The first time you scream in the night, your mother rushes to your side.

You are three years old, and something in the dark is watching you. You know this the same way you know when the oven is hot or when the air smells like rain. Instinct. Certainty.

Your mother soothes you, her voice a lullaby of tired reassurances. “There’s nothing there, sweetheart. It’s just shadows. Just your imagination.”

You believe her because she is your mother. But when she leaves, the feeling does not.

You stare at the ceiling, at the corner where two walls meet, where the air is thick and wavy if you stare at it long enough. Your blankets are pulled up to your chin, breath shallow, listening. Waiting.

I am there

I am…

…wait.

Is it me you are scared of me?

You cannot see me, not really, but something in you _knows_ I exist. It is not sight or sound that betrays me. It is the weight of being watched. A presence you cannot name.

Your father is not as patient as your mother. The next night, when you cry, he is the one who answers.

“Enough with this nonsense,” he mutters, flipping the light switch. The room is the same as it was before: the same toys, the same dresser, the same bed. “See? Nothing’s here. Now go to sleep.”

You nod because you do not want to make him angry. But your eyes dart back to the ceiling as soon as he leaves. You feel it still. The watching. The waiting.

Me.

I did not think I could be feared. I do not know what to do with this knowledge. I have never wanted to frighten you.

I retreat further into the darkness, pressing into the space where light does not reach. I do not waver, dare not move.

But you still feel me.

I’m sorry. I can not leave.