I can handle the slight shiver down my spine as I turn a corner. I don’t mind a second glance at the end of the hallway. I’m all for a skip in my heartbeat when the floorboards shriek below me as I wander downstairs into the darkness.
What gets me is constantly seeing something…someone that isn’t there. The coat rack isn’t a man, the dartboard on the door isn’t a head. The reflection in the window isn’t one of a friendly visitor waiting to come in.
I like to blame it on my fatigue, my mind always gets the best of me when I’m at my most vulnerable. They call it Pareidolia – seeing faces and figures in inanimate objects. I call it Paranoia – waiting for that man in the coat rack to move. Expecting the reflection in the window to drift from side to side; breathing. Living.
I don’t let it get to me until the chills on my scalp are almost piercing. Until the black mass in the corner of my eye slowly and surely morphs into the figure of a silent, patient creature. I only turn to look when I know. When there’s no mistaking that I am not alone. But I always am.
I’m so alone. Please come. I can see them again.