#eldritch being

It began with the smallest things. Not the kind that send you running to a doctor or phoning a priest, but the sort of everyday disturbances that slip into your life like threads caught on a nail. A glass misplaced. A shadow just slightly too long. A reflection in the bathroom mirror that seemed to linger after you had already turned away.

You told yourself it was nothing—your mind was tired, that’s all. But the mind has a strange way of knowing before you do.

The first time you noticed it was in the kitchen, on a Tuesday night. The hum of the refrigerator seemed louder than usual, a low vibration filling the air. You leaned against the counter, staring at the window above the sink. The glass was dark, reflecting only your own shape—but then, just for an instant, it wasn’t.

Behind your reflection, something vast shifted. It was not a person, not an animal. Not even a shape you could properly name. It was a suggestion of a presence, as though the glass had warped to reveal a glimpse of another dimension where the air bent differently, where geometry did not obey. Your stomach lurched, cold prickling across your skin. And then it was gone. Just your reflection again, wide-eyed and foolish.

You didn’t tell anyone. How could you?

That weekend, you were out with friends. A small bar, sticky tables, too-loud laughter. The normalcy of it should have drowned out your thoughts, but every time you blinked, you thought you saw something ripple at the edges of your vision. It was always peripheral, an impression of movement where nothing should move, a distortion like heat rising from asphalt.

“Hey,” your friend spoke, snapping her fingers in front of your face. “You okay? You’ve been staring off for like five minutes.”

You shook your head, smiling in that way that makes people stop asking questions. “Sorry. Just tired.”

But when you looked past her shoulder, into the far corner of the bar where the shadows pooled thick, you could have sworn the shadows pulsed. Like something inside them was breathing.

The dreams came next.

They weren’t violent or even particularly frightening at first. Just dreams of depth. Vast oceans with no surface, skies with too many stars, corridors that bent in impossible angles. And always, there was something waiting at the center of it all. Not a face. Not a voice. Only the feeling of being watched. The strange thing was—it didn’t feel hostile.

When you woke, your chest ached with a strange sort of longing.

You began to notice the ways it tried to reach for you during the day. A flicker in the corner of your eye, like a hand withdrawn the moment you turned. The soft pressure against your skin, like static or heat rising from the ground. You would be walking down the street and suddenly feel the certainty that something immense walked beside you, just beyond the reach of perception.

It didn’t scare you. At least, not yet.

Your family noticed first.

“You’re distracted lately,” your mother said one evening when you came over for dinner. She spooned mashed potatoes onto your plate with the precision of someone who had rehearsed this motion for decades. “You hardly listen when we talk.”

You forced a laugh. “Just work. Stress.”

But your younger brother, sharp-eyed in a way that made you uneasy, frowned. “You keep staring at random shit,” he said. “Like you’re looking for something”

You dropped your fork. The clatter filled the silence that followed.

“I’m fine,” you said, too quickly.

But that night, when you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, you realised he was right. Your eyes were always drawn to the edges. Doorways. Mirrors. The negative spaces where the creature seemed to hover.

It wanted you to notice.

The second dream was different.

You were standing in a black expanse, stars scattered across the void like powdered glass. Something towered in the distance. Too large to see all at once, its form spilling out of the edges of comprehension. Every time your mind tried to pin it down, it shifted stuck-out bone that became wings, spirals of light that became eyes, limbs that curved into shapes your body recoiled from trying to understand.

But when it moved toward you, you felt no fear. Only awe.

It didn’t speak, but the space between your ribs throbbed with understanding: You were seen.

You woke with tears on your face, your hands clutching the sheets like they were the only thing tethering you to the world.

Over the following weeks, you started to look for it.

When you passed reflective surfaces, you slowed, waiting to see the distortion ripple again. When you lay in bed, you whispered into the darkness—not words, exactly, but an offering of attention. And sometimes, if you were very quiet, you thought the air pressed back.

It was like courtship, in a way. A dance of attention.

Your friends didn’t understand.

“You’re getting pale,” Your friend had said one afternoon, reaching across the café table to touch your hand. “Are you even sleeping? You look—” She hesitated, choosing her words with care. “You look unwell.”

You wanted to tell her that you were sleeping more deeply than ever, that you woke each morning with your chest aching from the beauty of what you had seen. But when you tried, the words dried up in your throat. You knew how it would sound: delusion, madness.

Instead, you smiled tightly. “I’m fine.”

But She wasn’t convinced. You saw her exchange a worried glance with the friend sitting beside her. Their pity stung more than their doubt.

They couldn’t understand.

Because you were chosen.

The third dream was almost unbearable in its beauty.

You stood at the edge of an abyss, colors bleeding in directions you couldn’t name. The creature loomed before you, a cathedral of shifting limbs and eyes like collapsed stars. When it reached for you, you expected pain, but instead you felt warmth flood through your body. Not heat exactly, but a fullness—like every empty place inside you had been filled with light.

You woke gasping, clutching at your chest. The longing was unbearable. You wanted it near, wanted it always.

That day, you stopped pretending.

When you caught a flicker in the window glass, you smiled instead of flinching. When the lights dimmed for just a second longer than natural, you whispered, “I see you.”

And the air in the room shifted, pressing close like a hand against your cheek.

You knew then that you weren’t imagining it. You weren’t sick, you weren’t losing your mind.

It was real.

And it was watching you.

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