It started with a sound I couldn’t place. Not outside. Not in my room. Inside. At first, it was faint—so faint I thought it was just my heartbeat echoing strangely
It started as a joke. I was testing my phone’s camera late at night, messing with filters, angles—anything to distract myself from the silence of my apartment. The room was
The first time I saw him, I thought it was a reflection. I was walking past a shop window late at night, the glass catching just enough light to mirror
It started with the sound. Not loud. Not obvious. Just… breathing. At first, I thought it was mine. Late at night, when everything is quiet, your own breathing can sound
It started the night she said goodbye. We were sitting on my bed, the room dim except for the soft glow of my desk lamp. Rain tapped lightly against the
I don’t remember sending it. That’s the problem. I remember everything else—what I ate that night, the show I half-watched, the exact moment I decided I was too tired to
It started as a thought that wasn’t mine. Not loud. Not obvious. Just… wrong. I was brushing my teeth when it first happened—standing in front of the bathroom mirror, half-awake,
I never believed in darkness being alive. Light off meant light off. Nothing more. Nothing less. That’s what I told myself every night when I turned off the hallway switch
I don’t go into the basement anymore. I used to, all the time. It wasn’t scary back then—just a low-ceilinged space with concrete walls, a single flickering bulb, and the
It started with the clock. Not broken—just… wrong. Marcus first noticed it after moving into his new apartment, a quiet unit tucked above a closed-down convenience store. The digital clock