In the dead of night, I was once again jolted awake, a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. For a moment, I thought it was just another nightmare, but my eyes snapped open to the suffocating silence of the room. Just as I was about to get up to pour myself a glass of water, a sharp beep-beep echoed from downstairs.
My heart skipped. It was the unmistakable sound of my daughter's electronic toy car.
Rushing down the stairs, I saw it sitting in the middle of the living room, its tiny headlights blinking erratically. The wheels spun for a second, then stopped, only to twitch again as if some invisible hand had nudged it forward. The noise was piercing in the stillness of the night, so I hurried to switch it off, careful not to wake my daughter. At last, silence reclaimed the house, but a shiver crept down my spine.
I tried to laugh it off. Faulty wiring, perhaps. Or maybe the switch had been nudged somehow when we put it away earlier. Yet unease lingered. The toy had been tucked neatly against the wall before bedtime. I was certain of it.
Ten minutes later, just as I had begun to settle back into bed, the car sprang to life again. Its beep-beep-beep cut through the walls like a warning. My skin prickled. This time, I stormed downstairs with grim determination. I flipped the toy over, pried open the battery compartment, and yanked out the batteries. Surely, that would end it once and for all.
And yet, standing in the dark living room, toy in hand, I felt no relief. I stared at the little vehicle for a long time. Its glossy plastic shell reflected faint shards of moonlight filtering through the curtains, the gleam forming something almost like eyes. Watching me. Judging me.
I set it down on the coffee table, but the silence that followed was oppressive, heavier than before. My own breath seemed too loud. The house, usually a haven of warmth, felt hollow, as though I were standing inside a stage set where someone had forgotten to paint in the walls.
The thought slid, unbidden, into my mind: What if it isn't just the toy?
What if it was only the first sign—something testing the waters, seeing how I would react?
I shook my head, muttering to myself that I was being ridiculous. But even as I climbed back upstairs, I couldn't shake the sensation of eyes trailing me, not my daughter's innocent gaze, but something colder, older, pressing close behind the veil of night.
When I finally lay back down, I kept my eyes open, fixed on the ceiling, listening to the silence. Waiting.