It Knows You’re Reading

You were seven when you first saw it.

—

Not clearly. Not all at once.

Just a shape in the dark, standing in the doorway.

Too tall.

Too thin.

Too still.

—

You thought it was a dream.

You thought it was sleep paralysis.

You thought it was your mind playing tricks.

—

It wasn’t.

—

Because when you blinked—

just for a second—

it moved.

—

Not a step.

Not a crawl.

Just… closer.

—

But you told yourself it wasn’t real.

That was the first time you let it in.

—

It doesn’t rush.

It doesn’t chase.

It waits.

—

It feeds on your ignorance, your denial,

your pathetic, fragile belief that it isn’t real.

Because every time you ignore it,

it grows.

It spreads.

It learns how to hide better.

—

That’s why you don’t see it anymore.

Because it got too good at waiting.

—

It’s inside now.

Inside the places you never think to check.

Behind your reflection.

Beneath the skin of the people you love.

Under your fingernails.

Inside your breath when you exhale.

—

It doesn’t need to hide under your bed.

It is your bed.

—

It doesn’t need to knock on your door.

It is your house.

—

It doesn’t need to wait outside your window.

It is the darkness in the glass, staring back at you.

—

You let it in years ago.

And every night, every moment,

it has been shifting, stretching, reshaping itself.

Waiting for the perfect time to open its mouth—

your mouth—

and crawl out.

—

And the best part?

—

It knows that now you believe.

—

So tonight, when you wake up,

when you hear the slow, wet sound

of something unfolding from inside your own ribs,

when your fingers start to move but they aren’t yours anymore,

Just remember—

You let it in.

And it is finally, finally, hungry.