I’m aware that the room is quiet and absolutely still.
Unnaturally still.
I can hear my heart beating in frantic thuds.
I can hear the tick of dying bubbles inside the half-drunk can of soda by my bed.
I can hear a low, ragged breath.
A breath that isn’t mine.
Someone is else is in the room with me.
My heart skips.
Heavy breathing comes from the foot of the bed. The same place where there is immense pressure on the edge, just to the side of my bare, exposed feet.
I can feel them, it, sitting there in the dark, breathing in raspy little gurgles.
But I can’t move.
I can’t see them.
My whole body feels awash with dread, colder than the ground in my dream, a frozen kind of panic that prickles at me, steals my breath and holds it.
There’s someone in my room.
Someone.
Someone.
Another rough, guttural breath.
Something.
The terror has never felt so great, so overwhelming. I am nearly enslaved by it.
I close my eyes, trying to breathe, trying to find the strength to move. I will my limbs, my muscles, my bones, and nothing happens. I can’t even open my mouth to scream.
It could be in your head, it could be in your head. I’m practically crying on the inside. Perry, Perry, Perry!
I don’t know if she can hear me and it doesn’t matter.
Because there is now another sound.
The closet door slowly creaking open.
I can see it out of my periphery, opening by itself until it’s wide and there is nothing inside the closet but a black, gaping hole.
The pressure comes off the bed, weight lifted.
It brushes against my foot and I scream internally. The fear is so sharp.
I see a dark, tall shape glide toward the closet, my eyes fighting to adjust, to pick up the form from the darkness.
Something thick and about two feet long drags behind it, rustling on the carpet as it goes.
The being steps into the closet.
The door slams shut.
And suddenly all feeling returns. Like chains and shackles have fallen off me all at once and the breath flows into my lungs so fast I nearly choke on it.
I’m up, out of the bed, on my feet and panting, wheezing, slapping my hands up and down my arms, my neck, my face, trying to make sure I’m alive, I’m awake.
It went into the closet.
That motherfucking closet.
I stand there beside my bed, unsure of what to do, where to go.
There was someone here.
Something.
It was real.
It wasn’t a dream.
And it’s in my closet right now.
I have to go to Perry.
I start walking across the room quickly, afraid to look at the closet again.
Then I hear it.
Her.
“Ada, please.”
I freeze.
My mother’s voice again, crying out from the closet.
“Please, he’s here with me. He won’t stop. He won’t stop.”
I try to swallow and can’t.
“You have to be brave sweetie, you have to be brave.”
“Mom?” I manage to whisper. Because this isn’t a dream now, this is real, this is happening.
I move toward the closet, each step I take becoming lighter, like the closet itself is pulling me in. I have a vision that if I closed my eyes and let myself go, I would fly through the air, into the darkness, into my mother’s arms.
I open my eyes and suddenly I’m right there. My hand is inches from grasping the knob. It wants to. My palm burns and my hand twists involuntarily, desperate for contact.
“Don’t.”
The voice comes loud and clear across the room.
I gasp and spin around.
There is someone standing by my bed. Tall, broad-shouldered, faceless in the night.
Sweet fucking bejesus.
My mouth opens, words on my tongue, a scream building in my lungs.
But nothing happens. I stand there, staring, unable to move again.
“Don’t touch that door. Don’t go inside.”
His voice is hard and commanding, yet instantly familiar.
But it can’t be.
“You’re not dreaming,” he says, softer now. “Not this time.”
I lick my lips, my throat parched. “It was you,” I manage to say. “You were sitting on my bed.”
The man shakes his head and I wish I could see more than just his form against the windows. “No. That wasn’t me.”
“Who was that?” I whisper, my voice trembling, every single cell inside me trembling. I’m legitimately concerned I might pee right here and now.
“Something you don’t want to meet,” the man says smoothly, his voice still taking on an edge.
But for whatever reason, the man in my room now is much less terrifying than the thing that went in the closet.
“Who are you?”
Warmth floods into my limbs and I take a step toward him, able to move.
He doesn’t answer.
I keep walking, slowly across the room. I’m about a foot away and his features are coming together. Even the smell of him is familiar.
He stiffens.
“Who are you?” I repeat, making out his sharp jawline, thick neck. The swoop of long hair. “Jay?” I whisper.
He sucks in his breath and the pause between us deepens. “I’m your—”