The scratching started again last night. I told myself it was the tree outside, the wind coaxing its branches against the window, but deep down, I knew better. I stared at the glass, waiting, holding my breath until the faint tap-tap-tap of claws began to trace a slow, deliberate rhythm. I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want to see it again. But my head turned anyway, as if pulled by a string. There it was—grinning, always grinning, its black eyes glistening like oil pools in the dark.

“It’s not real,” I whispered, my voice cracking in the stillness. I turned away, squeezing my eyes shut. But then came the sound—the dragging of its limbs across the floor, impossibly slow, each movement heavier than the last. My chest tightened as I felt its presence behind me, the air thick and warm, brushing the back of my neck like a humid breath. My mind screamed at me to run, but my body wouldn’t move. “It’s not real,” I repeated, tears now streaking down my face. “It’s not real.”

The voice came then, low and soft, a hum that tickled my ear. “Shhh, no need to rush,” it murmured, the words dripping with something I couldn’t place—mockery, malice, or perhaps both. I wanted to scream, but my throat locked, choking on the fear crawling up it. Slowly, I turned my head, and there it was, inches from my face. Its smile stretched wider, but there was no malice in it—just a quiet understanding, as if it knew me better than I knew myself. “Slow down,” it whispered, claws brushing my arm. “You’re always so fast. Why not stay awhile?”

I woke up hours later, or maybe it had only been minutes. The room was empty, the scratches gone, and the air cold against my sweat-drenched skin. I laughed, a broken, hollow sound, because I knew no one would believe me. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. And yet, as I turned toward the window, I saw the claw marks carved into the sill—deep, deliberate, and waiting for me to notice them again.