This is a narrative that I wrote:
You wake abruptly. The room is darker than you’ve ever seen it, but even so, you know something is different. The steady hum of the refrigerator is gone; the glow of the bedside clock is gone. The blackout has left your world stripped bare of its usual comforts. And then you hear it. Outside the window. A noise—subtle, fleeting—just enough to make the hair on the back of your neck stand. A scrape, followed by silence. Did you imagine it? You strain to listen, breath held. The silence stretches, taut as a wire.
Options unfold in your mind like a deck of cards, each decision more precarious than the last:
- Rise slowly. Approach the window. Look.
- Stay put. Wait. Pretend it’s nothing.
- Grab something—anything—and prepare for confrontation.
The curtains shift slightly. There is no breeze.
Your heart thunders. Which card will you play? Your fingers tremble as you grip the edge of the bed. The air feels heavier now, and the quiet hum of the night seems sinister. You’ve made your choice: approach the window. Slowly, deliberately, you rise, each step weighted by hesitation. The floor beneath your feet feels colder than usual, or maybe it’s just the adrenaline surging through you.
Your breath fogs up the glass as you reach the window, close enough now to hear it—a soft, rhythmic scratching, like nails on wood. With a sharp intake of breath, you yank the curtain aside. Nothing. Just the inky black of the outside world staring back at you. But then the sound comes again, this time from behind you. A faint creak, like a floorboard shifting under a weight not your own. Your heart nearly stops. You turn slowly, dread pooling in your chest, and in that moment you realize: the window wasn’t where you should’ve been looking…