The thing that Watches

That uneasy feeling that there’s something in the room with you not knowing exactly what

The Thing That Watches

It stands where the shadows fold,
In corners the light won’t hold.
No footsteps.
No breath.
Just the weight of something old.

You feel it first —
A tightening in your chest,
Like the air has learned your name
And no longer wishes you well.

The mirror hums at 3:17,
Your reflection blinks too slow.
Its smile stretches wider
Than your face could ever go.

The floorboards creak in empty halls,
But the house has settled for years.
Something brushes past your shoulder
With fingers made of fear.

You lock the doors.
You check the seams.
You bury yourself in light.
But it lives inside the dark between
Your last blink
And the next night.

And when you finally dare to sleep,
Certain you’re alone—
You’ll feel the mattress dip beside you…

And know

It’s been waiting
To come home.