Sleep rarely arrives gently for him anymore, and on this particular night, it drags itself into his mind like a reluctant guest at a party it didn't want to attend in the first place. He lies on his side, the cold glow of the phone screen resting against his face as he scrolls through another article on the SCP fandom site. He reads about creatures that blur reality and nightmares, anomalies that defy physics, entities that exist beyond human comprehension, and rules of containment written like desperate prayers. His fascination doesn't come from the thrill of horror as much as it comes from the idea that mysteries still exist in a world that pretends to have everything already figured out. His lamp flickers once, a tiny pulse of failing electricity, and although the room remains familiar, the shadows on the wall seem to spread wider with each blink of his tired eyes.
He places his phone on the table beside his bed, though his mind refuses to power down like the device does. He tosses once, twice, tangled in the sheets that feel much warmer than before, as if heat is trapped under them like anxiety waiting for release. His thoughts replay a memory he tried to forget: the strange silhouette he refused to acknowledge last night while returning home, the faint shift of a shadow near the alley by the market. He told himself that exhaustion plays tricks on perception, that sometimes the shape of a misplaced trash bin or a tree branch leaning strangely can conjure imaginary figures that vanish the moment one confronts them. But the thought still lingers because imagination should end once lights are on, and reality should not feel like it is adjusting itself to make room for a stranger.
His room remains still except for his own breathing, which sounds uneven when he pays too much attention to it. He closes his eyes tightly, hoping darkness will force sleep to finally take over, yet something feels off. The world feels slightly misaligned, like a film reel running at a fraction of a second slower than intended. Time itself feels like it hesitates. The clock on his wall, a small cheap plastic frame with a cartoonish design, ticks quietly like it always has, but tonight he swears the rhythm is different. A little slower. A little heavier. Each tick seems to carry weight, as though gravity has found its way into sound.
He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, where a small circle of moonlight from the window breaks into a fractured halo pattern through the curtains. That pattern wasn't as large last night. He blinks again, watching it grow softer, yet wider. The air feels colder near his feet even though he hasn't kicked the blankets off. He pulls them up to his shoulders automatically, his hands trembling slightly against his will. There is no true reason to be afraid, but instinct is its own storyteller, and right now it whispers caution in a language he has not learned but deeply understands.
When he turns his gaze toward the room's corner, the one furthest from his bed, he sees nothing unusual, yet his heart presses harder against his ribs. The corner has always been there, always dark at night, but something about it now feels inhabited. He tries to dismiss it by adjusting his pillow, clumsily pushing hair out of his eyes, and exhaling a long breath through his nose to calm himself. That helps for a moment, enough to remind himself that life is boringly predictable most of the time. His breathing slows. His eyelids droop slightly. He is almost convinced that everything in his mind is simply fatigue trying too hard to create excitement before sleep.
The cheap wall clock ticks again, and this time the sound does not match the memory of its usual rhythm. It is not slower now, but sharper, like something trying too hard to mimic the sound of ticking rather than simply doing it. He opens his eyes again. He stares at the clock. The second hand is moving, but each movement feels too final, too intentional, as if each tick is marking something much more personal than the passing of time. His fingers grip the blankets just a little tighter and he bites the inside of his lip without realizing it.
He tries turning to the window instead, hoping the outside world will distract him with the sight of familiar streetlamps and the occasional passing vehicle. The curtains sway slightly even though the fan is off. The whisper of fabric shouldn't sound so loud, yet the silence of everything else amplifies it. The night feels like it is listening, waiting for something, like a stage before the actor arrives.
He closes his eyes again and tells himself to sleep, to stop searching for fear where none exists. After minutes that feel too long, he drifts into a strange in-between state where consciousness frames dreams like poorly edited scenes. He sees the image of a long hallway without lights, the faint glimmer of something metallic moving slowly at the far end, and the soft glow of a city he recognizes but doesn't feel safe in anymore. The hallway vanishes into shadows as soon as he tries to understand it. The metallic form feels almost familiar, but in a way that makes him want to forget it.
When the morning finally arrives, sunlight pierces through the curtains with such enthusiasm that it feels almost rude. His eyes open groggily and his body aches like he spent the night running rather than sleeping. He peeks at the clock and notices the hands show a time that does not match the usual schedule of someone who never wakes up late. His phone also indicates a much later hour, and his stomach twists with confusion because he does not remember falling asleep that deeply, nor does he recall hearing his alarm.
His house feels quieter than usual when he gets ready for the day, brushing his teeth while listening carefully for the familiar sounds of daily life. Every noise seems delayed by half a second, like sound is catching up to movement instead of accompanying it. He tries to push the thought away because routine demands cooperation: he needs to eat, dress, leave, exist. He checks over his shoulder twice before exiting his room, searching for something he cannot name or explain, and each time he sees nothing out of the ordinary, though his pulse refuses to trust what his eyes report.
At breakfast, he eats quickly, distracted by the persistent memory of the clock's strange ticking. Every heartbeat feels like a countdown that has forgotten what event it is counting down to. He scrolls through the SCP fandom on his phone again with the vague hope that immersing himself in fictional horror will actually ease the lingering sense of real dread. He ends up clicking on the entry for SCP-4975 once more, re-reading the same paragraphs he already memorized:
A creature that stalks a victim by generating a bone-clicking sound… It waits… It kills when the time is right…
He stops reading.
Because something in his house feels like it is right behind him.
He does not turn around immediately.
He pretends to focus on his phone screen.
He breathes, slowly, shallowly, silently.
There is no clicking.
No sound at all.
But silence can be far more dangerous when it grows too deliberate.
He places his phone down with a forced casualness, standing and moving toward the door, pretending he forgot something in his room, pretending he is not afraid. His footsteps feel louder than they should be as he climbs the stairs again. His door waits at the end of the hallway, and although it stands wide open, its darkness seems deeper than it did earlier.
He glances left.
He glances right.
The house remains still.
His pulse insists something watched him while he wasn't paying attention, something clever enough to freeze perfectly the moment eyes searched for movement. A cold knot tightens in his stomach. His breathing shapes the air into anxious clouds he cannot see but feels gathering around him.
He does not know why he is scared.
He does not know what is coming.
But instinct never learned to lie.
There is a wrongness here now.
And whatever changed did not ask permission.