I open my eyes; inky darkness presses against me from every corner, broken only by the pale, cold sliver of light sneaking through the window. A chill crawls up my spine as I sense, with an uncanny certainty, that it’s 3:15 am again—my haunted hour. I can’t see the clock, but I know. My body remembers, my terror remembers. Maybe it’s the echo of my grandmother’s voice, whispering warnings about the “Ides of March” before death claimed her, but this hour feels cursed. It happens every night, and dread is now my nightly companion.

I stare at the top of the door, heart hammering, and I know—this is not a dream. My real-life fears never visit my dreams; they wait for me when I’m awake. There, floating above us, is a shape more shadow than substance—oily black, translucent, writhing with silent menace. It hovers, not attacking, but its presence is suffocating. I am paralyzed, the urge to flee trapped by the creature blocking the only exit. I lie there, frozen, debating whether to fight my panic or surrender to sleep and pray it vanishes. Even with my blood pounding in my ears, exhaustion drags me under, and I drift back into uneasy sleep.

When morning finally arrives, I discover my terror was not mine alone. My roommate, sharing the room, describes the same ghastly apparition—though I’d said nothing. But my other roommate, sleeping in the next room, brings a new horror: she says she heard the whispers of little girls in the night, telling her a tale of blood and betrayal—a murder in our apartment, committed by their father. The apartment is thick with secrets, and now, I wonder if the shadow will ever truly leave us.