New York

I don’t care if you call me paranoid. I’ve lived in New York City for 18 years. I know the difference between strange and wrong. And something is wrong.

It started about three weeks ago. A friend in Queens said her dog refused to go near the window after sunset. Just stared into the corner, shaking. Then came the power flickers—only on certain blocks, certain times. No explanation. No storms.

But then the sightings began.

Not people. Not animals. Things. Tall, thin silhouettes. Blacker than shadow, standing perfectly still under flickering streetlights. Too still. People walking past them would suddenly stop mid-step, like they forgot where they were. Then move on like nothing happened.

One night in lower Manhattan, I saw one. It was crouched—almost perched—on the side of a building. I blinked, and it was gone. But the windows around it? Frosted over. Middle of April.

No one's reporting on it. No one's acknowledging the screams I've heard at 3 AM. Or why certain subway cars are now "closed for maintenance" every night at the same time. Or why pigeons have completely vanished from Midtown.

Something old is in the city now. It doesn’t want attention. But it watches. It waits.

And the worst part?

I think New York is starting to accept it.