There is something in my room. It hides along the corners of it, at the edges of my vision. If I try to look at it directly, I cannot see it. It does not move. It does not speak. It only sits there, just out of sight, dark and looming. I see it breathing, though I don’t quite know what constitutes breathing for something that does not seem alive. Its shadows stretch to the ceiling, covering even the sunlit window in a sheen of darkness.

I do not know how long it has been here. It started out as a speck, as insignificant as the dark spots that appeared behind my eyelids. The first few times I caught sight of it, it was something easily dismissed. I could excuse it away with ease: a trick of the shadows and light, my long nights and days spent awake finally catching up to me; maybe I’m finally losing my mind the way everyone said I would. In any case, it was something that I could ignore, pretend the long hours weren’t catching up with me just yet.

I was able to forget about it. My research on the development of the human brain distracted me easily. The project my team and I have been working on will help the human mind tap into locked-away memories and give others the ability to access these memories themselves. By gaining access to these memories, individuals will be able to provide accurate and truthful information to a court of law, it will help those with trauma remember significant moments that may have been forgotten and learn how to process their memories, and learn how to cope with the help of a therapist, and, of course, it will help forgetful people remember their schedules, important events, and when their best friend’s birthday is. Our research is meant to help all kinds of people, but it’s slow going. I would often get caught up in a flurry of equations and simulated tests, driven by the desire to advance our knowledge of the brain and its capabilities. I felt like I was close to a breakthrough and had been pulling long hours in order to continue making progress. Whatever I had, or hadn’t been seeing was the least of my concerns.

Eventually, though, it became harder to ignore: the rooms they provide you with in the research facility have white, sterile walls. When shadows begin to grow, it’s impossible to ignore. I used to return to my room and collapse into bed; I could fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow and dream of nothing at all. Now, it feels like there’s something in here with me. Its weight is oppressive, and though I cannot see it in the dark, I can feel its eyes on me like pinpricks on my skin. The hair on the back of my neck stands up and I spend most of the night staring at my ceiling, hoping fruitlessly that sleep will take me into its embrace.

As the first brushes of sunlight filter through my window, I sit up and whip my head around desperately to see what is there. I find nothing, at first; at least, not directly. I hesitantly begin getting ready for the day, showering and changing my clothes, and just as I have started to forget about it, I see it. Just out of my full view, a creature shrouded in darkness, formless yet present all the same. Its shadows creep across the floor, brushing the frame of my window. If I turn and look directly at it, it disappears, as if it were never there to begin with. 

I ask it, “What are you?” and receive no response. I don’t try to get close.

It doesn’t follow me when I leave, but it is still always in my mind. The paranoia grips me, a paralytic fear as I ask myself, what is watching me and for how long? I worry about its intentions. Does it want to harm me? Is it studying me? Does it want my research? My mind runs in circles, and I’m half-distracted for the rest of the day. I don’t tell anyone about the creature. I worry that if I do so, they will call me unstable, deem me unfit to work on the development of my project. Despite being one of the leading researchers in cognitive science, if my peers find my mind slipping, they will not hesitate to eliminate me.

At the end of the day, I go to my room in search of answers. Finding out what the creature is and why it chose to show up now, and to me, is my top priority. When I arrive, I lock the door tight. I don’t bother to stuff a spare towel against the door: our living spaces were built to keep sound in. As soon as the door is bolted, the temperature drops and a strange pressure descends upon the room, making itself known in the way it feels like cotton has been stuffed inside my skull.

I step further into my room. Even though I left the light on when I left this morning, it’s dark. The shadows have expanded to halfway up the walls, now; my window is entirely shrouded in the creature’s darkness. I can see it out of the corner of my eye. Despite its shadows having grown in size, the creature itself appears to have stayed exactly the same. Its breathing is loud and slow: there’s a rasping quality to it, like two rough stones sliding together. A familiar shiver of fear lances through my body, but I grit my teeth and move forward. Fear can wait; getting answers from the creature is much more important right now. 

Slowly and deliberately, I climb onto my bed and sit in the middle of it. It feels like I’m giving in to some of my silly childhood superstitions, making it harder for the monster under my bed to grab me, but with the existence of this creature, suddenly anything seems possible and I don’t want to take any risks. 

I ask it the same question I did this morning: “What are you?”

Once again, I receive no verbal response. I wait a while, forcing myself to stay patient. I ask the question again. As soon as the last word comes from my mouth, I hear it. The voice does not speak aloud, but I can hear the answer in my mind, clear as though it were one of my own thoughts. The voice feels violating and my head pounds at the invasive feeling that has slipped its way in. I am me, it says.

“What do you want from me?” I ask.

The answer is once again slow-going, but eventually, its voice grates in my head. To observe you, it whispers. The pit in my stomach grows from the possible implications of that.

“Who sent you?” 

I sit there for a very long time. The creature does not respond. Its breaths grow louder, but the pressure eases from my head ever so slightly. Questions and thoughts whirl in my head, and as I lay in my bed that night, I close my eyes and dream for the first time.

After that night, the two of us fall into a routine. I pretend the creature isn’t there as much as I can and it stays in the corners of my room. Watching. Breathing. The shadows don’t grow, and I don’t try to speak to it again. I continue diving into my research, and some days, it’s easy to forget that something is waiting for me when I return to my room each night. I stay in the labs longer to avoid the inevitable, but my tired body can only run on caffeine, determination, and three hours of sleep for so long.

Most days, I would leave the lab feeling motivated and satisfied with the day’s work, but recently, it feels like we haven’t been making any progress. Some of us don’t see eye to eye on the ethics of using human test subjects for something that we haven’t yet determined the side effects of, and there are many other roadblocks in the research itself that we seem to hit every time we make it past the previous one. I leave frustrated and exhausted now more than ever before, and I worry that one day it will all become too much for me.

On this day, in particular, two of the researchers get into an argument that devolves into a screaming match and looks like it’s on its way to getting physical. I intervene before it can escalate much further and decide to give everyone the rest of the day off, scolding them for fighting like middle schoolers. Everyone else files out under my watchful eye, and as soon as they’ve all left, I put my head in my hands and just breathe for a while. 

Soon enough, I hear breathing that doesn’t sound like my own. When I look up, the shadows have filled this lab and I see the creature in my periphery. Stunned, I freeze, and my brain starts rewriting any theories I had about the creature being fixed only to my room. “How are you here?” I ask it.

Its answers seem to come more readily, now. You are alone, it rasps in my head. It dawns on me suddenly that, before now, I have only ever been alone within the four walls of my room. Logically, I know that I should be afraid, but all I feel is exhaustion as my eyes droop and my body grows sluggish. Close your eyes, it says, and for once, I decide to listen.

–

There is someone in my room. She is curled up along its corners in the shadows, trying to get her tired body to move. She does not open her mouth except to sob. As I get ready in the morning, I look at myself in the mirror: tired eyes filled with determination, messy hair pulled back in a ponytail, white lab coat stretching across my shoulders. My gaze tracks to the person behind me and I lock eyes with someone who looks just like me. I cannot help but smile.