Horror Nights
That was when I saw it.
Behind Elias, in the corner of his dimly lit room, something moved. It wasn't a shadow; it was too textured, too substantial. It was a pale, elongated shape, draped in what looked like damp, gray linen. It didn't walk; it flowed, a rhythmic pulse of movement that defied the physics of a human body. It raised an arm—if you could call that spindly, multi-jointed appendage an arm—and reached toward the back of Elias’s head.
My stomach dropped. Every instinct I possessed, honed by years of watching horror movies and reading urban legends, screamed at me. That wasn't a trick of the light. That wasn't a glitch. It was looking at me.
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