It began like any other stormy night.
The wind howled outside, rattling the windows, while I sat at my desk, the glow of my computer screen the only light in the room. The day had been long and exhausting, but there was a sense of satisfaction in working late into the night. My teacher's words echoed in my mind:
"It doesn't matter how tiring the work is... if you love it, you won't feel the fatigue."
I smiled, grateful for the reminder. As I continued typing, the clock on my desk blinked 1:00 AM.
Then, I heard it.
Clink.
The unmistakable sound of the iron gate creaking open.
I froze. It was far too late for visitors. My heart raced as I listened intently. The sound of footsteps followed, slow and deliberate, approaching the front door.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
A pause.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
I hesitated. Who could be at the door at this hour?
Cautiously, I approached the window and peered through the curtains. The street was empty, the rain falling in sheets, obscuring any view beyond a few feet. I couldn't see anyone.
Then, the doorbell rang.
I jumped, startled by the sudden sound. My mind raced. Should I open the door? Should I call the police?
I decided to investigate further. I opened the door cautiously, but there was no one there. Only the wet footprints leading from the gate to my doorstep, disappearing into the night.
The following nights were eerily similar.
Each night at 1:00 AM, the same sequence unfolded: the sound of the gate opening, the footsteps approaching, the knocks on the door. I would open it, only to find no one there, just the wet footprints leading into the darkness.
I began to question my sanity. Was I imagining things? Or was something—or someone—really out there?
One night, I decided to confront whatever it was.
I waited by the door, heart pounding, as the clock ticked closer to 1:00 AM. The sounds began as usual—the gate creaking open, the footsteps approaching, the knocks.
This time, I flung open the door.
There, standing in the rain, was a man.
He was tall, his features obscured by the brim of his hat and the collar of his coat. His hands were gloved, his posture rigid. He said nothing, just stood there, staring at me.
"Can I help you?" I asked, my voice trembling.
He remained silent.
"Who are you?" I pressed.
Still, no response.
I stepped back, allowing him to enter. He walked past me without a word, heading straight to the guest room. I stood in the doorway, watching him disappear into the shadows.
Over the next few days, the man remained silent, his presence unsettling. He would leave early in the morning and return late at night, always in the same attire, always silent. I never saw him eat, sleep, or engage in any activity other than sitting in the guest room, staring at the wall.
One evening, I decided to follow him.
I trailed him discreetly, keeping a safe distance. He walked to a nearby club, entering without hesitation. I waited outside, watching. Hours passed. Finally, he emerged, accompanied by several men. They spoke in hushed tones, exchanging something I couldn't see.
I returned home, my mind racing. Who was this man? What was he involved in?
The next night, I confronted him.
"Who are you?" I demanded.
He looked at me, his eyes cold and distant.
"I am what you need me to be," he replied cryptically.
I didn't understand. But I felt a growing unease.
Days turned into weeks, and the man's behavior became more erratic. He would mutter to himself, his words incoherent. He would stare at the wall for hours, his eyes wide with fear. I tried to engage him, to understand what was happening, but he remained distant, unreachable.
Then, one night, I woke to find him standing at the foot of my bed, staring at me.
"Who are you?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, worn photograph. He handed it to me.
I took the photograph, my hands shaking. It was a picture of me—standing in front of my house, smiling. But the date on the back was from years ago, before I had even moved into this house.
I looked up at him, confusion and fear flooding my senses.
"Who are you?" I repeated, louder this time.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
I called an ambulance. The paramedics arrived and took him away, but not before I noticed something strange—a small, metallic object clutched in his hand.
Weeks passed, and I tried to move on, to forget about the man and the mystery surrounding him. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, that I was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.
Then, one night, I received a letter.
It was addressed to me, but there was no return address. Inside, there was a single sentence written in neat handwriting:
"You are not who you think you are."
I stared at the words, my mind racing. What did it mean? Who had sent it?
I began to question everything. My memories, my identity, my reality. Was I truly who I believed myself to be?
The questions haunted me, driving me to the brink of madness.
One evening, I decided to visit the club where the man had been seen. I needed answers.
I entered the club, the familiar sounds and lights overwhelming my senses. I approached the bar and asked the bartender about the man.
"He's a regular," the bartender said. "Comes in every night, always the same time. Never speaks to anyone."
I pressed further, but the bartender had no more information.
I left the club, frustrated and confused. But as I stepped outside, I saw him.
The man.
He was standing across the street, watching me.
I crossed the street, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Why are you following me?" I demanded.
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, metallic object. He handed it to me.
I took it, examining it closely. It was a key.
A key to what?
Before I could ask, he turned and disappeared into the night.
I stood there, the key heavy in my hand, my mind racing. What was happening? Who was this man? What did he want from me?
I didn't know.
But I was determined to find out.
React
