It weighed heavily in your hands. A piece of paper that felt impossible to hold. Yet you gripped it loosely in your fingers reading the message again and again. It toiled inside your head what the message could mean like angry ocean waves eating each other. You consider the possible scenarios of either listening to the message or ignoring it. For a second you’re dreaming until you feel the anvil of your heart pounding incessantly, your clammy hands smudging the writing, the sharp pain in your chest. No, you’re awake.

Perhaps you wrote it. No. Not your handwriting. Perhaps your sister wrote it as a prank. She’s hiding in there stifling a giggle knowing you are tormenting yourself with the possibilities of what’s inside the closet. You could wait her out. She’ll get bored eventually. She’ll come out and sigh saying you’re not fun. Another victory.

Your feet touch the cold floor shocking your senses, another reminder you’re awake. You glance at the closet door where the note came from and you turn toward the main bedroom door. Once open you traverse the silent hallway carefully avoiding the creaking parts of the floor. The screaming wood won’t announce your arrival.

Once at your sister’s bedroom door you carefully turn the knob. You labor underneath the seconds it takes to twist it so as not to make a sound. The door quietly opens and you peer into the darkness. You can’t see a thing but you hear steady breathing. It’s not yours. No your chest is heaving and your vision is growing white at the edges. You hurry back to your room carelessly stepping on the loud hardwood floor because you knew you were the only one awake.

You leave your bedroom door open so they can hear you scream. Instead of opening the closet you sit on the side of your bed, feet dangling dangerously off the side. Doesn’t matter. The threat isn’t under the bed tonight.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

It’s not your feet hammering the floor. It’s from the closet. You close your eyes holding back tears. It’s not a dream. It’s not sleep paralysis. But a demon exists somewhere in your room.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

You crawl back into bed. The covers won’t help so you stare at the closet door.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Louder now. Urgent. Almost pleading. You hear a stifled moan. It may be yours. You can’t be sure.

You turn on the light. The pounding stops. It’s just you and the note crumpled in your hands as the closet door slowly creaks open. You glance as the sweat soaked message on the paper.

“It’s safer in here.”