THE DEVIL IN MY CLOSET - by Onlyreal

The darkness wasn’t empty. I could feel it—warm breath inches from my face, the mattress dipping beside me, something shifting its weight slowly, deliberately, like it wanted me to know it was settling in. I tried to move. I couldn’t. My body felt pinned by invisible hands pressing down on my chest. All I could hear was my own shallow breathing… and something else. A low chuckle, so soft it felt like it vibrated inside my skull rather than in the air. “Do you want the lights back, Sochi?”The devil’s voice was mockingly gentle—almost playful. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. A sharp fingertip traced a line down my arm. It wasn’t a touch—it was a claim, slow and deliberate. My skin burned where it dragged, like the heat was sinking under my flesh. “You should have said goodnight,” it whispered. The light flickered once—just enough for a flash of its silhouette. Tall. Bent. Wrong. The instant I saw it, the light snapped out again as if the room itself was terrified to keep looking. Something cold pressed against my ear. A mouth. “Do you know why I came out tonight?” it breathed.“I come out when you stop pretending you aren’t afraid of me.” My heartbeat thundered. Then slowly… painfully slowly… the weight lifted. The presence slid off the bed. I could hear its feet on the floor—bare, wet, dragging slightly like something heavy clung to them. It moved back toward the closet. But it didn’t go inside. Instead, the devil stood at the doorway, half in shadow, half in my room. I still couldn’t see its face—just the shape of its grin glowing faintly red. “You thought the closet was my prison,” it said softly.“But it was yours.” The closet door shut. The room fell silent. For five whole minutes, nothing moved. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t blink. I waited for the devil to open the door again… but it didn’t. Eventually, trembling, I reached for my phone to turn on the flashlight. The screen wouldn’t turn on. Dead. Even though I had charged it an hour ago. I forced myself to sit up, heart still hammering, and stared at the closet. The room was quiet now—too quiet. I almost convinced myself it was over. Then I noticed something. The closet door was wrong. There were scratches on it now—long, fresh, and deep enough to peel away chunks of wood. They hadn’t been there before. And carved into the center, crooked and shaky like someone did it while laughing, were four words: “SEE YOU TOMORROW, SOCHI.” The air froze. My breath turned white. And behind the door… something tapped back.

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