4:44

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It's not real. It's in my head.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I'm sat in the corner of my closet with the sliding doors pulled shut, my palms pressed against my ears. My eyes are squeezed shut.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It's 4:44 in the morning. It's dark in my bedroom. The door is locked.

There is a fist knocking on it.

Slow, steady.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I can feel my heart beating in my chest. 

The doorknob rattles.

It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.

But I had heard the footsteps coming up the stairs. I had seen the shadow pass under the crack of my door through the glow of my nightlight. 

I had heard the eerie whispered of my name, "Maddy..."

I could hear it again now.

I knew who the voice belonged to. I knew if I opened the door the man with the long arms and the top hat would be standing there. His eyes would be black crevices, pupil-less.  

I had seen him since I was a kid. He came every year on my birthday. Nobody knew about him.

I remembered blowing out the candles on my cake when I was eight with his sickening presence lurking in the doorway of the kitchen.

He wasn't real. That's what I told myself then.

That's what I tell myself now.

But I knew when I opened that door in the morning, a blackened hand print would be pressed into the wood.

Until then, I stayed in my closet with my head down, rocking back and forth until the sun would rise. 

Photo creds: Katy Terry