Most monsters make noise.
They scratch, they growl, they breathe too close.
But the monster following Lena didn’t do any of that.
It never touched her.
Never spoke.
Never showed itself.
It simply watched.
And that was enough to destroy her life.
It Started with a Feeling
Lena moved into her small apartment to start fresh — new job, new city, new beginning. The place was old but cheap. The walls were thin, the windows crooked, and the hallway lights flickered constantly.
But she didn’t mind.
Not at first.
Three days after moving in, she began feeling it — a presence — subtle at first, like someone standing behind her for just a second too long.
She turned around.
Nothing.
When she slept, she felt it near the bed.
When she showered, she sensed it just behind the curtain.
When she brushed her teeth, she felt it standing in the doorway.
She told herself it was stress. Anxiety. Imagination.
But then the cold spots appeared.
Patches of freezing air that clung to her skin like invisible hands.
The Thing in the Room
One night, unable to sleep, Lena grabbed her phone to distract herself. The screen was black for a moment before the camera app opened accidentally.
That’s when she froze.
In selfie mode, she could see her reflection.
Her bed behind her.
The empty wall.
And then —
in the far corner of the room —
a distortion.
A shadow shaped like a person.
Too tall.
Too thin.
Standing perfectly still.
Lena’s breath caught.
She turned her head to look directly at the corner.
Nothing was there.
When she looked back at her phone —
the shape had moved closer.
The screen flickered.
The camera shut off.
And for the first time, the cold air pressed against her neck like an exhale.
The Whisper That Wasn’t a Voice
The entity never spoke. But Lena heard it — not with her ears, but inside her mind. A pressure, a weight, a wrongness.
And it grew stronger every day.
She started missing work.
She stopped eating.
She kept every light on.
Her neighbors complained of footsteps in her apartment at night — even when she sat on the bed, frozen in fear.
She could feel it pacing.
Waiting.
A therapist told her it was sleep paralysis or trauma resurfacing.
But trauma doesn’t move the furniture.
Trauma doesn’t breathe down your spine.
And trauma doesn’t stand outside your shower curtain.
The Invisible Attack
One night, she decided she’d had enough.
She stood in her dark living room, shaking, but determined.
“I know you’re here!” she shouted. “Leave me alone!”
Silence.
Then — a sudden blast of cold wind slammed into her like a wall.
She stumbled backward.
Something grabbed her ankle — invisible fingers that squeezed hard enough to bruise.
She screamed and kicked wildly, but there was nothing to hit.
The lights flickered and died.
She could hear it now — not a voice, but a vibration, like a sound too low for human ears. It filled the room, pressed against her skull, made her vision blur.
Her breath fogged the air.
Her heartbeat thundered.
It was close.
Right in front of her.
Watching without eyes.
Breathing without lungs.
Existing without form.
She whispered, trembling, “What do you want?”
There was no reply.
Because monsters like this one didn’t want anything.
They existed only to feed
— on fear,
— on silence,
— on attention.
The more she noticed it,
the stronger it became.
The Escape That Wasn’t
Lena bolted out of the apartment that night and moved into a hotel across town. She blocked the windows with pillows, taped the curtains shut, and slept under the blankets like a terrified child.
For a day, she felt safe.
On the second night, she saw her breath again.
Cold air.
A familiar chill.
No.
No, this couldn’t be happening.
Not here.
Not outside the apartment.
She grabbed her suitcase and ran into the hallway — only to freeze.
On the opposite end of the hallway, a single hotel light flickered.
Under it, the air twisted, rippled, warped.
The shape she saw in her phone camera that night — the tall figure — flickered into existence for half a second before vanishing again.
But she had seen enough.
The monster had followed her.
And now, she knew the truth:
You can’t outrun a monster
that lives in the space you cannot see.
The Final Night
Lena left the hotel and fled into the city. She walked for hours until dawn lit the sky.
But the cold spot walked with her.
Always two steps behind.
Always waiting to grow stronger.
When she disappeared, police found her phone on a park bench.
The last video recorded from the front camera showed Lena staring at something behind it — something invisible.
She whispered, “Please… please…”
Then she screamed.
The phone fell.
The screen showed nothing but trees swaying.
But for exactly four frames, the video contained a distortion —
a tall, thin humanoid outline standing directly behind her.
Too faint to identify.
Too vague to describe.
But unmistakably there.
And then — gone.
Just like Lena.
