs hallway, pierced the silence. It was the sliding door, notorious for its noisy protest against the tiled floor. Relief washed over me – Mom was home!

Emerging from my self-imposed exile, I padded upstairs, heart lighter. Lights flickered on, chasing away the oppressive darkness. I didn't see Mom, but figured she was using the restroom. Reaching my room, I burrowed into the familiar comfort of my bed, the door left slightly ajar. Anticipation thrummed through me – Mom would peek in any minute, her gentle kiss a seal of safety.

Time seemed to stretch, measured not by the ticking clock but by the growing sense of unease. No familiar silhouette appeared in the doorway. Just as doubt began to creep in, a horrifying sight met my gaze. A face, impossibly contorted, materialized in the crack of the door. Leather-like skin, stretched taut over jagged bone, stared back at me. It was an image burned into my memory, a grotesque caricature that haunted my dreams.

Terror locked me in place. I squeezed my eyelids shut, feigning sleep, a sliver of fear peeking through my lashes. The figure remained, a silent sentinel guarding my door. It felt like hours, an agonizing eternity, before it finally retreated from view.

Tears welled up, threatening to spill. But before they could fall, the welcome sound of the bedroom door creaking open filled the air. With a burst of relief, I threw myself into Mom's arms, the warmth of her embrace a soothing balm. In my eight-year-old mind, the terrifying apparition could have been her, exhausted from her long shift.

"Why were you staring at me?" I blurted out, the words tumbling over each other.

The reply that came next sent a new wave of terror crashing down on me. "What are you talking about, sweetie? I just got home."

Those words echoed in the emptiness that followed. If it wasn't Mom, then who was it? The question hung heavy in the air, a chilling counterpoint to the chirping of crickets outside. The answer, shrouded in the shadows, would forever remain a chilling mystery.