I jolted awake, my heart pounding as I realized with dread that I was back in my own room. Shadows clawed at the walls, and in the farthest corner, he stood—his eyes burned with a visceral, piercing red glow, his entire form cloaked in a darkness so thick it seemed to swallow the air. He didn’t move. He never did. Yet his presence was suffocating, an unyielding force that watched, waiting, knowing.

I forced myself to leave the bedroom, escaping into the living room where the relentless rain battered the windows, echoing the tension in my chest. The persistent patter blended with the silence inside, making everything feel suspended in dread. I stared at the front door, my mind reeling—who, or what, would try to come through this time? The urge to barricade myself from the unknown was overwhelming. This ritual had become a nightmare routine, its familiarity twisted into horror.

Flickering static hissed from the television; the lights burned bright but offered no comfort. Isolation pressed in. With nowhere left to hide, I crept toward my bedroom again, even though the demon awaited me. As I crossed the threshold, my reflection in the full-length mirror caught my eye—a pale, haunted figure with eyes wide in terror. Panic surged, compelling me to shroud the mirror, but as I did, a razor-sharp pain ripped across my skin—a scratch, deliberate and cruel, that stung with unnatural intensity.

Mirrors have been a source of terror since I was eleven. Their cold surfaces seem to trap nightmares, reflecting horrors at me even in my sleep.

Suddenly, down the hallway, an impossibly brilliant light erupted, flooding everything. It was so intense I dared not look directly; even so, its power was undeniable. Yet, in the midst of fear, something shifted—the light drove me to my knees, and a strange, chilling peace replaced the terror. For a fleeting moment, I felt calm, as if the nightmare itself had paused.