I was 18 when The Shadow That Watches at night that still haunts me, a memory that lurks in the corners of my mind like a shadow refusing to fade.
Back then, I spent my nights glued to my phone, lost in endless hours of PUBG. Sleep was a luxury I often ignored, and my body paid the price. I had developed kidney issues, making it impossible to hold my bladder for long. To make things worse, our toilet was outside, detached from the house, forcing me to step into the pitch-black night every time nature called.
That night was like any other—or so I thought. It was around 2 AM, and the world was silent, wrapped in an eerie stillness. My phone screen illuminated my path as I stumbled toward the toilet, my mind still focused on the game. The cold air prickled my skin, but I was used to it.
Then I looked up.
A figure stood in front of me.
It was human-like but shrouded in black, blurry, and shifting as if reality itself rejected its presence. I couldn’t make out a face, just a dark mass, but the voice—oh God, the voice—was unmistakably female. It was soft yet unnatural, distant yet right beside my ear.
“Come play with me,” This is what The Shadow That Watches Me said.
Water splashed. My eyes darted to the bucket in her hands. She was scooping water, spilling it onto the ground in slow, deliberate motions. The sound echoed unnaturally, as if amplified in the dead silence of the night.
I couldn’t move. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat deafening. Then, my body reacted—I turned and ran.
But something was wrong.
I felt heavy, like I was wading through deep water. My legs refused to obey, my movements sluggish, almost dreamlike. No matter how hard I tried, my body betrayed me. The house was only a few steps away, yet it felt like an eternity.
The air grew thick around me, pressing against my skin like invisible hands trying to pull me back. My breath came in ragged gasps. Every instinct screamed at me to escape, yet my body moved in agonizing slow motion.
I finally stumbled into the house, collapsing into my sister’s arms. She was awake, making something in the kitchen, her eyes widening as she took in my trembling form. I tried to speak, but the words came out broken, my voice shaking with pure terror. My vision blurred, darkness creeping at the edges of my mind.
Then—nothing.
When I woke up, I wasn’t alone.
Neighbors crowded the room, their faces pale, their eyes filled with concern. Among them stood pastors, their hands clasped in silent prayer. I tried to move, but something held me down. I could see, I could hear, but my body was no longer mine. An invisible force pinned me in place, a suffocating weight pressing down on my chest.
Panic set in. My mouth wouldn’t open. My limbs wouldn’t obey. I was trapped, a prisoner in my own flesh.
They prayed over me, voices rising, desperate. My body started convulsing, a sensation like something was squeezing me from the inside out. Pressure built up in my skull, my vision darkened, and I slipped into unconsciousness once more.
Morning came, and I woke in my bed, aching all over. I could move. I could speak. But I was weak, drained as if life itself had been leeched from my veins. My parents forbade me from going outside for weeks, fearful of what had happened, though no one could truly explain it.
Eventually, things returned to normal—or so it seemed.
But something stayed with me.
Even now, at 20, I feel it. A presence lurking just beyond my sight. It doesn’t speak. It doesn’t move. But in the dead of night, when I am alone, I feel it watching, waiting.
And I know it’s still there. This is The Story Of My The Shadow That Watches me
