We Went to a Lunar Base. The Moon is Horrifying.

The call came at 3:00 in the morning. I was up anyway, staring at the ceiling, my mind running through flight simulations and emergency protocols. The phone rang twice before I grabbed it, Greg Nunes speaking. Mr. Nunes, this is Riverside Care Center.

The woman's voice was practiced, gentle. I'm sorry to inform you that your father passed away about an hour ago. I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The words hit me, but not as hard as I'd expected. Dad had been slipping away for years.

Was he? I cleared my throat. Was anyone with him? The night nurse was there. He went peacefully in his sleep.

I thanked her, promised to come by in the morning, and hung up. The room felt too quiet. I looked at the framed photo on my night stand, Dad and his NASA uniform arm around my 10 year old shoulders, both of us squinting into the sun, his face still strong, then his mind still sharp.

That wasn't the father I'd known these past few years. The care facility had boxed up his belongings, 2 cardboard containers for 78 years of life. I signed the paperwork and carried them to my car, surprised by how light they felt. Back at my apartment I sorted through the 1st box, his watch, a dog eared copy of the Right Stuff, a photo album with pictures of mom before cancer took her.

The second box held clothes mostly, and a small wooden case that contained his NASA pins and metals. At the bottom I found a sealed Manila envelope with my name written on it in shaky handwriting. I tore it open and pulled out a single sheet of paper with lunar coordinates written in Dad's precise engineer's script, followed by a note.

Greg, if you're reading this, I'm gone. These coordinates mark a structure on the far side of the moon. We found it in 72, but were ordered never to speak of it. They called it Watchtower. There's something inside that isn't from Earth.

It got into Jenkins head, then Martinez. Stay away from these coordinates. Whatever you do, don't go inside. I read it twice then set it down. Dad's dementia had worsened over the last two years.

He'd become increasingly paranoid, mixing up his actual lunar mission with conspiracy theories and science fiction. This was just more of the same, the ramblings of a mind coming undone. I folded the note and slipped it into my desk drawer. Dad deserved better than to have his illness define him. I'd remember him as he was before.

The astronaut, the hero, the man who taught me to look up at the stars. 6 months later I stood in the pre launch briefing room listening to Commander Rita Garson run through our final checklist for Artemis 7. Nunez, you're on landing systems and secondary NAV. She said, her eyes meeting mine. Any concerns?

No, Commander systems are green across the board. She nodded, turning to the others. Doctor Patel, medical and primary science. Dylan engineering and habitat systems, Leo communications and surface mapping. We touched down and Mayor Christiam in 72 hours.

Let's bring back something worth the trip. We broke for our final equipment checks. As I walked out, Leo caught up to me. First time on the moon, Nunez. Nervous, I shook my head.

Just ready to get up there. Following in the old man's footsteps, huh? Something like that. Leo meant well, but he didn't understand. This wasn't about Dad, This was about proving I belonged here on my own merits.

The launch went perfectly. Three days later, we made our descent to the lunar surface, the habitat module touching down with barely a bump through the viewport. The Gray landscape stretched out, beautiful in its desolation. Nice flying Nunez, Rita said, clapping me on the shoulder. We spent the first 48 hours setting up our outpost, unpacking equipment, running system checks, establishing our communication relay with Houston.

On the third day, Reader assigned me and Dylan to conduct our first surface survey, 2 kilometer radius, she instructed. Map any features of interest. Collect preliminary samples. Standard protocol. We suited up and stepped out onto the powdery surface.

The earth hung like a blue marble in the black sky. Even after all the simulator training, nothing prepared me for that view. Let's head E 1st, Dylan suggested, pointing toward a small crater. We worked methodically, taking samples and marking waypoints. About 90 minutes in, as we crested a gentle rise, I spotted something that didn't belong.

A metallic glint catching the sunlight. Dylan, you see that? I pointed. He adjusted his position. Yeah, what is that?

We moved closer. The object was partially buried in regolith, but it's artificial nature was unmistakable. A curved structure with what looked like a flat panel on one side Could be debris from an old mission. Dylan said, already taking readings. Russian, maybe.

I checked our position on the NAV system and my blood went cold. The coordinates matched. Not exactly, but close enough, within 100 meters of the numbers Dad had written down. We should report this, I said, my mouth suddenly dry. Back at the habitat, Rita studied our images with Doctor Patel and Leo crowded around the display.

Definitely artificial, Rita said, and definitely not on any of our charts. Soviet Lunicod, maybe? Leo suggested. They had several failed missions they never reported. Rita, turn to me.

What do you think, Nunes? You've got that look. I hesitated. How could I explain a coincidence this precise that my dementia addled father had somehow known about this structure? Just surprised I said.

It's not in any of the survey data. Well, we're here to find what others missed. Rita straightened up. We'll check it out tomorrow. Nunez, you and I will go with Doctor Patel.

Dylan and Leo will monitor from here. That night I lay awake in my bunk, Dad's warning playing in my mind. Stay away from these coordinates. Don't go inside. But how could he have known?

The dementia had started years before he died. This had to be some bizarre coincidence. Or maybe he'd heard rumors from other NASA old timers about an undocumented Soviet probe. I should tell Rita about the note. But what would I say?

That my mentally ill father left me lunar coordinates that happened to match our discovery. She'd question my stability, maybe even my place on the mission. The next morning, we suited up in silence. As Rita checked Doctor Patel's oxygen levels, she caught my eye. You good, Nunez, you seem distracted.

I'm fine, just focused on the task. We set out across the lunar surface, following the path Dylan and I had mapped the day before. With each step toward the coordinates, Dad's warning grew louder in my head. Structures just over this rise, I said, pointing ahead. As we approached, the object came fully into view, larger than it had appeared yesterday, with more of its surface exposed.

It wasn't random debris. The design was too intentional, too precise. That's no Soviet probe, Rita said, her voice tight with excitement. Look at the construction. The materials.

Doctor Patel moved forward, scanner in hand. I'm not getting any radiation. Structure appears stable. I hung back, watching them circle what looked increasingly like an entrance of some kind. Dad's words echoed in my mind.

There's something inside that isn't from Earth. Nunez, come look at this, Rita called. I forced myself to move forward, fighting the growing sense of dread that tightened my chest. The coincidence was too exact to ignore. Somehow Dad had known, and he had warned me to stay away.

Should I tell them? I wondered, as I approached the structure. Or am I just carrying forward my father's delusions? Rita pointed at markings near what appeared to be a sealed doorway. What do you make of this?

I had to decide right now whether to share what I knew or keep it to myself. As we stood at the threshold of whatever waited inside, I looked closer at the structure and froze. This wasn't some alien artifact. The curved section wasn't a mysterious design element. It was an airlock.

An American airlock with NASA markings partially covered by lunar dust. Commander, I said, my voice tight. This is ours. Rita Crouch next to me, brushing away more of the Gray powder with her gloved hand. The metal underneath caught the harsh sunlight, revealing faded but unmistakable red, white, and blue Insignia.

That's impossible, she muttered. But the evidence was right in front of us. There's no record of any permanent structure built here. Doctor Patel joined us, her helmet tilting as she examined the panel. The design looks like late Apollo era technology, but more advanced.

She ran her scanner over the surface. There's an active power source inside. Minimal, but definitely functioning. Rita stood up, decision made. We're going in, Patel, Can you access the entry controls?

I think so. Doctor. Patel moved to what looked like a control panel and studied it. It's locked, but the interface is compatible with our systems. She connected her wrist computer to the panel with a thin cable.

I can attempt to override it. I hesitated. Commander, we should report this first. Houston needs to know. We will.

Rita cut me off after we confirm what we're dealing with. Her tone left no room for argument. Doctor Patel's fingers worked quickly across her wrist display. I've got it. She announced after a few minutes initiating override sequence.

The panel lit up with a series of green lights. A deep mechanical groan echo through our comms as the airlock door slowly slid open, revealing a dark chamber beyond. Suit lights on. Rita ordered, stepping forward. Stay close.

We entered the airlock, our helmet lights cutting through the darkness. The outer door sealed behind us with a heavy thud that I felt through my boots. A control panel inside glowed with dim red lights. Rita pressed a sequence of buttons and I heard the hiss of air being pumped into the chamber. Pressure equalizing, Doctor Patel said, checking her readings.

Oxygen levels rising to 21%, temperature increasing to 68°F. That's impossible, I said. After all these years, someone's been maintaining this, Rita replied, her voice tense. When the cycle completed, a green light appeared above an inner door. Rita looked at both of us.

Environmental readings check out. We can remove our helmets, but keep them handy. She unsealed her helmet first, lifting it off carefully. I watched her take a cautious breath, then another when she didn't immediately collapse. Doctor Patel and I followed suit.

The air smelled stale and metallic, but breathable. We need to report this now. I said, feeling the weight of my father's warning pressing on me. This has to be classified. We need clearance to proceed.

Rita shook her head. Communications might not work from inside here. We'll explore first, then report back with complete findings. Her eyes narrowed. That's an order, Nunez.

I wanted to argue, but kept quiet. Rita pressed a panel beside the inner door, which slid open to reveal a corridor stretching Into Darkness. Our lights revealed a facility that extended deep underground. Metal walls lined with conduits and pipes. Dust covered floors with boot prints preserved from decades ago.

The air felt heavy, like walking through an abandoned museum after hours. Look at this, Doctor, Patel said, pointing to a doorway. This place was evacuated in a hurry. She was right. Personal items lay scattered everywhere, coffee mugs on desks, jackets thrown over chairs, papers strewn across floors.

In one room that looked like a break area, playing cards were still laid out mid game, as if the players had suddenly gotten up and never returned. What is that? Rita asked, her light catching something on the wall. I moved closer and felt my stomach tighten. Dark brown stains splashed across the metal wall.

Blood, I said quietly. Old blood. Doctor Patel examined it without touching. Decades old, by the look of it. We continue deeper into the facility.

Each new room revealed more signs of hasty abandonment and violence. A medical Bay with overturned gurneys, a dormitory with bed sheets torn to shreds, and most disturbing of all, deep gouges and metal doors and walls that looked like claw marks. What could do this, Doctor? Patel whispered, running her fingers along one of the gouges.

These are cut into solid steel. Rita didn't answer, her face grim as she LED us forward. We reached what appeared to be a central command center. Dust covered monitors lined the walls, and in the center sat a large terminal that still had power lights blinking. Nunez, see if you can access any information.

Rita ordered. I sat at the terminal, brushing away dust from the keyboard. The system came to life with surprising ease. It's still operational. I said, navigating through the interface.

These are logs dating back to 1972. That's impossible, Doctor Patel said, looking over my shoulder. But the date stamps didn't lie. I opened the earliest entry. July 16th, 1972.

Watchtower Base Established Personnel Commander James Jenkins, Doctor Elena Martinez, Lutheran Robert Dawson, Specialists Keller and Wu, mission parameters classified Black project to monitor Soviet lunar activities from far side position. Watchtower. My father's note hadn't been delusion after all. Keep reading, Rita urged. I scrolled through logs detailing the base construction, routine operations, and surveillance activities.

Then the entries changed. August 30th, 1972. Specialist Wu reported unusual sounds in the lower level. Investigation found nothing possible. Equipment malfunction.

September 3rd, 1972 Doctor Martinez discovered unusual material in rock samples from nearby crater. Properties unknown. Further testing required. September 10th, 1972 Lethet Dawson found unconscious near sample storage. Claims to have seen someone watching him.

Medical evaluation shows stress induced hallucination. The entries grew more disturbing. September 15th, 1972 Specialist Keller missing for six hours found disoriented and maintenance shaft, no memory of how he got there. September 18th, 1972, Commander Jenkins implementing buddy system. No one travels alone in the base.

Then I reached the final entry, dated September 21st, 1972. The text was fragmented, as if typed in a hurry. It's in the walls. We can't see it, but it sees us. Martinez says it feeds on the entry, cut off abruptly.

That's it? Rita asked. I tried accessing more files. That's the last log entry. There's nothing after that date.

A heavy silence fell over us. I thought about my father's warning. He must have known about this place, known what happened here. We need to leave, I said, pushing back from the terminal Now. As if responding to my words, the lights in the room flickered once, twice, then stabilized.

Just power fluctuations, Doctor Patel said, but her voice wavered. The coffee mug on a nearby desk suddenly slid across the surface, as if pushed by an invisible hand. All three of us stared at it. That was just Doctor. Patel began, but couldn't finish.

The walls around us started to make a low vibrating sound, not mechanical, more like a hum that seemed to come from the metal itself. The pitch rose slowly, becoming more intense. We're leaving. I said, standing up right now. This time, Rita didn't argue back the way we came.

Stay together. We hurried back into the corridor, but something felt wrong. The hallway seemed longer than before, with different doorways than I remembered. This isn't right. I said, slowing down.

We came from that direction. No, it was this way. Rita insisted, pointing to another corridor. Doctor Patel checked her wrist computer. The scanner can't map properly.

Something's interfering with the signals. We tried another hallway, then another. Each one looked similar, but slightly different from what we remembered. The humming in the walls grew louder. We're going in circles, Doctor Patel said, her voice rising with panic.

Stay calm, Rita ordered. We just need to. A loud bang echoed from somewhere ahead of us. Then another, closer this time. What is that, Doctor?

Patel whispered. We froze, listening. The corridor ahead was dark, except for our lights. Something moved in the shadows, just a flicker of movement at the edge of visibility. Hello.

Rita called out. No response. We moved forward cautiously. The corridor opened into a larger room we hadn't seen before. Our lights swept across abandoned equipment and overturned furniture.

I don't like this, Doctor Patel said, staying close to me. Something's wrong with this place. The humming stopped abruptly. The silence that followed felt worse somehow. Let's keep moving, Rita said.

The airlock has to be. A loud crash came from a room to our right. Doctor Patel jumped, moving toward the doorway. Don't, I warned, but she was already shining her light inside. I think I see something, she said, taking another step forward.

It happened so fast I barely registered it. One moment Doctor Patel was standing in the doorway, the next she was yanked violently into the darkness. A startled cry cut short as the heavy metal door slams shut behind her. Rita lunged for the door, pulling at the handle. Patel.

She shouted, pounding on the metal. Patel, can you hear me? I heard Doctor Patel scream once from behind the door, a sound of pure terror that made my blood freeze. And then silence. Complete, terrible silence.

Doctor Patel's scream stopped so suddenly it made my skin crawl. The silence that followed was worse than any noise could have been. Patel. Rita pounded on the door, her fist making hollow thuds against the metal. Patel, answer me.

Nothing, just dead air. Rita tried the handle again, putting her shoulder into it. The door didn't budget. She kicked it hard, once, twice, but it held firm. We need to get back to the others.

I said, my voice sounding thin in the stale air. Get some tools, maybe a portable torch to cut through. Rita stared at the door for a long moment, her face hard to read in the dim light. Finally, she nodded. You're right, we need equipment.

She backed away from the door, her eyes lingering on it. Mark this location, we'll come back for her. I pulled out a light marker from my suit pocket and then made a large X on the wall beside the door. The phosphorescent paint glowed eerily in the darkness. We backtracked as best we could, following our own footprints in the dust.

When visible. The corridors seemed different somehow, longer in places with turns I didn't remember taking. On our way in, Rita kept checking her wrist computer, muttering under her breath as the display flickered. Signals completely scrambled, she said. Navigation's useless in here.

After what felt like an hour of walking, we finally reached the central command center. The room looked exactly as we left it, monitors covered in dust, the single operational terminal still glowing with its eerie blue light. But Dylan and Leo weren't there. They were supposed to wait here, Rita said, moving quickly to the com station.

Miller Morris Report I checked the doorways, looking for signs of which way they might have gone. Maybe they went looking for us. When we didn't come back, Rita tried the radio again. Bass module, this is Commander Willis. Do you copy?

She adjusted some settings, tried again. Bass module respond. Static filled the room, not even the crackle of an open channel, just dead air. Something's blocking the signal. I said, moving to stand beside her.

Or the equipment's failing. Rita's jaw tightened. We need to find a way out now. We gathered what we could. Extra light markers, a tool kit someone had left behind, a first aid pack.

Rita found a handheld torch that still worked, it's beam cutting through the darkness better than our suit lights. We mark every junction. She said as we headed out. Every turn, every doorway we pass through. I don't want to end up going in circles.

I nodded, pulling out the light markers at each intersection. I placed one on the wall, drawing arrows to show our direction. The base felt massive now, much larger than it had appeared from outside. Corridors stretched on longer than seemed possible for a lunar installation. This doesn't make sense, I said.

After we've been walking for 20 minutes. We should have reached the airlock by now. Rita stopped, shining her light down yet another identical corridor. It's like the place is changing. I didn't want to admit she was right, but I'd been thinking the same thing.

Doorways that should have led to the airlock instead opened into storage rooms or empty quarters. Windows that should have shown the lunar surface revealed only darkness. In what looked like a crew dormitory, I found something that made my blood run cold. The walls were covered in frantic writing, some in marker, some scratch directly into the metal, and some some written in what could only be dried blood.

Rita, I called softly. You need to see this. She came over, her light joining mine on the wall. Among the scribbled equations and fragmented sentences, 3 words stood out, written larger than the rest in rusty brown. It feeds on fear.

Jesus, Rita whispered. What happened here? I ran my fingers over another section of writing. They were trying to map the place. Look at these diagrams.

They don't match up. Like they were trying to make sense of a space that kept changing. Rita stepped back, her light sweeping across the room. We need to keep moving. As we continued through the base, Rita grew increasingly agitated.

She'd stop suddenly, turning to shine her light into empty corners. Did you see that? She asked for the third time in 10 minutes. I looked where she was pointing. Nothing but shadows.

See what? Something moved right there. She pulled her sidearm, standard issue for mission commanders, and held it. Ready, Rita? There's nothing there.

Her eyes were wide, darting from shadow to shadow. I know what I saw. We kept going, but Rita's behavior became more erratic. She'd mutter to herself, jump at small noises, and keep her weapon drawn. At 1 junction, she suddenly fired at the ceiling, the shot deafeningly loud in the enclosed space.

What the hell? I shouted, my ears ringing. It was right there. She yelled back, firing again at nothing I could see. I grabbed her arm.

Rita, stop your wasting ammunition. She yanked away from me, her eyes wild. Don't touch me, don't you see them? They're everywhere. Before I could respond, she took off running down the corridor, her light bouncing wildly as she went.

Rita. I shouted, running after her. Rita, wait. But she was faster, and when I reached the next junction, she was gone. 3 corridors branched off in different directions, with no way to tell which one she'd taken.

Rita. I called again, my voice echoing back at me. Nothing. I was alone. I leaned against the wall, trying to steady my breathing.

Panic clawed at the edges of my mind, but I pushed it down. My father's voice came to me then, clear, as if he were standing beside me. Fear is a choice, son. When everything goes to hell, remember that fear is a choice. He told me that after my first simulator crashed during training, I'd frozen up, Let the fear take over.

He'd made me get right back in and try again. Fear is a choice. I repeat it aloud, my voice steadier. I placed another marker on the wall and chose the right corridor, moving forward methodically. I had to find the airlock, had to get back to the module and call for help.

As I walked, I became aware of something following me. Not footsteps exactly, but a presence, a weight in the air behind me. Each time I turn to look, there was nothing there, just empty corridor. But the moment I started walking again and feel it, watching, following, waiting, I kept moving, trying different paths, marking my way, the feeling grew stronger.

Sometimes from behind, sometimes from beside me. Once I swore I saw something dart across the corridor ahead, a shadow darker than the surrounding darkness. Fear is a choice, I whispered to myself. After what felt like hours, I spotted a familiar marking on the wall, an official NASA directional sign pointing toward airlock A3.

Hope surged through me as I followed it, moving faster now. The corridor widened, and ahead I could make out the distinctive shape of an airlock door. I was almost running by the time I reached it, my hand reaching for the control panel. That's when the temperature dropped. The air turned so cold my breath fogged in front of my face.

The lights flickered once, twice, then stabilized at a dim glow, and something stepped out of the shadows in front of the airlock. At first glance it looked human, the rough shape and size of a person. But as it moved into the light, I saw that it wasn't human at all. Its body seemed to absorb the light around it, a silhouette of perfect darkness.

Where a face should have been, there was only a deeper void. And then it smiled. The grin spread impossibly wide across the featureless face, a Crescent of terrible whiteness that had no right to exist. It wasn't made of teeth. I don't know what it was made of, just a curved slash of white against absolute darkness.

And as I stood there, frozen in place, I understood exactly what my father had been warning me about all along. I stared at the shadow figure blocking the airlock. The thing had no face, just a void of perfect darkness where features should be. Then that impossible Crescent smile appeared, stretching wider than any human mouth could.

I thought of my father. How many nights had he woken up screaming about this very thing? How many times had the doctors dismissed him as delusional? All those years we thought it was dementia, but he'd been telling the truth. My heart hammered against my ribs.

Every instinct screamed at me to run. But run where this place twisted and changed. Rita was gone. Patel was gone. There was only one way out.

You took my father from me, I said, my voice shaking. You broke his mind. The smile widened. I took a deep breath and did something crazy. I stepped forward.

You want me to be afraid? I forced to laugh. It came out strangled and artificial. Is that what you want? The shadows seem to waver, like smoke disturbed by a breeze.

I laughed again, louder this time. My father was afraid for years. You fed on that, didn't you? But I'm not giving you that satisfaction. Each step forward felt like pushing against a wall of ice.

My fake laughter echoed through the corridor. The thing's edges blurred, becoming less defined. You're nothing, I said, still laughing. Just a shadow. Just a bad dream.

I was close enough now to walk through it. The shadow pulled back slightly, it's smile faltering. I kept laughing, harsh mocking sounds that hurt my throat and pushed forward. The cold intensified as I stepped through the entity. It felt like plunging into Arctic water, stealing my breath.

But I kept moving, kept laughing, even as my teeth chattered. I wouldn't give in to fear, not now. The airlock was right where we'd entered hours earlier. I punched the control panel with trembling fingers. The outer door slid open, and I stumbled inside.

Through the interior window, I saw the shadow watching me. Its grin returned, stretching wider than before, curving almost to where ears would be on a human face. I turned away, focusing on sealing my helmet and checking my oxygen levels. My hands shook so badly I could barely manage the connections. The shadow pressed against the glass, it's darkness seeming to seep through the edges of the window frame.

You can't have me. I whispered, still forcing out broken laughs between words. I cycled the airlock as air hissed out of the chamber. The shadows form rippled like a flag in strong wind. The outer door open to the lunar landscape and I stumbled out onto the dusty surface.

The habitat module stood 1/2 mile away, its white bulk gleaming in the harsh sunlight. I started walking, then running as much as the low gravity allowed. I didn't look back, couldn't look back. A laugh burst from my lips, then another, and another. I couldn't stop.

Even as I reached the habitat and pounded on the airlocked door, the laughter kept coming. It wasn't forced anymore. It poured out of me and waves I couldn't control. I made it inside. Somehow I remember Dylan's shocked face as he helped me remove my helmet.

I remember trying to tell him about Rita and Patel, but only laughter came out. I remembered his growing horror as I laughed and laughed and laughed. The next three days passed in fragments, moments of clarity punctuated by uncontrollable fits of laughter. I tried to explain what happened, tried to warn them about the structure, but they sedated me.

When my laughter turned to screaming, I remember the rescue shuttle arriving, the medical team strapping me to a Gurney, the concerned faces hovering above me. There, whispered conversations, complete psychotic break. Just like the commander and Doctor Patel. We found no trace of them. The structure was empty.

I wanted to tell them it wasn't empty. It was never empty, but all that came out was more laughter. Back on earth, they put me in a private room at a psychiatric facility outside Houston. White walls, soft furniture, locked windows. The doctors asked questions I couldn't answer without dissolving into hysterical laughter.

They gave me a notebook when I couldn't speak. I wrote page after page of everything I'd seen. The abandoned base, the logs from 1972, the blood on the walls, the message. It feeds on fear. I wrote about Rita firing at shadows, about Patel being dragged Into Darkness, about the entity at the airlock with its impossible smile.

No one believed me. They nodded and made notes about persistent delusions and trauma response, but they took my notebook away when I wasn't looking. And later a man in a dark suit visited. He never gave his name, just asked questions about what I'd seen inside the structure. 2 weeks later, a NASA official made a brief statement.

The Artemis 7th landing site had been declared off limits due to geological instability. No mention of Watchtower Base, no mention of Rita or Patel. Just a restricted zone on official lunar maps. The laughter eventually subsided, replaced by a hollow feeling I couldn't shake. The doctors called it progress.

They reduced my medications, talked about reintegration and coping strategies. But I knew better. The entity was still there, waiting in that twisted base beneath the lunar surface, waiting for more visitors, more fear to feed on. And it wasn't just there. The first night I saw it in my room, I thought it was a medication side effect, a dark shape standing in the corner watching me.

But when that familiar Crescent smile appeared, glowing faintly in the darkness, I knew it had followed me home. Every night since. It stands there, sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours, just watching, waiting for my fear to return. I keep a small light on now. I've learned not to look directly at the corner where it stands, and when I feel that cold presence, I force myself to laugh.

Just one quiet chuckle to remind it that I won't give in. But some nights, when exhaustion overwhelms me and my defence is weakened, I feel it's cold fingers brush against my mind and I wonder how long I can keep laughing before the fear takes hold again.