9. Maybe it was nothing

I wake up this time without a dramatic bolt upright, no gasping for breath, and no layer of sweat covering my body. I open my eyes to the white ceiling of my bedroom, wrapped in the sensation that I've just had the best sleep of my life.

I remember my dream, but it doesn't feel as intense as any I've had in the past year. It wasn't a nightmare, but it also doesn't feel like a personal memory. I feel detached, like it happened to someone else. It's as if it wasn't me moaning Echo's name or feeling dread when the shadowy figures leaped at me. Like I barely share a memory with someone else who went through all that. Like the real me was just a spectator.

I blink a few times, still staring at the ceiling, and notice light streaming into my room. Confusion washes over me as I slowly sit up. My spine aches despite my muscles feeling rested, and my eyes are dry, even though I'm sure they were closed all night. My throat is parched too. It's been so long since I've slept through the night without moving, I almost forgot what it feels like. And now, it's already morning.

I sit up and blink a few more times, looking out the window. Life is bustling outside—cars are driving relentlessly, even in my quiet suburban neighborhood. There's always a steady flow of people rushing about. Yet, the sky looks duller than ever, filled with clouds and not a hint of the sun.

Nothing like what I experienced with Echo...

The thought hits me, bringing a sharp pang to my heart. Grief washes over me.

I left him there, in the dreamscape. He stayed behind with those awful shadows reaching for him. They might have been after me, but who knows what they did to him if they caught him. Even though the dream feels distant, I know it was real. I know I have to get back there, no matter what it takes.

I need to get back to that paradise again. To him.

I swing my legs off the bed, forcing myself to stand despite the lethargy clinging to my limbs. Each step is heavy as if I'm dragging more than just my body, but it's nothing compared to the exhaustion I've felt for the past year.

Today, unlike yesterday, I actually feel somewhat rested. Thank fuck.

I shuffle to the kitchen, my mind racing as I fumble with the tea bags and settle on a chamomile blend. As the tea steeps, I lean against the counter, my fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on the cool surface. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the microwave door—haunted eyes and tousled hair. A mess, but still a better mess than I'd be if I hadn't slept at all.

I let out a sigh, the sound echoing in the silent kitchen.

My thoughts drift to Echo—how real he felt, how vivid our encounters were. "The things we've done today… They help," his words ring through my head. And those shadows... even now, thinking of them sends a chill down my spine.

Determined, I snatch a notebook from the living room and begin jotting down every detail of my dreams. I try not to focus on the sex, honestly, I do. Even though it dominates my thoughts, there are more important details at hand. Instead, I concentrate on our conversations, the places we've visited, and all the surreal things that couldn't possibly be real but happened anyway.

When I get to the part about the dark force targeting me, a shiver runs down my spine. I don't want to think that all those times Cam joked about me being haunted were not jokes at all but some fucking premonitions of her witchy intuition. Yet, that's exactly what comes to mind.

Something in my life is interfering, and that something could very well be an evil spirit.

Remember how I said I'm a skeptical person? Well, I might be losing that skepticism. After all, I feel watched. I used to think it was just my imagination, but as time goes by, I'm not so sure anymore.

That… something, that presence was there last night when the lights flickered, and when Cam was performing the ritual to summon Echo. It was there, watching as Echo protected me in my sleep. That same force must have opened the blinds on my windows.

I remember closing them, too frightened to face the vast, dark sky that chills me to the bone. Yet now, all the windows are uncovered, as if I hadn't touched them at all. I wasn't hallucinating or sleepwalking.

I'm certain of it.

Just as I'm about to jot down everything I remember, a sudden ringing startles me. My pen slips from my grip and clatters to the floor.

"Shit," I mutter, jumping up from my seat and leaving it behind. The phone's ringing in my bedroom.

It's Camila.

"Hey, Cam," I greet her, trying to keep my voice even.

"Yeah, hey you," she replies, her tone already teasing. "Imagine my surprise waking up with no messages from you last night. Not even a reply this morning. My first thought? You were dead. Then I remembered—you're not an insomniac anymore. Weird, huh?"

I scoff. "Very weird, sure. If you'd asked me a couple of days ago, I'd have said I'd sooner die than sleep through the night."

"All thanks to me," she quips. A smile creeps onto my face.

will never let me forget how she saved me from my insomnia—or, at least, lessened it. I'm still not sure if the problem is completely gone. But to her, it probably is. Even decades from now, she'll remind me about it. And rightfully so. She's an angel.

"Absolutely, you're my hero, Cam. Seriously though, can we meet up soon? There's a lot we need to discuss, especially about last night and... everything that's been happening." I try to sound casual, but my voice betrays the urgency I feel.

I don't necessarily want to tell her about Echo—I want to keep him to myself—but that darkness coming for me? That's a different matter. I could use a friend to help with that, especially one who's clearly more knowledgeable about all things supernatural than I am.

There's a strange sound on her end, like static but louder and deeper.

"You sure you won't run away from me?" she asks through the distortion. Her voice sounds off.

"Huh?" I muse, walking back to the living room. "When have I ever run away from you?"

As soon as I say that, a laugh comes through the line. It doesn't sound like her laugh. This one is dark, slow... malicious. I swallow hard, my body tensing. I want to ask if Jackson, the guy she was supposed to date, is near her, but the words get stuck in my throat.

The little hairs on my arms raise in alarm.

"Indeed, when have you?" somebody, something, asks. "Don't tell me you already forgot?" My limbs turn cold. "You thought I wouldn't find you? Oh, no, Claire. Your guardian spirit can't save you from me."

The line crackles, the voice warping into something grotesque and unrecognizable. Panic grips my heart as I clutch the phone tighter, my knuckles whitening.

"Who is this?" I manage to choke out, though part of me dreads the answer.

There's a pause, then a mirthless chuckle filters through the static. "So coy you are..."

In an instant, I'm on my feet, adrenaline momentarily lifting the weight from my limbs. I drop the phone as if it's scorched me and slam the disconnect button.

"Oh, fuck," I mutter to myself.

Still trembling, I back away from the phone, half-expecting it to leap at me. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps.

What was that? Another hallucination? No, it can't be. I've slept. I'm rested. There's no fog clouding my judgment. Then what in the world…? The realization hits me hard: the force Echo warned me about has reached me, even here in the real world.

"Oh, no. No, no, no," I mutter, rubbing my face. I can't let fear take over. I need to calm down and think. But my hands won't stop trembling, and my heart refuses to settle.

I'm terrified.

I don't know how long I stay motionless, focusing on slowing my breath, and listening to the buzz of blood in my temples. But finally, I get calm enough to look at the paper in front of me. I can't just… sit still and be scared. I need to do something.

With legs like jelly, I stand up and bend to pick up the pen that had fallen. It spun away, ending up a foot from me. As I reach for it, something weird happens. I blink, and suddenly the pen is in my hand—not on the floor. How? I didn't pick it up.

Then, I hear a sound from the kitchen. A soft humming, like water boiling in an electric kettle. I freeze, every nerve firing with alertness.

My gaze snaps to the kitchen archway, expecting, fearing what might appear. Will the shadows show up here too? Will they leap at me and try to consume me like before? I can still feel them—their tendrils prying my mouth open, slick against my skin, intrusively touching me. But there's nothing—no shadow, no form.

I inch towards the other room, clutching the pen like a weapon. My heart is thumping so loudly I'm convinced whatever is there can hear it, can sense my fear.

It's ridiculous... What am I going to do, fend someone, something, off with a pen? But right now, it's all I have, and if there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that I can't let anyone—or anything—target me in my own home, not in broad daylight.

Losing a battle at night is one thing, but losing one during the day would be the death of me.

As I round the corner, my eyes dart frantically around the room. Everything appears normal. Dishes stacked neatly, windows closed, the kettle not even plugged in. It's just sitting there, empty on the counter, right where I always leave it when I make tea.

"What the fuck?" I whisper, barely audible. Clearing my throat, I call out, "Hello?"

Nothing. The silence is thick and heavy.

I stand here, a grown woman clutching a pen like a talisman, facing the everyday items in my kitchen as if they might suddenly come to life and attack. The skeptical part of my mind scoffs at the absurdity, but another part—more primal and instinctive—is simply scared shitless.

The conversation with the entity pretending to be Camilla, the shadows, Echo's warnings—some time ago, I'd have said all this was a product of an over-exhausted brain, playing tricks on my sanity.

Not anymore. I am more ready to believe this now.

I walk deeper into the kitchen, looking at every single item with heightened focus. I don't know what I'm looking for, I really don't. Something moving, perhaps? Levitating? Maybe knives hovering in the air, ready to strike?

There's none of that.

But just as I reach the countertop, I can swear that someone's come to stand behind me. I hear breathing, calm and steady, yet loud enough for the sound to explode my fragile heart. I whip around, the pen raised like a dagger, expecting to confront whatever has been stalking me, but there's nothing. The kitchen is still, the only sounds are my own heavy breathing and distant traffic. My eyes search every shadow, every potential hiding spot. Nothing.

Fuck, this is killing me.

I've felt watched for a long time. Ever since I can remember, really. My earliest memories are of my mother screaming and beating me. Then my father left, and she lost her mind. As a young teen with no other adult to lean on, it was hard not to have a mother. She should have been my rock. Even though I didn't fully understand it then, I felt the void. I saw the other kids with their parents.

Between her failed rehab and the sleeping pills, I started feeling like I was never alone in the dark. Whenever I stepped into a shadowy corridor, it felt like someone was walking beside me, matching my footsteps. Whenever I had a panic attack, it always seemed there was something experiencing it with me. Watching. Always watching.

I couldn't share it with anyone. Not with my mother who wouldn't care, or with fragile Camilla I met at school. I knew I was alone in this. I had to endure it by myself. That's how this creepy, bone-chilling sense of always being watched became my new normal. It became my pillar, no matter how ugly and rotten it was. I learned to live with it. But the thing is, it was always just a feeling. Until now. Now, it's reaching out to me.

"What do you want from me?" I ask the emptiness, lifting my chin and gripping the pen so tightly it feels like it might snap. My words echo slightly in the quiet kitchen, sounding both brave and damn foolish. Because I know that the presence is here. I know it's watching me. Somewhere in the shadows of this very kitchen, it has its eyes on me, seeing how I'm getting sweaty, how my breath becomes too shallow and quick.

But how long can I do this alone? I'm fighting an enemy that doesn't respond, doesn't show itself. I don't even know what I'm doing anymore. Exhausted and unnerved, I lower the pen, swallowing hard. My hand shakes from the strain of tensing my muscles.

A chill runs through me, not from fear but from a deep, unsettling cold that seems to seep from the walls themselves.

Fuck this… Maybe it's nothing. Maybe the stress is getting to me.

But then, the blinds crash down over the window behind me, striking like thunder. I jump, a raw scream tearing from me. My heart aches, squeezing painfully as if it's about to collapse in my chest.

The pain isn't the worst. The worst is… I freeze, my breath catching in my throat as the kitchen is swallowed by unnatural darkness. It's as if the light itself has been sucked out of here.

I'm alone in the dark.

Panic grips my chest, each heartbeat pounding loudly and erratically in this stifling silence. Frantically, I fumble for the light switch, my fingers clumsy and trembling. The familiar contours of the wall feel alien, but finally, I find the switch and flick it on.

Nothing happens.

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.