The sharp rays of the morning sun pierced through the half-closed blinds like blades, forcing me out of my restless sleep. These days, the sun was the only thing that woke me. Nights had become unbearable. Every time I closed my eyes, I could feel a presence—a breath near my ear, a weight on my chest. But when I opened them, there was only stillness. Silence. And the unrelenting thud of my own heart.
Sleep had become a battlefield, and I was losing every night. Insomnia wrapped around me like barbed wire. My reflection had begun to look like a stranger: hollow eyes, pale skin, dark circles carved under my eyelids like bruises from invisible fists. I tried to keep myself together, but the weight of sleeplessness was crushing me.
Even the simple act of showering had turned into a nerve-wracking ordeal. I'd hear whispers, faint and echoing, every time the water hit the tiles. Like voices trapped between the walls. But when I turned off the water, everything fell silent. It wasn't just paranoia anymore—it felt real. Tangible. Like something had seeped into the cracks of my life.
To find some relief, I went to the local library. I'd discovered an old trick: reading put me to sleep faster than any pill. I thought a couple of thick novels might help me rest. As I was checking out, fate decided to mess with me.
"Hey Rahul! What are you doing at the library?"
I froze. That voice. No mistaking it.
Ameli.
I turned slowly. There she was, her presence both familiar and invasive. I tried to look away, to pretend I hadn't heard her. But it was too late—our eyes had already met. My chest tightened as she walked over.
"Oh, what a sudden surprise! Who would've thought I'd run into Ameli in a library?" I said with a forced smile, trying to sound casual.
"You're still funny, Rahul," she chuckled. "But seriously, why haven't you been attending the sessions?"
"About that... I'm perfectly fine. Sane, even. I don't need therapy."
"But your friend mentioned—"
"Don't believe him! That guy eats chips with chocolate. Total lunatic behavior," I interrupted, trying to laugh it off. "Anyway, I'm running late for work. Gotta dash. Bye!"
And I was gone before she could say another word.
Why are you looking at me like that? I didn't lie. Okay, fine. Maybe I skipped a few details.
It happened last week. Sam tricked me. Said we were going to meet someone cute. I was curious, so I tagged along. Big mistake. The 'cute girl' turned out to be Ameli—the therapist. She spoke to me like I was broken, like I didn't know what was going on inside my own head. I played along just long enough to get out of there. Never again. That place felt like a trap.
I shook off the memory and made my way to the coffee shop. Work was its usual blur. One customer after another. Orders, chatter, clinking cups. In a strange way, it was comforting. The repetition. The noise. It gave me no time to think.
Finally, I was done. No more customers. No more fake smiles.
I headed home, eager to unwind. As I checked my mailbox, a small thrill ran through me—my CD had arrived. I'd ordered a horror movie. Something vintage, eerie, the kind that made you question reality. Perfect for a night like this.
I stepped into my apartment and was greeted by an unnatural stillness. I liked it that way. After a hot shower, I tossed my clothes into the washer. As I poured in detergent, I noticed something odd. Red. A smear of it on my shirt.
Blood.
But I wasn't injured.
I froze. My mind spun in every direction.
Hallucination?
I stopped the machine. Checked again.
Nothing.
Just a clean shirt. My heart was racing. I told myself it was just another trick of the mind. Another whisper from the void.
Trying to forget it, I made some food, grabbed a couple of beers, and loaded the CD into the player. The screen lit up with static before the movie started. But something felt off immediately.
The actor on screen—I hated him. And the genre? Romance.
What?
I double-checked the case. It said Grave Whispers, a well-reviewed horror film. But this? This was some sappy love story. Still, I'd already opened the beer, so I figured I might as well watch.
Halfway through, I was nodding off. The combination of exhaustion, alcohol, and boredom was pulling me under.
And then it happened.
I opened my eyes sometime in the middle of the night.
Something was wrong.
The TV screen flickered with static. The cheerful music from earlier was gone. The scene had changed. The romance was no longer playing.
Now, it was something else.
A documentary.
Low-resolution footage. Black and white. No narration at first. Just scenes.
A man bound to a chair, gagged, struggling. Another figure looming behind him, face obscured. The light was dim, flickering. A metal table stood beside them—covered with tools.
Then a voice began to speak.
Cold. Monotone. Methodical.
"To kill a human without leaving evidence, you must become invisible. No hesitation. No emotion. Only purpose."
My eyes widened as the footage grew more graphic. The tools were used. Demonstrations. Step-by-step. Arteries. Pressure points. Ways to dismember without splatter.
The camera moved like it was part of the ritual—slow, deliberate, lingering on every incision.
Then, amidst the horror, I saw him.
The Boss.
Not on video. On screen. Live. Staring directly at the camera. Directly at me.
His face still hidden by the shadows, but his presence... unmistakable. As if he'd stepped out of the footage and into my living room.
He raised a hand.
Pointed at the screen.
Pointed at me.
And the voice spoke again:
"He doesn't just kill. He awakens what already lives inside you."
The TV glitched violently, flickered to black. The power cut.
Darkness.
Total and utter darkness.
I sat there, unmoving. My breath shallow. Every muscle locked. My body felt like stone. The silence screamed louder than anything I'd ever heard.
I didn't sleep that night. Just sat there, watching the reflection of my own horror in the blank TV screen.
The next morning, I took the disc straight to Officer Osbon. I told him everything. Every horrifying frame. Every whispered word.
He didn't laugh.
He took the disc. Inserted it into his system. Opened the file.
Nothing.
Just static. Corruption errors. The only recoverable footage was a single, blurry frame: a shadowy figure standing in an alley.
No tools. No violence. Just stillness.
"Are you sure this is what you saw?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, my voice barely audible. "It was real."
He gave me a long look. "We'll have our tech team analyze it. But Rahul... if what you're saying is true, this 'Boss' might not just be part of your nightmares anymore."
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
As I left the station, I felt it again—that cold, suffocating sensation of being watched.
I turned.
Nothing.
Just the empty street and the thick fog creeping over the pavement.
But I knew.
I knew he was there.
Watching.
Waiting.
And the worst part?
Maybe he wasn't just out there anymore.
Maybe…