Screams and Memories

🎭 The Nightly Storyteller’s Monologue The room was quiet, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was whispering in the dark. Not words — no, whispers have rhythm, intention. This was softer, like breath pressing against my ear without a mouth behind it. I turned on every light. Still, shadows gathered where they shouldn’t, crowding the corners, huddling under furniture, clinging to the edges of my vision. My reflection in the window smiled a moment after I stopped. My hands trembled, but not from fear — from the sinking realization that maybe the reflection wasn’t mine anymore. What if the voice I hear when I think is not me? What if the thoughts that comfort me are placed there, soft pillows hiding knives? I tried to sleep, but the air in the room felt too heavy, pressing down like a second blanket. And as my eyes closed, I swear I saw the shape of a man sitting at the foot of my bed — silent, waiting — patient as time itself. I no longer ask if I’m dreaming. I onl...