Page 29 of Presence

Desperation drives me to flick the switch back and forth, but the darkness stays. There should be light coming from the living room—the windows were uncovered when I woke up—but there’s none. Every source of light I could possibly have is gone.

I’m alone. I’m alone. I’m alone. I’m alone in the dark.

I want to cry. I want to cry so bad that my throat clenches painfully around my airways. Still, I do not dare make a sound. I will endure this pain because no way in hell I’ll let the presence where I am.

It’s stupid. You’re stupid. It likes the dark. It can see you even if you are quiet. FUCK!

With my eyes wide, I start moving. The light switch doesn’t work here in the kitchen, but maybe, just maybe, it will work in the living room. It’s a futile attempt, I realize it even as I’m walking on my trembling legs, but it’s the only thing I’ve got. I need to get to the light. I need it desperately.

With a pen still clutched in one hand, I extend my ice-cold palms and cling to the walls to get out of the kitchen. Step by step, I focus on not falling. My knees almost give out, but I keep them moving through sheer willpower. I’m almost at the light switch. Just a moment, and...

My eyes squint as light hits me. It’s dim and flickering. The worst part? It’s not the living room one. Because I didn’t reach the light switch yet. I merely came near it.

I turn around slowly, watching the light coming from the slightly open door to the bedroom. It flickers angrily, the sound of the light bulb clicking in the silence.

Oh god. This can’t be happening.

The air feels thick, charged with the presence I can’t see but can definitely feel—a malevolent gaze that seems to burn into my back. Swallowing my fear, I muster the courage to speak, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Who are you? Why are you doing this?” With a deep breath, I tip my chin up. “I’m not afraid of you,” I declare, though my voice shakes. It’s a lie, but I cling to it like a lifeline.

The moment I say it, I regret it. The light goes out, and the feeling of being watched intensifies tenfold. A soft, mocking laugh trickles through the air, curling around me like a cold breeze. The sound is chilling, devoid of humor, making my skin crawl. It’s coming from everywhere and nowhere, echoing off the walls until it feels like the room itself is laughing at me.

And then, it comes closer. The same voice I heard on the phone with Camilla sounds next to my ear, paralyzing me.

“Keep running, human,” it says, distorted, low, inhuman, “and see what happens. I’ll always catch you. Because I’m always watching.”

Something cold and slimy touches my leg, right above my ankle, freezing me in place and making my knees give out. I drop to the floor.

My heart… I think it stops.

10

Cobwebs to the mind

When I open my eyes, a scream, louder than ever, tears from my throat. It’s so piercing, it feels like sandpaper scraping my vocal cords. I bolt upright, drenched in sweat.

Wait. Sitting up?

Moments ago, I was curled in my living room, enveloped in darkness, with a sinister whisper in my ear. But as my vision clears and I realize where I am, I notice that I’m in the bedroom. In my bed. With sheets all over me.

It was all… a dream?

I blink rapidly, trying to shake off the confusion. The familiar gray walls of my bedroom close in on me, barely lit by the faint light seeping through the blinds.

It’s definitely morning outside.

My bed, my blankets, the shadowy outlines of my furniture—it’s all painfully normal. But then again, it felt that way last time, too.

My heart still hammers in my chest, the echo of my own scream lingering in my ears. How could it have been a dream? The sensations were so intense—the cold touch of the shadow, the suffocating darkness, the real fear gripping my heart. It all felt undeniably real just moments ago.

I pull my knees to my chest, hugging them tightly. My nightshirt sticks to my sweaty skin, and I shiver from both the chill and the fear clinging to my mind like cobwebs.

A sharp, twisting pain in my stomach snaps me back to reality. Hungry. That’s it. I think I’m hungry.

I slide out of bed, my movements stiff and mechanical. My body feels like it’s been through a marathon in my sleep. Each step towards the kitchen is a struggle, every joint protesting. Finally, when I get there, I lean heavily against the counter, the cool surface grounding me slightly.

With a deep breath, I push myself to go through the motions, ready to whip out some eggs. But when I open the fridge, disbelief crashes over me.

---