By the time the first rays of sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains, Jenny was trembling uncontrollably. Her hair clung damply to her forehead, her pajamas crumpled, and her eyes were bloodshot from the long night of terror. Sleep had been nonexistent. She hadn't dared close her eyes after the attic incident. Every creak of the old house, every whisper of the wind, felt like it carried the echo of that voice:
"Jenny… I'm waiting."
The words had invaded her mind like a poisonous vine, creeping into her thoughts and refusing to leave. Even now, as daylight filled her room, she could still hear them, faint, persistent, almost teasing.
Her hands shook as she reached for her notebook. She had begun documenting every incident—the notes, the shadows, the phone calls, the attic's open hatch—but writing it down didn't calm her. It made everything feel more real, more terrifying. She scribbled furiously:
Tap. Tap. Tap. Breathing. Whisper. Attic. Cold. Shadow. Heart pounding. Eyes in the dark. He is here. Always here.
The notebook shook in her grip. She looked up and saw the sunlight dancing through the curtains, the normalcy of the room making her stomach twist in confusion. How could something so ordinary feel so dangerous?
---
Jenny tried to go downstairs, hoping to eat something and regain a semblance of composure. She needed food. She needed water. She needed to convince herself that the night had been a nightmare.
Her parents were in the kitchen, chatting as if nothing had happened. The smell of toast and coffee filled the air.
"Morning, Jenny," her mother said cheerfully. "You slept in late."
Jenny nodded weakly, her voice catching. She tried to speak, tried to explain the terror of the previous night. But every time she opened her mouth, the memory of the attic hatch banging open, the icy wind rushing down, and that voice whispering her name returned, overwhelming her. She couldn't articulate it.
Her father noticed her pale, drawn face. "Jenny, are you sick?"
"I—I'm fine," she stammered. "Just… tired."
She took a seat at the kitchen table, barely able to focus on the food before her. Every sound—the hum of the refrigerator, the clatter of utensils, her parents' voices—seemed amplified. Her pulse raced uncontrollably.
And then she heard it.
A soft tap… tap… tap from the window.
Jenny froze. Her fingers tightened around her fork. The tapping was deliberate. Familiar. Almost… playful.
It was coming from outside.
Or… maybe it wasn't.
Her mind began to unravel. She couldn't tell where reality ended and terror began. The tapping continued, persistent, insistent. She looked up, eyes wide, but the window was empty. The glass was clear. The world outside was normal—birds chirping, wind rustling the trees, the neighborhood bathed in gentle morning light.
Her hands shook so violently that her toast slipped from her fingers and fell onto the floor. She couldn't breathe. Her chest tightened. Panic surged like molten fire through her veins.
---
Jenny bolted to her room, slamming the door behind her. She pressed her back against the wood, gasping, trying to regain control. Her mind raced: Was it him? Was he outside? Was he inside? How did he move so fast?
She sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees. The notebook lay open beside her, pages fluttering as if stirred by invisible hands.
Tap. Tap. Tap… Breathing… Whisper… He is near…
She couldn't stop reading. The words were no longer just notes—they were warnings, promises, and threats all at once. Every line, every scribble, made her heart pound faster.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She hadn't checked it since last night. She picked it up with trembling fingers.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
She stared at it. Her thumb hovered over the answer button. Every instinct screamed at her to throw the phone, to run, to hide. But another part of her… a part she didn't understand… wanted to know.
She answered.
Silence.
Then: a soft, deliberate inhale.
"Jenny…"
Her blood ran cold. She dropped the phone. It clattered against the floor, but the voice continued, faint and omnipresent. Her heart raced uncontrollably. She stumbled backward, crashing into her bed.
Tears streamed down her face as the realization hit her: he was everywhere. She could not escape him.
---
By late morning, Jenny's panic had escalated into something physical. She couldn't eat. She couldn't sleep. Every time she tried to focus, her mind was invaded by whispers, shadows, and that relentless tapping. She began to pace her room, checking the locks on the windows and doors repeatedly.
Her parents noticed her state. "Jenny, sit down," her mother said gently. "You need to calm down."
"I can't calm down!" Jenny shouted. "He's here! He's watching me! He's… everywhere!"
Her father frowned. "Jenny… who is watching you? What are you talking about?"
She opened her mouth to explain, but the words came out as a stammering mess. The panic, the fear, the terror of last night—all of it—poured out of her in a jumble of syllables that made no sense.
Her parents exchanged worried glances.
"You're scaring yourself," her mother said softly. "Maybe you need to rest. Maybe we should call someone to help—"
Jenny didn't listen. She bolted from the room, fleeing upstairs, slamming the door behind her. She sank onto her bed, her body trembling uncontrollably. Her mind spun, trying to make sense of the impossible.
He's real.
He's here.
He's always here.
Her thoughts twisted, her fear growing into an all-consuming wildfire. The shadows in her room seemed to breathe, stretch, and move. Her window was no longer a barrier—it was a portal through which the impossible reached her.
And then she saw it.
A small object on her desk. Something she had left there yesterday. A trinket from her childhood—a tiny figurine she had long forgotten.
It hadn't been there before.
Jenny's stomach churned as she picked up the figurine. It wasn't just a toy—it was personal, something intimate from her past. Whoever was watching her knew her. They knew her childhood. They knew what would unsettle her.
Her hands shook as she dropped it. The figurine hit the floor with a sharp clatter.
And then she heard it—a whisper, soft, almost playful.
"Jenny…"
She froze.
Her heart pounded. She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't even scream.
Panic had taken root fully, consuming her like a living thing. She couldn't escape the fear, the sense of being hunted, the overwhelming feeling that the walls themselves were closing in on her.
Every shadow, every sound, every flicker of light felt like a threat. Every creak of the floorboards felt like footsteps following her. Every whisper of the wind sounded like a name—Jenny.
---
Jenny's panic became a storm inside her, thrashing against the fragile walls of reason. She backed into the corner of her room, pressing herself against the wall as if it could protect her. Her breathing was shallow, rapid, and uneven. Her hands clawed at her hair. She could feel the blood pounding in her ears.
And then, the final confirmation:
A note, slipped under her door.
"I see you. Always."
Her scream tore through the house. Her parents rushed in, alarmed.
"Jenny!" her mother shouted. "What—what's wrong?"
Jenny could barely speak. She pointed at the note. Her voice was raw. "He's here! He's… he's watching! He's in my room!"
Her father grabbed the note and read it. His face paled. "Jenny… it's just a prank, okay? Someone's playing a joke."
"I'M NOT JOKING!" she shouted. "I'm telling you… he's real! He's here! He… he wants me!"
Her parents tried to calm her, but Jenny couldn't be calmed. Her panic had taken over completely. She ran from the room, back to her bedroom, locked herself in, and pressed herself against the window.
Her eyes scanned the yard, the street, the sky, even though she knew rationally there was nothing there. But she didn't care about rationality anymore. The fear had claimed her completely.
And in that moment, Jenny understood one terrible truth:
Her life had changed.
She could never go back to normal.
The terror had begun.
The messages, the taps, the shadows, the whispers—they were only the beginning.
And Jenny knew, deep down, that soon…
she would have no choice but to run.
---