I woke up at 3:17 a.m.
Not because of a nightmare.
Not because of a sound.
I woke up because someone whispered my name.
"Aarav…"
The voice was soft, almost gentle, like it didn't want to scare me. But my body froze the moment I heard it. My room was dark, the kind of darkness that feels thick, heavy—alive. The digital clock beside my bed glowed red: 3:17.
I told myself it was my imagination.
I had moved into the old house only three days ago. New place, new noises, new fears. That's what everyone says. Old houses creak. Old houses breathe. Old houses make you hear things.
Still, I didn't turn my head.
I was afraid that if I did, I would see something standing beside my bed.
The whisper came again.
"Aarav… look at me."
My heart began to pound so loudly I was sure it would give me away. I pulled the blanket tighter around myself, as if a thin layer of cloth could protect me from whatever knew my name.
"Go back to sleep," I whispered to myself.
Silence followed.
Minutes passed. Or maybe seconds. Time felt broken in that darkness.
Then I heard footsteps.
Slow. Careful. Bare feet touching the cold floor.
They were coming from the hallway.
I squeezed my eyes shut. This is a dream, I told myself. If I don't look, it will go away.
The footsteps stopped right outside my door.
The handle didn't move.
The door didn't open.
Something simply stood there, breathing.
I could hear it now—long, slow breaths, as if it was enjoying the moment. Enjoying my fear.
Then it spoke again.
"You finally came home."
That was when I sat up.
The room was empty.
My door was closed. Locked. The moonlight spilled faintly through the window, showing nothing but dust and shadows. No footsteps. No figure. No monster waiting for me.
Just silence.
I laughed nervously, running a hand through my hair. "Get a grip," I muttered. "You're losing it."
I lay back down, forcing my eyes shut.
That's when I saw it.
On the wall opposite my bed, where the moonlight didn't reach, there was a shadow.
It didn't belong to anything.
It was tall—too tall. Its edges twisted unnaturally, like smoke frozen in the shape of a man. And it was moving, slowly stretching across the wall toward me.
I couldn't scream.
The shadow lifted what looked like an arm and pointed directly at me.
And then it smiled.
I don't know how I knew it was smiling. It didn't have a face. But I felt it. A cold, knowing smile.
"Aarav," it whispered again, closer this time. "You forgot me."
My throat burned as I finally found my voice. "Who… who are you?"
The shadow paused.
Then it answered.
"I'm the part of you that never left this house."
The lights went out.
Total darkness swallowed the room, and the last thing I felt was a cold hand brushing my forehead—gentle, familiar, possessive.
When the lights flickered back on, the shadow was gone.
But on the wall, carved deep into the paint, were five words I had never written:
I KNOW YOU BETTER THAN YOU THINK
And somewhere in the house, something laughed.
The Mark on the Wall
I didn't sleep after that.
I sat on my bed, staring at the words carved into the wall, my heart beating so hard it hurt.
I KNOW YOU BETTER THAN YOU THINK
The letters were deep, as if someone had used a knife. White paint had chipped away, exposing the dark concrete beneath. I touched them with trembling fingers.
They were real.
Cold.
Fresh.
I pulled my hand back like the wall had burned me.
"This isn't possible," I whispered.
I hadn't written those words. No one had come into my room. The door was still locked from the inside. I checked it—twice. The lock was firm, unbroken.
My phone lay on the bed. With shaking hands, I checked the time.
3:22 a.m.
Five minutes.
Everything had happened in five minutes.
I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight, slowly scanning the room. The bed. The wardrobe. The ceiling. Every corner where darkness could hide.
Nothing.
No shadow.
No glowing eyes.
Just an ordinary room that suddenly felt like a lie.
I stood up, my legs weak, and backed away from the wall. That's when I noticed something else.
The mirror.
It was hanging on the wardrobe door, facing my bed. I don't remember placing it that way. I was sure it had been turned toward the window before.
In the mirror, I saw myself—pale, eyes wide with fear.
But behind me…
There was a second shadow.
I spun around.
Nothing.
My breath came out in short, panicked gasps. Slowly, painfully, I turned back to the mirror.
The shadow was still there.
It stood directly behind my reflection, tall and stretched, its head tilted as if it was studying me. Unlike before, it didn't move. It simply watched.
"You're not real," I said, my voice barely holding together.
The shadow leaned closer in the mirror.
"You always say that," it replied.
The voice came from everywhere at once—inside the room, inside my head.
I staggered back, knocking into the bed. The mirror suddenly cracked with a sharp snap, a thin line running down the glass like a scar.
The shadow vanished.
I dropped to the floor, my chest burning as I struggled to breathe. I stayed there for a long time, waiting for something—anything—to happen again.
But the house was silent.
Too silent.
When the sun finally rose, weak light creeping into the room, the words on the wall were still there. The crack in the mirror hadn't disappeared.
None of it had been a dream.
As I got up to leave the room, I noticed something written on the inside of my wrist, faint but clear, like it had been pressed into my skin:
WELCOME BACK
I didn't remember coming here before.
But the shadow did.
And I knew, deep down, this was only the beginning.