I stayed behind in my empty dorm to save money on tickets. Now I’m hiding under my duvet.

The dorm is dead silent. Everyone else went home for the holidays, but I stayed behind because flight tickets spiked to nearly $600 this week. I couldn’t justify it. My parents understood, or at least they said they did.

The building feels wrong when it’s empty. You don’t notice the ambient noise until it’s gone—the hum of the vending machine down the hall, the settle of the heating system, someone’s alarm going off three doors down. Now there’s nothing. Just the occasional creak of the building adjusting to the cold.

I spent most of the evening on my phone, half-watching a show I’d already seen. Around 11, I plugged it in and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. My room faces the back lot—just trees and the service road beyond the fence. During the semester, you can see the glow from the campus library. Tonight, that section of the building is dark.

I always check the windows before I sleep. It’s not paranoia, just habit. I got up and tested the latch—locked, like always—then scanned the curtains from my bed. Fabric still, everything in place. Satisfied, I pulled my duvet up over my head like I do every night. I leave a small gap near my face to breathe through. The weight of the blanket helps me sleep.

But as I settled in, something felt off.

The air in the room was colder than it should’ve been. Not freezing, just… uneven. Like when you leave a window cracked and don’t realize it until you’re already in bed.

I lifted my head slightly, listening.

Nothing.

I told myself I was being ridiculous. The heating’s been inconsistent all semester. I pulled the duvet tighter and closed my eyes.

That’s when I heard it.

A faint scraping sound. Rhythmic. Metal on metal, maybe. It came from outside, near the window.

I held my breath and waited. It stopped.

Probably just the wind catching the downspout or a loose piece of siding. Old building. It happens.

But my heart was beating faster now.

I shifted under the covers, positioning my eye against the breathing gap. The curtains were backlit by the floodlight near the parking lot, turning them into a pale gray screen. I stared at them, watching for movement.

At first, there was nothing.

Then a shadow passed across the fabric. Slow. Vertical. Like someone walking past at a distance.

My stomach tightened, but I stayed still. Could’ve been a campus security patrol. They sometimes cut through the back lot.

Then another shadow passed. Same height. Same speed.

And then another.

They were moving in a line, evenly spaced. Four, maybe five of them. But something about the shapes felt wrong. The proportions were off—too tall, too narrow. And the heads…

I squinted, trying to make sense of what I was seeing through the thin fabric.

Each silhouette had something protruding from the top. Not hats. The shapes were organic, branching. They curved back and up in perfect symmetry—identical on every figure. Like they’d been cast from the same mold. Matching in a way that felt deliberate.

My mouth went dry.

I pulled my head back under the covers, sealing myself in complete darkness. My brain scrambled for explanations. Decorations left over from some event? A prank? But the dorm’s been closed for three days. There’s no reason for anyone to be out there.

I waited, counting my breaths. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.

Nothing.

Maybe they were gone.

I brought my face back to the gap, just enough to see.

The shadows had stopped.

They were no longer moving laterally across the curtain. They’d turned. Every silhouette now faced the window, perfectly still.

Facing me.

My chest locked up. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. My rational mind tried to push back—they can’t see you, the curtains are drawn, you’re in the dark—but my body wasn’t listening.

Then, slowly, all of them tilted their heads.

At the same time. The exact same angle. Like a wave passing through them.

I yanked myself back under the covers and pressed my face into the pillow, clamping my eyes shut. My pulse hammered in my ears. I tried to think. Maybe if I stayed still. Maybe if they thought the room was empty—

Click.

The sound was small. Mechanical. The window latch.

My blood turned to ice.

The window slid open. I heard the frame scrape along the track, heard the rush of cold air spill into the room. It washed over my bed, sharp and bitter.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Slap.

A wet, heavy sound hit the floor. Not a footstep—heavier than that. Like something dropped from a height.

Slap.

Another. Closer.

Slap.

Right beside the bed.

The mattress shifted. The springs groaned as weight pressed down next to my head—slow, controlled, like someone sitting down carefully.

I could feel the cold now, radiating through the duvet. It wasn’t the cold of winter air. It was deeper. Denser. The kind of cold that sinks into your bones.

I kept my eyes shut. Kept my breathing shallow. If I didn’t move, maybe—

A shudder ran through me. Involuntary. My whole body tensed for just a second.

The breathing stopped.

Then it started again. Closer now. Not on my face. On my hair.

Warm. Humid. Slow and steady, like it was smelling me.

And then something else.

A single drop of liquid landed on the pillow next to my ear. Then another. Slow. Methodical. I could hear them soak into the fabric.

The smell hit me a second later. Metallic. Organic. Wrong.

Its breath is matching mine now—rising and falling in perfect rhythm, like it’s learning.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​