The Darkness That Follows

It was just after midnight when I woke up, heart pounding, the kind of jolt that makes you question if you’re still dreaming. My bedroom was pitch black, but something felt wrong—like the air was thicker, heavier, pressing against my skin. I fumbled for the lamp, half-expecting it to flicker like in some cheesy horror flick. It didn’t. But as I sat there, clutching the bedsheets, I swore I heard it—a low, guttural hum, like the house itself was breathing. Ever wake up in the dead of night and feel like you’re not alone? That’s where this story starts, and I’m still not sure where it ends.

There’s something about darkness that gets under your skin, isn’t there? Not just the absence of light, but the way it makes your imagination run wild. I live in a small apartment, nothing fancy, just a cozy spot in a quiet town. But that night, it felt like the darkness wasn’t just outside—it was inside, creeping into the corners, pooling under the furniture. I tried to shake it off, told myself it was just a bad dream. But then I noticed my cat, Luna, staring at the hallway, her eyes wide and unblinking. She didn’t move, didn’t meow—just stared. And that hum? It was louder now, like a whisper you can’t quite catch.

I’m not one to jump at shadows, but I’ve had moments like this before. Growing up, my brother and I used to camp in the backyard, telling ghost stories until we scared ourselves silly. One night, we heard footsteps crunching in the grass—slow, deliberate, circling our tent. We huddled inside, too terrified to look, until Dad called us in, laughing about raccoons. But I’ll never forget how real it felt, how the darkness made every sound sharper, every fear bigger. That’s what this felt like, only there was no Dad to break the spell. Just me, Luna, and that hum.

I grabbed my phone, thinking I’d distract myself with some mindless scrolling. But the screen felt too bright, like it was exposing me. I turned it off and sat there, listening. The hum wasn’t constant—it came and went, like something moving through the walls. I thought about my neighbor, Mrs. Carter, who’s lived in the building for decades. She once told me about a tenant who moved out after a week, claiming the place was “wrong.” I laughed it off then, but now? I wondered what she meant. Was it this darkness, this feeling that something was watching, waiting?

I didn’t sleep much that night. By morning, the hum was gone, and the apartment felt normal again—sunlight streaming through the windows, Luna begging for food. But I couldn’t shake the unease. I started noticing little things: a shadow that seemed to linger too long in the mirror, a cold spot in the living room that didn’t make sense. I even checked online, half-expecting to find some urban legend about my building. Nothing. Just my own head, spinning stories. Or so I told myself.

Here’s the thing about darkness—it’s not just what you can’t see; it’s what you feel. Like it’s alive, following you, waiting for you to let your guard down. I’ve started leaving a light on at night, just a small one, to keep it at bay. But sometimes, when I’m drifting off, I hear that hum again, faint and far away. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just the pipes, or the wind, or my own paranoia. But I wonder… what if it’s something else? Something that doesn’t need light to find you? If you felt the darkness watching you, would you turn on the light—or would you listen for what it’s trying to say?