My head bobbed slightly, and the right side of my face was covered in a light layer of slimy drool. I had just woken up midnight, probably around two or three A.M., but I couldn’t be exactly sure of the time since I had no clock in my room to check. I propped myself up on tired, weak elbows and raised my arm to wipe away the slippery remains of a good sleep off my. My eyes went a bit wide, I couldn’t speak, and my body was completely frozen as I realized there was something else in my bedroom. Standing in a corner across from my bed where I had just awoken was a dark figure, more of a silhouette, really.

The silhouette was that of a tall man. He was completely shrouded in the darkness of my room, which made it impossible to see any sort of details on his face. There was only one thing I could see, and that was the shirt he was wearing. It was red. I always remember that little, insignificant detail. Whenever I relate this story to people, I always make sure I point it out.

What I wanted to know was why he was in my room, although other good questions included why he was just standing there, how he got in, what he wanted, and whether he was even human or not. I couldn’t speak, so demanding to know his business was out of the question, though to be honest, I don’t know if I would have had the courage to ask him anything anyway.

We just looked at each other, but even that was enough to make me want to run out of my room. I get nervous if normal people look at me for a long time, but this was unbearable since he wasn’t even a real person! It felt as though knots were being tied with my organs, and all I wanted was for him to leave me alone. The way I saw it, it was my room and he had absolutely no right to be in it, he had no right to be standing there, and he had no right to be staring at me.
Even though I felt uncomfortable with him staring at me, it was better than him coming anywhere near me. I didn’t even want to think about him being an arm’s reach away from me, but the second I began to think of him never moving from his corner, never approaching me, never being able to touch me, he did something unusual.

He casually lifted his arm up and stretched his long, boney index finger out to point at me; the feeling that flooded the entire space between us was that of disappointment, or at least, what I felt at the time to be disappointment but, thinking back upon it, was probably more accusing than anything. His finger steadily pointed at me, an action used to say what he couldn’t express with words. This gesture made me feel that, in a way, I had just crushed every single expectation he had for me.

Slowly, he started to approach me. Every time he took a step toward me I felt as though I’d just sucked in a giant mouthful of air. After he had taken about five steps, I started to get really nervous. If he had taken even a half a step more he would have been able to reach out and touch me, and the thought of this rooted a feeling of nausea inside my stomach. After a few seconds he took one final step toward me, and suddenly he was gone. He just vanished. Once he had disappeared I was able to move again, and the second I realized this I jumped out of my bed, grabbed two soft pillows that were closest to me; a light cotton blanket; my stuffed unicorn, who had accompanied me through the ordeal; my cell phone, which was on my desk; and my phone charger, which, in a rush to get out quickly, I ripped right out of the electrical socket.

Usually I complain about how uncomfortable and springy the couch is, but that night I was more than willing to suck it up. I was even pretty thankful that it was there. I threw the items that were cradled in my arms unto the carpeted floor and sorted through the messy pile I’d just created. I plugged my charger into the closest outlet, put my phone on it, threw my pillows down roughly on the couch, positioned myself in the most comfortable way possible, pulled the blanket on to the couch, grabbed my unicorn, and reached for the remote, hoping the sounds and light of the TV would help me calm down and maybe put me to sleep for the few hours I had left to do so.

I’m not really sure who that man was, or if he was even a man at all. Maybe he was just something from my dream that, when I’d woken up, was still there. Thinking about him still scares me, and on more than a few occasions I have thought about how he could still be there, waiting for me in that small corner of my room. It sends chills throughout my body to think of how he might be there, staring at me, his red shirt fitted tightly around his thin, black waist, how he would take slow, steady steps to reach the edge of my bed, how next time he might not just go away when he finally makes it all the way to my bed. Sometimes I’m scared enough to the point where I won’t go anywhere near my room, and even in daylight when my entire room fills up with sunlight, I try to avoid going anywhere near the corner he was in.