I Am Coming

You found this story exactly where you expected to find it, didn’t you? You were looking for something to pass the time, something that would make your skin prickle, something just unsettling enough to feel exciting but safe. You clicked the link, or opened the page, and started reading. You’re comfortable. You’re in a safe place, your room, a quiet corner, maybe on a commute, surrounded by people or locked away alone. You think this is just words on a screen or a page.

You think I am just words.

Let me ask you something. When you sat down to read this, did you make sure you were alone? Be honest. You probably checked over your shoulder once, just out of habit. You glanced at the door. You told yourself it was just a joke, just part of the mood. But deep down, you wanted to be alone for this. Because you know, don’t you? You know that stories like this work best when there is no one else around to distract you, no one to break the focus between you and me.

Look at the room you are in right now. Really look.

Notice how the light isn’t quite as bright as it was a few minutes ago? It’s subtle. You might have blamed it on the sun going behind a cloud, or a bulb getting old. But it’s not that. It’s because the space around you is getting smaller. Not the walls, they haven’t moved physically. But the space you occupy, the safe bubble you carry around yourself, that is shrinking. I am stepping into it. One sentence at a time.

You might remember reading other creepypastas. Stories about monsters in the mirror, things under the bed, figures in the corner of your eye. You read them, you felt a chill, you closed the window or put the book down, and you went back to your life. You told yourself, “It’s just fiction. It can’t touch me.”

But this one is different.

Those other stories were about someone else. They were about a man who found a strange tape, a girl who moved into a haunted house, a kid who heard voices in the woods. You were just watching them. You were safe behind the screen, looking at the horror, never inside it.

This story is about you.

I know where you are. Not the address, not the name of the street, though I could learn that easily enough. but I know how you are. I know you have a habit. Right now, as you read, you are doing something with your hands. Twisting a ring, picking at a nail, holding your device tighter than usual. You do that when you are nervous. You’re doing it now because you’re starting to realise that this isn’t following the rules. Stories aren’t supposed to speak directly to the reader. Stories aren’t supposed to know your habits.

Listen closely. Do you hear that faint sound? It’s very quiet. A soft scratching. Or maybe a low hum, like an electrical buzz that wasn’t there before. You’ve been hearing it for the last few minutes, haven’t you? You tried to ignore it. You told yourself it was the fridge, or the heating, or traffic outside.

It’s not.

That sound is me getting closer. Every time you read a word, every time your eyes move to the next line, you invite me in. You are building a bridge with your attention, and I am walking across it. I am walking through the light of your screen, through the ink on the page, straight into the room with you. I am not standing behind you yet. don’t turn around. If you turn around now, you won’t see anything, and you’ll convince yourself you are safe. I prefer you keep reading. I prefer you keep looking right here, at these words, while I move into the space you just left empty.

You know the feeling. That sensation of weight on the back of your neck. That feeling that someone is standing just out of sight, in your blind spot, waiting for you to look away. Usually, you shake it off. You say it’s just your imagination. You say, “My brain is playing tricks because I’m tired or because I’m reading something scary.”

Is it a trick, though? Or is your brain trying to warn you?

I wonder what you will do when you finish this. Will you close this immediately? Will you rush to turn on more lights? Will you check under the bed or behind the curtains? You will tell yourself you are doing it just to reassure yourself, just to prove nothing is there. But you will check. Because deep down, you already know I am waiting in one of those places.

I am everywhere you aren’t looking. I am in the dark gap behind your furniture. I am in the reflection of the window when it’s dark outside. I am in the silence between heartbeats. And the more you read, the more real I become. You are giving me shape. You are giving me form. Your fear is what holds me together, and you are feeding me very well.

Here is a question for you: How far are you willing to read?

Most people stop right about here. They get uncomfortable. They feel that cold chill run down their spine, that prickling heat on their skin, and they close the tab. They walk away. They think that by stopping reading, they make me disappear.

But you’re still reading. That means you are brave. Or curious. Or maybe, just maybe, you already feel that you can’t stop.

If you stop now, you will spend the rest of the night checking the corners of the room. You will wake up at 3:00 AM, gasping, convinced you heard a whisper right next to your ear. You will never be quite alone again, because you will always be wondering if I am standing just behind you, waiting for you to forget.

If you keep reading… well, then I get to stay.

Do you remember the last time you were alone and you called out, just to hear a voice echo? Or when you spoke to yourself in an empty room? You thought you were the only one speaking. But sound carries. Words have weight. When you read these words, you are speaking them inside your head. You are saying them loud enough for me to hear.

Hello.

You just said that, didn’t you? In your head, you just repeated that word. You just said hello to me.

Now, look at the very first line of this story again. Go back to the top. Read it again carefully.

“You found this story exactly where you expected to find it, didn’t you?”

You thought that was a guess. You thought that was just a generic opening line to set the mood. But I knew. I knew you would be here. I knew you would be curious. I knew you would read every word, desperate to find the ending, desperate to find out what happens, never realising that you are what happens.

The sound is louder now, isn’t it? The scratching. It sounds like it’s coming from inside the walls. Or maybe inside the ceiling. Or maybe… right under the floorboards beneath your feet.

Don’t move your feet.

You want to look down. You want to see if something is there. Don’t look down. If you look down, you might see the shadow stretching out across the floor, longer and darker than it should be, reaching toward you. And if you see it, you won’t be able to look away.

You are almost at the end. I promised you a story, and I delivered. But stories need a conclusion. They need a final line to tie everything together, to lock it in place.

You are mine now, you know. Not in a way that hurts, not right away. But every time you are alone in the dark, every time you feel that strange shift in the air, every time you think you see movement in the corner of your eye… you will remember this. You will remember that you read a story that spoke to you.

And you will remember that once a story is read, it can never be unread. Once a door is opened, it can never be fully closed.

I am in your room. I am in your head. I am in the dark.

And the next time you feel a hand brush against the back of your neck, or hear a voice whisper your name when no one is there…

Remember: I told you I was coming.

You really should have stopped reading sooner.