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It began as it always did: with the sky as black as anthracite and the rain falling like mortar shells against the thin window pane. A memory passes as if it was a year and then silence followed by a white noise.  Then I hear it.  It announces itself with a bone snapping crack causing my body to reel and tense before I realise that I am incapable of moving, as if cement had set into my veins.  Sometimes you’d feel a prickle at the base of your spine or a tickle on one of your feet.  That’s how he gets into your head; gently, tentatively, allowing you to believe that it is just your imagination. That it is all just a dream.  

On the second week everything changes.  The thing has your attention now and after seven days you’ve grown so used to it’s presence that that it has to step it up a notch; it begins to leech off of the shock and fear like a tonic, which is it’s lifeblood, a substance which is more addictive to it and necessary in a way more than any human mind could ever comprehend.  After a while though you begin to ignore it so it pulls at your legs as you doze off, forcing you to turn around and see nothing but the dark tv static of your room.  But there’s nothing there.  There’s never anything there.  That’s what it wants you to think.  For let me tell you that should you fall asleep face upwards during its machinations you will be greeted with a dark figure, darker that the blackest night, so much so that it stands out in a pitch black room so badly you could have sworn your surroundings were grey.  It does not talk. It does not move.  The very air around you becomes as ice, frost forms on the windows and curtains. Then, and only then, you are met with the lidless stare of the creature.  The shadow of one of M.Night Shayamalan's aliens, tall with thin arms and legs, haunched over and primed to pounce at you the entire time; breathing deeply and slowly whilst making absolutely no sound.  Then you try to scream, and you realise that those first symptoms that you had were not symptoms but it’s very own brand of a paralytic. A kind that only reacts when the body is in shock.  It turns your bedroom into the Spiders Cobweb Hotel.  Your bed becomes the dinner table.  And the rest of you is lapped away slowly.

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