I Just Wanna Sleep

The numbers 11-15 glared back at me from the alarm clock: 11:15 PM. Another late night. Another night of listening to the radiator clank like a skeletal hand on metal and the neighbor’s TV through the paper-thin walls.

It was my first apartment—a cramped, one-bedroom place that smelled faintly of boiled cabbage and old carpet. But it was mine. Or so I thought.

I works the graveyard shift at a call center, so my sleep schedule was already a nightmare. I’d collapse into bed around 8 AM, desperate for a few hours of shut-eye before the city woke up. But lately, the apartment felt… heavy.

It started with small things. My keys would be on the nightstand when I knew I’d left them on the counter. The shower curtain would be pulled closed when I always left it open. I brushed it off. I was tired. Hallucinations from sleep deprivation were normal, right?

Then, the shadows changed.

My bedroom door didn't quite shut right. It left a crack, about an inch wide. From my spot in bed, I had a perfect view of the dark hallway beyond. And in that hallway, something was watching me.

It was just a distortion, at first. A pocket of darkness thicker than the rest. It seemed to have arms that were too long and a shape that didn't quite make sense. I’d squeeze my eyes shut, whispering "It's not real, it's not real," until I finally drifted off.

But it was real. And it was getting closer.

The first time I saw it move, I almost swallowed my tongue. It was around 3 AM on my day off. I was lying there, staring at the hallway crack, when the shadow blinked. It wasn’t a human blink. It was slow, deliberate. And when it opened, I could see them—two faint, pale circles that weren't eyes, but reflections.

It was standing just outside my door.

I was too terrified to move, too terrified to scream. I lay there, trapped in my own bed, as the entity slid into my room.

It didn't walk; it moved with a sickening, liquid grace, like a spill of ink across the floor. It was thin, emaciated, its skin (if it was skin) the color of stale milk. Its face was… smooth. No nose, no mouth, just those two pale sockets staring blankly.

It came to the side of my bed. It leaned over, its long, spindly neck bending at an angle that made me want to vomit. It just watched. For what felt like hours, it just stood there, observing me like a insect under glass.

I must have passed out from sheer terror. When I woke up, the sun was streaming in. I ran to the bathroom, vomiting until I was empty.

The police didn't believe me, of course. "Active imagination," the officer had said with a condescending smile. "Maybe you should try some chamomile tea."

But I knew what I saw. I bought new locks, three of them. I braced the door with a chair. I slept with a flashlight in my hand.

It didn't matter.

Two nights ago, I woke up around 2 AM. The chair was pushed aside. The locks were broken, the wood splintered. And the closet door, which I knew was empty, was wide open.

It was sitting in there. In the dark, huddled like a forgotten coat. When my flashlight beam hit it, I saw something new. A thin, horizontal line split the smooth expanse where its mouth should be.

It was smiling.

I’m sitting in my apartment now. The sun is setting. I can hear the neighbor’s TV starting up, the familiar roar of the radiator. But all I can focus on is the hallway.