#dark writing

Don’t panic when you see the gashes come from within

It’s quite normal to feel this way

Wolves gnawing at my ribs without rest.

Take note of the way I hunch over and cough blood

Don’t panic when my airways sound lacerated

It’s quite normal to feel this way

Wolves gashing my lungs til’ they flood.

Take note of the cracking noises and an uneven anatomy

Don’t panic when a bone stabs through my heart

It’s quite normal to feel this way

Wolves feasting on my writhing and agony.

Take note of how I collapse to the floor

Don’t panic when my breathing subsides

It’s quite normal to feel this way

My phone's security monitoring app vibrated at 2:15 a.m. with a simple notification:

“Motion detected in the living room.”

Still half asleep, I frowned and opened the live feed from the indoor security camera. The screen showed the living room shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by the faint blue glow of the television in standby mode. Everything appeared normal; the shadows of the furniture lay motionless across the carpet.

I was about to close the app when I noticed a small figure moving at the edge of the camera's frame.

It was me.

Or rather, a grainy image of myself, wearing the same gray pajamas, slowly walking toward the kitchen. My first thought was utter confusion.

Sleepwalking?

But that confusion turned into icy terror as I felt the unmistakable weight of the blankets resting on my chest, the softness of the pillow beneath my head, and the warmth of my wife sleeping peacefully beside me, her breathing slow and steady.

I was in bed.

Motionless.

Awake.

With my heartbeat pounding in my ears, I looked back at my phone.

On the live feed, the figure that looked like me was no longer in the kitchen. It was now standing in front of the television cabinet. Slowly, it lifted its head and stared directly at the hidden security camera.

Before I could look away, the figure on the screen raised one hand and began pressing against the display from the other side, as if it were trying to break through the glass.

At that exact moment, my phone vibrated with a new notification:

It was 3:33 a.m. when I woke up drenched in cold sweat. The house was wrapped in a deathly silence, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator. As I tried to sit up, I noticed something was terribly wrong: my legs wouldn't move. I was experiencing the classic phenomenon of sleep paralysis—that lucid nightmare where the mind awakens before the body.

I tried to calm myself and close my eyes, hoping to fall back asleep.

Then I heard it.

It came from downstairs: the slow, metallic sound of the kitchen keys tapping against the sink.

Clink... clink... clink...

A chill crawled down my spine. I lived alone. Besides, I clearly remembered turning the faucet off before going to bed.

My fear deepened when I heard slow, heavy footsteps emerging from the darkness of the hallway leading to my room. They were climbing the stairs. Step by step, each wooden plank groaned beneath an invisible weight. My heart pounded violently against my ribs, and my breathing became shallow, trapped in my throat.

Don't look at the door. Please... just keep walking.

I repeated the words over and over in my mind.

The footsteps stopped right at the threshold of my bedroom. The shadow cast from the hallway stretched across the carpet. I tried to scream, but only a muffled, strangled moan escaped my lips. I was completely at the mercy of whatever stood there, silently watching me from the darkness.

Then, without warning, a cold voice—identical to my own—whispered from the foot of my bed:

When she opened the app to check the live feed, the night-vision camera showed her husband standing beside the crib, gently stroking the baby's head to soothe her back to sleep. Touched by how sweet the moment was, she turned toward their bed to tell him...

...only to find him fast asleep beside her.

Her blood ran cold.

She looked back at the phone.

On the live feed, the figure beside the crib slowly turned toward the camera, smiled from ear to ear, and, in her husband's exact voice, whispered through the monitor's speaker:

I can’t get you out of my bed.

Fuck, I meant head.

You found a tiny sliver in my mind and tinkered your way into it.

I never saw you coming.

Now, I can hardly breathe.

Tell me, how do I rid myself of you?

It looks like you’re playing a game for two.

I have always had a taste of loving psychological thrillers.