Glen stepped backward, holding his breath.
A chill seeped through the soles of his trembling feet. The black writing on the wall of Room Number 6 seemed to shift slowly before Glen's eyes, as if the thick ink had not fully dried yet. The stench of blood mixed with damp earth wafting from the empty room was so overpowering that it made his throat churn.
Creeeak...
The door to Room Number 6 slid open a few inches on its own, without so much as a breeze.
Terror seized every nerve in Glen's body. Without thinking twice, he turned, leaped into his own boarding room, and slammed the door shut.
Bam!
Glen turned the padlock key twice with violently shaking hands, then leaned his back against the wooden door. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps like someone who had just escaped a wild animal's pursuit.
This isn't just a hallucination... Glen screamed hysterically inside. Something really is in the room next door!
Glen stared at his desk. The graphics tablet on it was still powered off, but the memory of the ink lines sliding out of the screen a few hours ago suddenly felt even more threatening. The creature was no longer hiding inside his head during a nightmare. It had crossed over. It was using Glen's microsleep episodes and the empty rooms in this boarding house as its lair.
Knock... knock... knock...
Glen went rigid.
The knocking wasn't coming from the door he was leaning against, but from behind the brick wall on the right side of his room—the wall directly adjoining Room Number 6.
Glen froze, holding his breath as tightly as he could.
Scritch... scritch... scritch...
The sound changed. It was no longer knocking, but the sound of fingernails—or something sharp—slowly scraping across the cement behind the wall. The scratches moved downward in a twisting path, following the line where Glen's desk leaned against it.
Then, from behind the cold brick wall, came a hoarse whisper. It was so quiet and tremulous, like a pile of barbed-wire scrapes forced into the shape of words:
"Glen..."
Every hair on Glen's body stood on end. It felt as if his blood had stopped flowing.
"You're... tired, aren't you?" the voice whispered again from behind the wall. "Go to sleep..."
"No... no!" Glen screamed under his breath. He clapped both hands tightly over his ears, dropped onto the mattress, and curled up like a baby.
Glen knew exactly what would happen if he gave in to this drowsiness. Every second his eyes remained closed, the gateway for the creature would open wider. If he fell into a deep sleep—sleeping soundly for hours—the creature might never let him wake up again.
He snatched up his phone from beside the pillow, trying to find help or even just a human voice to keep him conscious. Amelia's name was on the screen. Glen was about to press the call button, but his fingers hesitated.
If Amelia comes here again... the creature could hurt her, Glen thought anxiously. Amelia is brave, but she has no idea what we're up against.
At last, Glen grabbed the cold coffee left in his cup on the desk and drained it without caring about its bitter, sour taste. He took a deep breath and stared straight up at the ceiling, his eyes watering from the sting.
His consciousness was already on the brink. His eyelids felt as heavy as tons of iron.
(One more blink.)
Zap.
The next microsleep wave hit without mercy.
During those "three seconds" with his eyes closed, Glen suddenly heard the hinges of his bedroom door creak as it slowly opened. Wet footsteps approached his bed, stopping right beside his head as he lay on his back.
Then a cold, oily palm that smelled of blood and earth slowly crept forward... stroking Glen's right cheek.
Srrt!
Glen shot awake with a strangled scream!
He swatted at the empty air beside his bed. His eyes widened as he frantically scanned the room. The light was still on, the door was still securely locked from the inside, and there was no one beside his bed.
But when Glen touched his right cheek, which felt cold, his fingers found a residue of thick, clear fluid with a fishy smell—exactly where the hand in his microsleep dream had touched him.
The terror was no longer just a shadow. That touch... was becoming more real.