Deceptive Cadence

The Room at the End of the Hall

When you’re a child you believe that there are monsters hiding under your bed or inside your closet, and you force your parents to do the nightly ritual of ensuring that the coast is clear; that the monsters won’t scare you as you fall asleep.

I can almost bet that it has never crossed your mind that the monsters, if they are not hiding under your bed or inside your closet, that they must be hiding elsewhere. Let me assure you that they will be hiding in the place you would least expect.

Is there a door inside your house that is always kept closed? Or perhaps a room your parents forbid you from entering?

If your answer is a no, then you may be one of the lucky ones.

If your answer is a yes, then you may have just enough time to check. But don’t open the door, whatever you do; simply place your ear close to the door and listen. Can you hear the monsters banging and rioting? They are dangerous.

I have a horrible feeling that one of you is going to open the door. The door at the end of the hall.

Billy Anderson was a good kid. He, for the most part, behaved himself and didn’t get into any serious trouble. Every night before Billy went to sleep; both of his parents checked under his bed and inside his closet to make sure that there were no monsters ready to pounce. His parents did this religiously and reasoned that it was a phase Billy would grow out of as he grew up.

I must admit that Billy was a hell of a lot smarter for his age than his parents would have guessed. He knew that there were no monsters hiding under his bed; and he knew that there were no monsters, not even baby ones, hiding inside his closet. He knew almost certainly where they were hiding.

He had asked his parents about the room at the end of the hall plenty of times, but they only half answered and told him to go and read or watch TV which he did without much fuss.

Knowing that trying to get answers out of his parents about the room at the end of the hall was nothing short of impossible, Billy decided to observe. From the doorway of his room, he could see very clearly, the room at the end of the hall. He waited and he watched to see if his parents would enter that room. They didn’t.

This new found knowledge made the room at the end of the hall even more interesting.

When Billy went to sleep at night, he dreamed of what he thought lay on the other side of the door. He wanted it to be something awesome, but whenever the dream got really epic, it would suddenly turn into a nightmare full of raging and vile monsters.

Some may say that I wasn’t doing my job, but I didn’t see any harm. Children, especially at Billy’s age, are imaginative and inquisitive.

It wasn’t until I heard the Other Voice – the one cajoling Billy to open the door at the end of the hall – get louder and louder. I searched through my inventory and found that Billy was the only one in danger. Why? Well, Billy was the only child that had a room at the end of the hall. And no one ever dared to open the door. So I sent out a warning, to everyone, but specifically to Billy. I told him to NOT open the door at the end of the hall, but to place his ear against the door and listen to the horrors that were locked behind it.

I could clearly see that the noises – growling, screaming and terrorised moans – had suitably put Billy off the idea of opening the door. I was happy to see that his curiosity was satisfied when the Other Voice – louder this time, a screaming cacophony of laughter – cajoled Billy back towards the door.

The door opened almost too easily which made my nerves recoil and shiver. And just as easily and soundlessly as the door at the end of the hall opened, Billy Anderson slipped inside.

I stayed around the Anderson’s house until Billy’s parents awoke to find their son missing. They searched Billy’s room, they yelled out his name over and over again. They called the police who said they would be there in ten minutes. Mr and Mrs Anderson sat patiently on their sofa, waiting for the police.

Twenty minutes passed, then thirty.

Forty minutes had almost passed when the Other Voice slithered back inside the house and asked the Anderson’s if they had checked the room at the end of the hall.

There was no time to stop them. They sprinted up the stairs two at a time, and stopped dead. The door to the room at the end of the hall was wide open.

Billy’s parents called out his name. Billy, hysterical, pleaded and begged his parents to save him.

As Billy’s parents stepped into the room at the end of the hall, they heard sirens blaring outside, almost breaking their trance. The Other Voice nastily hurried them along.

The police parked up beside the Anderson’s house and were about to run inside when...

Some people just can’t be saved.

Sincerely,

No-One

The Night Keeper.

The Dark Window

Before she went to bed in the evening, she double checked that the doors were locked; that the windows were tightly closed. Nothing, not even a fly or a moth squeeze their way inside her secure home. The action of closing all of the curtains added, to her uncertain mind, an extra blanket of security. If someone were really going to break in, they would have a great time trying to untangle themselves from the curtains.

This was all a very standard routine for Penny. She always double and triple checked everything. Checking things once was simply foreign to her.

In the evenings, Penny would dutifully follow her mother as she checked that every door and window was locked, and that every curtain was closed. Penny was always terrified that if her mother didn’t overlap the curtains when she closed them, that someone could peep through the gap and watch them with their horrible, beady eyes. Then, Penny thought, they would come to know their routine with the doors and windows and curtains. And then they would break in and take Penny away. She would of course put up a fight. She would scream until her throat screamed back at her; until her mother came to her rescue.

Penny’s mother, on the other hand, didn’t quite know what to make of Penny’s curious habits and routines. In the beginning, she found them cute; then she put it down to the fact that Penny was growing up to be a very inquisitive and intelligent child.

However, after a while, Penny’s mother had begun to feel even more concerned for Penny, as Penny always asked to watch scary films or television shows. The answer to her constant questioning was always a firm “no.” Her daughter was far too young for that stuff. She would have to be content with watching Dora the Explorer. As it stood, she allowed Penny to watch the news, and that was more than enough to corrupt a young mind.

It all happened one night.

When Penny and her mother had completed their routine of double and triple checking that all the windows and doors of their home were securely closed and locked, and that the curtains were tightly closed, with the edge of one curtain overlapping the other, so no unwanted eyes could watch them, Penny’s mother made sure Penny brushed her teeth before she tucked her into her bed.

‘Can you hear that sound, momma?’ Penny asked as her mother made sure her sheets and blanket were tucked in properly.

‘No, honey, I can’t hear anything. What does it sound like?’

‘Breathing, momma. Someone is outside, trying to look at us through the window, but they can’t because we locked the doors and windows and shut the curtains tight.’

Penny’s mother took a couple of moments to take in what her daughter was saying. Part of her refused to believe Penny, but she had stated it so matter-of-factly that she thought that Penny must be telling the truth.

‘Look, Penny, honey, there is no one out there,’ Penny’s mother soothed. ‘You’re just tired.’

‘No, momma, listen harder,’ Penny said forcefully, bordering on hysterical crying. ‘The breathing is getting closer. It’s right outside the window.’

Penny’s mother cocked her hear towards the window. Now she could hear what her daughter had been talking about. The heavy breathing was coming from the other side of the window. Someone was out there, watching them, trying to terrify them with their throaty heavy breathing.

For a moment, Penny and her mother remained as still as they possibly could, with their eyes locked on the window. Their eyes were ready to detect even the slightest movement of the curtain; their ears ready to detect the sound of glass being smashed.

For two or three minutes, nothing happened; no glass was shattered, nor did the curtains move an inch. Penny’s mother thought that it might be over, but Penny knew better.

‘Momma,’ Penny whispered, pulling the blankets closer to her chin, using them as a safety cocoon ‘the breathing is getting closer.’

‘The window is shut, honey, it’s fine,’ Penny’s mother reassured her. But even as she said this she could hear the heavy breathing moving closer to her; she could feel the warm breath on the side of her face. The breath was warm and hungry like it wanted something.

‘Penny, get out of here now!’ Her mother screamed. But in her mind she knew that they were both trapped.

‘Momma, I can’t. The heavy breathing monster won’t let me go! Help me, Momma!’

With her eyes closed, not wanting to see what was terrorising them, Penny’s mother grabbed the bedside lamp from Penny’s bedside table, lifted it above her head and, with all her strength, smashed it in the direction of the heavy breathing.

To Penny’s mother’s relief, the heavy breathing had ceased but...

The Box

When the lights go out and everything is still, there is eeriness in the atmosphere; something’s off kilter; something’s not right.

The Box, you remember, as you lock the door – you forgot to check The Box. It must always be securely closed and locked. There had been times when people had been inquisitive and decided to unlock The Box and take a look inside. What made the whole damned lot much scarier was the fact that, you could check on The Box, and the padlock could be broken; or worse: broken in two.

Then the difficulty of obtaining a replica padlock. Custom made padlocks were scarce and cost a lot of money. But the letter of justification – that was the worst part. For each broken padlock, you were required to hand write a letter to the boss (whom you never met), explaining why X amount of padlocks had been broken and how they had been broken.

If your justifications didn’t involve human error, particularly your own, then you would be safe. However, if it did involve your own human error, well ... best not to think about that and the consequences that would follow.

The Box should be okay, you reason to yourself. You’ve never heard any noise or inhuman screams coming from inside it, so it will (probably...hopefully) look the same in the morning.

The Box knows that it is alone. It heard the door close, and it knows that the minder forgot to check that the padlock was in one piece and locked. The box knows this so it starts rocking from side to side and back and forth; in all directions. It is making a loud racket but no one will hear. Only a few souls know that The Box is stored here.

Escape. Yes, escape is on the mind. When you have spent a very long time trapped in a box in pitch black, lonely darkness, you do think about escape. The minder’s boss thinks that the padlocks work but they don’t. They can be broken rather easily. Rock the box a bit and then give the lid a good few pushes, then with your hand, grab the padlock and pull it downwards and snap, rip, pop, the padlock is no more.

Something doesn’t feel right; even more so now, than when you left the building. You try to convince yourself that you’re just tired or stressed, but deep down you know it’s because you didn’t check the damn padlock on that damned box. Hell, you don’t even know what is in The Box! It’s probably nothing because for the past two months you have been working in the building and haven’t heard a single peep from the box. Nothing to worry about.

But it’s the unknown strand of thought that reignites your worries and concerns. What if there really, truly is something dangerous inside that large wooden box.

You decide to drive back to the building and look through the window and make sure the lid of The Box is still down. If it’s open then there’s going to be hell to pay.

Walking towards the building, you hear a violent rocking and scratching sound – as if something is trying to get out and escape.

Screams are coming from all directions; squeaking tyres and glass shattering.

‘Come closer. Come closer if you want a surprise. Come closer, don’t be afraid,’ a voice cajoles. You want to resist but don’t seem able to. The voice is becoming louder and louder. But when you enter the room is abruptly stops. The air is still; the silence is loaded, almost about to burst. Fumbling for the light switch seems to take an eternity but you find it, and switch them on. Relief cascades over you like water on a hot summer’s day. When there’s light, there’s safety. Taking a breath of courage, you walk over to The Box, and take a quick inventory. The padlock is locked and secure, the lid is tightly closed. As you do a final check of the box, you notice that a large yellow sign has been attached to the front of the box. It says: SURPRISE!

Uneasiness crawls and rattles through your body – you need to get out, and fast. You turn to run but the voices have started again. Those damned voices. ‘Come closer. Come closer. Open the lid. I won’t bite. Open the lid for a surprise.’

Your head says no, but your arm is reaching to unlock the padlock, but as you look down to unlock it, it appears to unlock by itself. The lid begins to open very slowly. A strong force shoves you closer to The Box, and forces you to peer inside. When your head is almost inside the box, the force you felt before shoves you harder this time and forces you inside The Box. The lid slams closed and the padlock clicks shut.

Is this how it ends or is this a dream? Remember that nothing in this world is ever as it seems.

Maniac

They called it Maniac. Not because it was crazy or anything like that. They called it Maniac because it was dangerous. Dangerous in ways you wouldn’t even imagine.

Maniac, I can tell you, is a house.

A lot of people call it a haunted house, but that isn’t truly accurate. You see, there are not any ghosts flying around inside Maniac. Believe me, if that was the case, it would make everything much simpler. To be frank, I do believe that some label it a haunted house simply because they don’t want to acknowledge the sad truth of Maniac which is this:

Inside Maniac, there are trapped souls. They are trapped between the walls and underneath the floorboards. They scream out in hysteria when you turn on the shower or when a faucet is running.

Many believe that these trapped souls are harmful because of the screams and agony they espouse on others. They are not harmful, these souls; they are simply damaged.

Over time, these souls have become helpless and damn fed up that no one has heard them and attempted to help them; to set them free. All they want is to be heard and understood, because no one knows who or where they are. They are the lost souls of long ago, who unwillingly had life snatched away from them. They were forced away from their loved ones because Maniac’s call was too strong.

Maniac looks like any other house on the street. The lawn is a bright, healthy green; the gardens look bright, lush and full of the love of life. The house appears to be in solid condition.

It is not until you look very closely at the house that you begin to notice small cracks in the wall; the scratches on the window; the paint slowly falling like a sprinkling of light snow.

If you are inside Maniac, looking through a front window at the garden, that the garden doesn’t look as bright and lush and happy as it did when you walked in.

The faucets scream when you let the water flow because water cannot wash away the demons inside you like everyone thinks it can. The floorboards scream hysteria because uncontrollable fear and anguish have been there.

Maniac, as I said before, is dangerous. But not for the reasons you suspect. Maniac is dangerous because it is the place where people go when they feel that they haven’t been heard or understood; that people won’t take the way they feel seriously.

So, please, remember that you are valued, you have worth, and you will be heard; but above all, remember this: You are not alone.

DON’T FORGET TO SCREAM

‘What do you think is following you, Charlotte?’ Doctor Munson, Charlotte’s new therapist asked as he leaned back in his ergonomic chair. His hands were clasped together in an overly professional manner. Charlotte found it curious how a therapist could expertly balance a notepad and a pen on their lap whilst crossing their legs.

‘It’s not so much “what”,’ Charlotte corrected, refocusing on the question. ’It’s who is following me.’

‘Okay,’ Dr Munson said with an almost forced air of patience. ‘Who do you think is following you? Have you seen them - their face, perhaps?’

After some thought and hesitation, Charlotte built up the courage to reply. ‘No, but I feel them brush past me which makes my skin crawl. I sometimes feel a cold, sinister hand resting, caressing my shoulder. And when I turn around...’ Before Charlotte could finish her sentence, she felt an icy cold shiver run its tracks over her. She shook her head in an effort to rid herself of the cold sensation that had momentarily gripped her.

‘Charlotte!’ Dr Munson almost shouted, his deep voice re-engaging Charlotte’s attention. Doctor Munson specifically noted that Charlotte would very easily become lost in some sort of trance and would completely forget what she was talking about. He put that down to the fact that Charlotte had a very active imagination. Doctor Munson had seen it with many of his other patients. They would confide to him that they believed that someone was watching them, waiting to pounce; or that someone was following them when in reality, their complaints were simply a figment of their imagination.

Doctor Munson knew he wasn’t getting anywhere fast with Charlotte, so he decided to try a different tact. He clasped his hands together and placed them on top of his notebook which balanced precariously on his crossed legs. Being the man he was, he made sure that his brow was furrowed in consternation, and began to ask Charlotte some different questions. ‘What happens when you turn around, Charlotte? What do you see?’

Charlotte immediately noticed that as soon as Doctor Munson had asked her that question, he began to write on his notepad using shorthand. Therapists always use shorthand, Charlotte mused. It’s so you can’t figure out what they are writing about you and your “state of mind” which Charlotte found very secretive indeed. ‘Charlotte!’ Doctor Munson repeated a fraction louder this time; his deep voice causing the walls to vibrate. ‘What happens when you turn around?’

‘Oh, sorry,’ Charlotte replied apologetically. ‘Yes, when I turn around...’

Doctor Munson nodded, indicating for Charlotte to continue. His brow still suitably furrowed as he did so.

‘...there’s no one there.’

Doctor Munson sighed and placed his pen and notebook on a small wooden table at his side. ’Look, Charlotte. I see this with many of my patients. It’s what I call having an over active imagination. It’s all in your mind. What I tell my other patients to do is this: Each time you feel that someone is watching or following you, and the urge to turn and look around and check is too strong to deny, repeat this phrase to yourself over and over again:

“Whatever you do, don’t turn around.”

Charlotte frantically nodded and started quietly muttering the phrase repeatedly so she would not forget.

‘Right,’ Doctor Munson said as he got up and opened the door – a polite way to hurry Charlotte along. ‘I shan’t think we will need another appointment, do you, Charlotte?’

Charlotte felt so shaken and uncomfortable that she gave Doctor Munson a wan smile and quickly scuttled out of the room.

Charlotte didn’t properly look up at her surroundings until she felt the fresh, outside air spill through her lungs. She almost felt a moment of complete calm and tranquillity wash over her. A smile was almost pushing the corners of her mouth upwards.

Everything was very quickly switched back to its default setting when Charlotte felt a cold breeze pass excruciatingly close behind her. She could have sworn it lingered there for a few seconds just to make sure she felt the true extent of its malicious presence. Immediately she began muttering the chant Doctor Munson had told her: “Whatever you do, don’t turn around” repeatedly until she felt that she was in the clear.

‘All I have to do is make it home and I’ll be safe,’ Charlotte whispered to herself. She allowed the thought of being home and being safe envelope her like a safe keeper.

For a fair while, Charlotte wasn’t consumed with the noises that surrounded her – her mind was focused on getting home to safety. As she walked, she kept her eyes on the ground; however, she instinctively looked both ways before crossing the road. She would not jay walk but wait for the green man to light up, signalling that she could safely cross the road. Charlotte wasn’t the type that wanted to attract danger. She was firmly of the thinking that if you followed all the rules that you would avoid all danger. So, to avoid the possibility of angering or annoying someone when she was outside the safe confines of her own home, Charlotte didn’t start conversations with anyone, which is why the red danger siren went off in her head when she heard someone, who she sensed was very close to her, whisper “Chhhhaaaarrrrllllooootttteeeee” maliciously in her ear.

Charlotte could feel herself becoming more and more unhinged and hysterical. She knew almost certainly now that she was being followed – stalked – by someone; maybe even a group of people. ‘Whatever you do, don’t turn around,’ Charlotte started muttering to quell her electric nerves. Doctor Munson had been so very wrong. She hadn’t liked him from the moment she met him. He was only there for the money because he didn’t know anything. She had had moments when she felt strong and able to tell him what was going on, but then something happened that stopped her. It was almost like a warning not to tell. No use, anyway, Charlotte decided. Either way, Doctor Munson is a complete ... arse!

It seemed as though she had been walking around in circles. On an average day, Charlotte took an educated guess and reasoned that it would take her between twenty and thirty minutes to walk from her house to the centre of town. Today’s walk had taken at least forty minutes. Charlotte stopped for a moment and, without looking around, weighed up how safe she felt. After a few moments, she felt okay so she looked around. She swore that she had already walked along this block. She had seen this area before because she had only just walked past it. ‘Maybe,’ Charlotte thought to herself, ‘if I walk back to the beginning of this block and then turn right, it’ll get me back on the right track.’

Charlotte made to turn herself around in order to change the direction she was walking when what felt like a huge cold body air forcibly pushed her forward in the direction she didn’t want to go. She tried with what strength she had left to force herself to walk in the direction she wanted to walk in. Deep within her mind, she tried to push the cold body away. She even held out her arms in an attempt to push the cold body away, but with no joy. The cold body was incredibly strong.

Breathless and running low on energy, Charlotte could feel the cold body weighing her down, slowly drowning her, when, out of the blue, it let up. Charlotte felt the cold body hovering up and down behind her, waiting. It took everything she had to not look around to see what or who had tried to kill her. ‘Whatever you do, don’t look around,’ Charlotte religiously muttered to herself.

Before she had a chance to think what to do next, the danger/flight part of her brain had made her legs run in the instinctual direction of the safety of her home.

She was just coming to the front gate of her home when she heard a clip clop of mean footsteps behind her. She tried to pick up her pace but as the footsteps behind her quickened, her own footsteps slowed down drastically.

Charlotte could feel the cold body coming closer and closer towards her back – waiting to spook her. But the figure behind Charlotte had a much different idea. ‘Cccchhhhaaaarrrrllloooottteeee,’ the voice quietly purred. ‘Don’t forget to scream.’

But before Charlotte could even make sense of what the voice had said, a smooth cold hand had firmly clasped itself over her mouth directly from behind. Terror filled her eyes. Charlotte’s last thought was a piece of advice she had heard before: ‘Whatever happens, Charlotte, don’t forget to scream. Danger hates people that scream. You have to be quick, though, because Danger is fast. Never forget that, Charlotte, please.’

The Mask of a Thousand Faces

As Myra quickly discovered, some people wear masks to cover their true selves. Certain people only want to show particular facets of their multi-layered personality that they believe everyone will like. To be fair, Myra was the sort that believed that everyone’s intentions were pure, and that people were being nice because they were nice rather than having a hidden agenda. Work colleagues labelled her as naive; easy to push around; be nice to her and smile and she will agree to do the work you can’t seem to finish.

Baxter, who was the main culprit and ring leader, was always extremely gracious and kind to Myra. He would offer several times a day to help her with one thing or another, but she would reply in the negative, stating that he, Baxter, had already been helping her too much lately; she didn’t want to burden him any more than she already had. Baxter, being the type that he was asked Myra that same old tired question day after day. He loved to see her face transform from that of a studious and conscientious worker, to one of a bashful schoolgirl.

To Baxter, he was too caught up in his own self importance to notice if Myra had twigged to what he was doing. Sure, he was being extremely nice to her, but he was also lumbering Myra with a vast amount of his own work that he was too lazy to do himself.

Baxter, of course, had a cohort who went by the name of Astor. Born into a wealthy family, Astor did not see the point in actually doing work, so she simply didn’t. However, this seemed to travel around unnoticed as she always brought in lovely food and beverages for everyone because, she said, they had all been working very hard. In reality, Astor had pawned the majority of her work on to Baxter, who then pushed it over to Myra to start and complete.

Secretly, Myra knew what Astor and Baxter were doing to each other. It was what Myra liked to dub: a friendship of convenience. They were over the top with each other; kissing on both cheeks, complementing one another’s fashion ensemble - the usual fake gushing.

When Astor had left the office, Myra would hear her say goodbye; the door would open and close. About thirty seconds passed, and then Baxter would transform into his true self – a horrible, cantankerous, power-hungry, nasty, nasty man.

When the roles were reversed, Astor was just as nasty. Her mask would fall away instantly. Sometimes, Myra could notice the cracks on Astor’s mask becoming more and more prominent. When this happened, Astor would run to the bathroom or take an early lunch.

Myra noted that Baxter and Astor complained about the same things when bitching behind one another’s backs.

Myra continued to work studiously and conscientiously for a week or so when she’d finally had enough. She asked both Astor and Baxter if she could speak to them both at the same time.

Myra told them how she had been picking up the majority of both of their workloads for quite some time now, and it was wearing her down. Upon saying this, Myra waited and studied the expressions on Baxter and Astor’s faces. She knew she would only have to be quiet for a very incremental time before they started ranting and raving, and making up feeble excuses.

Myra was not disappointed. For a full ten minutes Astor and Baxter ranted and raved about one another; they ranted about Myra not working fast enough, and the fact that they were already snowed under with work. All the while Myra sat comfortably behind her desk, eyes trained on Astor and Baxter, and a sweet, peaceful smile on her face.

At last the commotion ceased.

Myra stood up and looked at Baxter and Astor in turn.

‘It may come as a little surprise to you, Astor and Baxter, but I have worked in and owned this company for the last ten years. I have never come across people who wear the mask of a thousand faces as much, and as often as the both of you do.’

Myra indicated towards the door.

‘Please feel free to use it,’ Myra said, with a glowing face, and a smile as bright as the sun.

Anonymous

The creaks your house makes as you fall asleep on a quiet night. The crack of branches you hear as you are drifting rapidly into a deep, embracing sleep. Faint footsteps above your head do not seem to faze you in the slightest. In fact, you’re probably already in a deep sleep, having a dream or nightmare about these different noises. Sleep is far too important to sacrifice for a few minor noises.

Was that a window opening? You wonder as you roll on your side and try to get back to the deep sleep you were craving. You sit bolt upright realising that all of the windows are shut – you double checked that. And the front and back doors were locked – you never fail to double check that.

A cool breeze creeps its way into your room. Huh, you think – maybe I did leave a window open. You can’t get everything right all the time. Begrudgingly, you swing your legs out of bed, and armed with your phone and torch, you follow the cool breeze.

The bathroom window has to be the one that you accidentally left open. The breeze is blowing strongly from the bathroom. Tiptoeing very quietly, you poke your head around the bathroom’s open doorway. Nothing looks out of place. The breeze that was rushing past you before has now ceased. Not keen on getting up a second time, you check the window in the bathroom. You check it twice to make sure you are not imagining what you are seeing with your very own eyes. The bathroom window is firmly, unmistakably locked. You make sure the latches are down properly; you even give the window a push to make sure it’s sitting properly.

Bloody hell, you whisper as you walk back to your room, ready to curl up and go to sleep.

“Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop,” The noises you faintly heard on the roof are now much more pronounced than they were before. Someone is definitely walking on the roof. The hell could they want with the roof? You wonder, a strip of fright coursing its way through you.

It’s the middle of the night – well it’s dark, anyway – so there’s no way you’re taking a trip up to the roof. You decide to lay in bed with your phone beside you, just in case.

As you lay in bed, the lids of your eyes start to droop; you can barely keep your eyes open. Sleep has found you far more quickly than you thought it would.

Once sleep has found you once again, and you feel yourself being dragged into a somewhat unconscious state, you recall the sound of branches and leaves cracking and snapping as though someone was trampling over them. That was when you were setting your alarm, that you heard that.

Every noise you hear as you lay in bed becomes louder and scarier than usual. When your house makes those whining, settling sighs, you stifle a scream. Even the air is making sounds – almost like breathing.

Night obediently turns into day, and as you get out of bed and check around your house, nothing seems to be out of place. Mustering all your courage, you check outside, but nothing appears to be different.

But as you turn around to go back inside, you notice a note taped to your front door.

Handwritten on a piece of paper is one word that gives you the shivers:

Anonymous.