The dream was vivid, more real than the last. I found myself back in my childhood home. Everything was just as I remembered—the worn-out couch, the creaky floorboards, the dim glow from the lamp in the corner. It was night, and the house was quiet, empty. I knew I was alone, but there was something else—something that filled the silence with an almost tangible weight.

I felt it before I saw it. A presence. The distinct, undeniable sensation of being watched. My eyes were drawn to the living room window, the one that faced the garden. I walked closer, my heart beginning to pound. The curtains were slightly parted, letting in just enough moonlight to see the garden beyond. At first, I saw nothing—just the dark shapes of trees swaying in the breeze.

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Then I saw it. A shadow, unmoving, standing just beyond the glass. My breath caught in my throat. It didn’t move, didn’t shift at all, and yet I knew it was staring at me. I couldn’t make out any details—just a dark silhouette against the night. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. My feet were rooted to the spot, my eyes fixed on that shadow.

I don’t know how long I stood there, staring. Seconds? Minutes? Time felt slippery, meaningless. Finally, I forced myself to move, to pull the curtains closed. My hands trembled as I did so, and as the fabric fell across the window, I felt a chill run down my spine. It was then that I felt it—a cold breath against the back of my neck. I spun around, but there was nothing there. Just the empty room, and the deafening silence.