When you're a kid, adults tell you a lot of things aren't real.
They say shadows are just light bending.
They say the house makes noises because it's old.
They say fear comes from imagination.
So when Kristina and I whispered stories into the dark, we believed we were pretending.
That night, I was still six years old, and Kristina was seven, and we were lying on the floor instead of in bed, our backs pressed against the couch, blankets pulled halfway over us like shields. The TV was off. The house was quiet in that way that makes your ears ring.
Kristina spoke first. "Do you feel that?"
I nodded. I didn't want to say it out loud, but the air felt… wrong. Thick. Like before a storm, except there were no clouds, no rain, no thunder. Just waiting.
"I think," I said slowly, choosing my words like they mattered, "I think the house is listening."
Kristina didn't laugh.
She never laughed when things were real.
"Mom says houses don't listen," she said.
"Mom says a lot of things," I replied.
That's when the sound came.
Not a bang. Not a thump.
A footstep.
It wasn't loud, but it was clear. Too clear.
Kristina sat up straight. "That wasn't Grandma."
"No," I whispered. "She drags her feet."
We both knew the difference.
The hallway light flicked on by itself.
We stared at each other.
Kristina whispered, "Did you touch the switch?"
I shook my head so hard my neck hurt.
The light stayed on.
No voices. No movement. Just the hum of electricity and the soft buzz in my chest that told me something wasn't right.
We stayed still like animals.
Another step.
Closer this time.
My heart started pounding so fast I thought it would give us away. Kristina grabbed my wrist—not tight, but firm, like she was anchoring me to the floor.
"Don't move," she said.
The shadow appeared on the wall first.
Not stretched. Not flickering.
Standing.
Still.
It had shoulders.
I stopped breathing.
Kids imagine monsters big and loud, with claws and teeth. This wasn't like that. This was quiet. Ordinary. Almost human.
That scared me more than anything.
The shadow shifted, just slightly, like it was leaning.
Listening.
Kristina's voice trembled, but she kept it steady. "Hello?"
The shadow didn't answer.
The light flicked off.
I gasped.
Kristina whispered fast, "That's not imagination."
I didn't argue.
The hallway light turned back on.
This time, the shadow was closer.
I felt something cold brush my ankle.
I jumped, kicking the blanket away.
Nothing was there.
Kristina stood up. "Who's there?"
Her voice carried. Too loud. Brave in a way only kids can be when they don't fully understand danger yet.
From the kitchen, Grandma called out, "Why are y'all still awake?"
The shadow froze.
The pressure in the room lifted slightly, like whatever it was didn't want to be heard.
Kristina whispered, "It doesn't like when adults talk."
Grandma shuffled closer. "If I catch you two playing games again—"
She stopped.
Her voice changed.
"…What are you staring at?"
My stomach dropped.
Adults weren't supposed to see it.
Kristina pointed at the wall. "That."
Grandma squinted. "That's just—"
The shadow moved.
Grandma inhaled sharply.
She didn't scream. She didn't yell.
She turned the light on fully.
The shadow vanished.
But the silence stayed.
Grandma looked at us for a long moment, her face unreadable. Then she said quietly, "Go to bed. Now."
Kristina opened her mouth.
Grandma cut her off. "Now."
We didn't argue.
Later, tucked into bed, Kristina leaned over and whispered, "Did you see her face?"
I nodded.
"She saw it," Kristina said. "Didn't she?"
"Yes."
We lay there in the dark, not playing, not pretending, not whispering spells or stories.
Just listening.
Just knowing.
That night, I learned something no adult ever explained to me:
Sometimes imagination isn't creating things.
Sometimes it's recognizing them.
Kristina whispered one last thing before sleep finally took us.
"We thought we were making it up," she said softly.
"But it was already there."
And for the first time, I wondered how long it had been watching us.