Idolising someone had been new territory for me. Even as a young woman, I didn’t fall in love easily, nor did I often get hooked into books or shows or celebrities. But when the rare instance arose that someone or something did catch my attention, I tended to cling to it. I would scour every last detail for no other reason than it interested me. This was why I wanted to know the secret Magnus was clearly struggling to unveil. I simply wanted to know because he in particular interested me. Not necessarily romantically—I wasn’t delusional. I just found him, and a handful of other things in my life, fascinating.

If I had been born a decade later, I had no doubt I would have had a name given to this particular tendency of mine. But as it was, it had not interfered with my enjoyment of life. I was pragmatic and a little blunt perhaps. But I was content in my corner of curiosities, even if others looked over and laughed at my collection of strange treasures.

Maybe this outlook was a shield over my poor fangirl heart. I pondered this theory as I lay wide awake in the pitch-black room. After all, when the racket of Magnus’ snoring had woken me up after only a few hours of sleep, my soul didn’t weep in the realisation that my hero was not as perfect in reality as my mental image of him was. I knew damn well that our collective image of him was partly manufactured, filtered, packaged, and presented.

Well. I suppose it stung a little bit. I did rather like the daydreams of Magnus being perfect. It certainly caused a frustrated sigh to heave from my chest as I threw my hoodie-quilt off and got to my feet, back popping and clicking in protest of having slept on the floor.

Guided by my outstretched hands, I padded through the dark room and into the bathroom to fix myself a glass of water. The bright burst of light from the bathroom made me tear up, and my vision swam for a moment. Filling up the tiny beaker the hotel provided at the side of the sink, I drank half the glass then tossed the rest back into the sink. I shuffled back out into the lightless room, my eyes struggling to readjust after I clicked off the brilliant, sharp light of the bathroom.

When I glanced over to Magnus snoring on the bed, I almost disregarded the strange shape in the mirror on the wall at the far bedside. My eyes were still adjusting, so there was no cause for alarm...

...until they did adjust and the strange figure remained.

I froze, a sickly, primitive dread dredging through my veins. There, standing in the mirror yet nowhere to be seen in the room, was the undeniable figure of a man. He was watching the sleeping rock star in my bed like some bizarre guardian angel, and the lack of movement gave me false hope that this was a trick of the shadow, a fallacy of dull lights, an optical illusion.

Then, the figure’s head twitched to face me.

Two burning orange eyes sent a wave of shivering cold over my skin, and I could just make out plumes of feathers pouring down his sides where his arms ought to be. It was impossible to discern any details of the shadowy figure, and I had no intention of getting closer.

My fear-loosened jaw mangled out a squeaky plea:

“M-Magnus...?”

Magnus, of course, did not wake up to my pathetic whimper.

The figure in the mirror shook, and it took a moment for me to realise he was silently laughing.

One feather-coated finger lifted to his lips, shushing me.

I wanted to scream, but the sound was stuck fast in my throat, held down by the thick lump of horror that had built there. I could only gawk as the shadow melted back into the mirror, disappearing just as soon as it had appeared.

I remained where I was, too frightened to lie back down and too confused to remain where I was.

On the bed, Magnus stirred and mumbled something, making me jolt out of my skin.

I looked at the mirror again.

Nothing.

I debated waking Magnus up, but to tell him what? That I had seen a monster next to the bed? A shadow person that had disappeared?

The more I thought about it, the more my rational brain kicked in and dissected what I had seen. I was tired, I reasoned to myself. A few hours of sleep, a hectic night before, and a little too much alcohol.

Look at the mirror again, I thought to myself. See? Nothing. You’re tired, and the shadows looked like they were moving. You’ve had sleep paralysis before, it always looked so real. But that’s all it was. You remembered eyes in the alleyway. It freaked you out. That’s all.

That’s all it took for my mind to pick apart the unknown and demand an explanation. To reassure me with the only realistic cause—not shadow people or spectres, but sheer exhaustion and mind tricks. The monster had a name, and it was “you’re just tired”.

Happy to accept the logical post-mortem results of my night terrors if it meant getting back to sleep, my leaden legs bent down to the ground, my exhaustion winning out over my childish fear of shadows for now.

I closed my eyes and ignored the cinderglow eyes that plagued my imagination as I drifted off into a restless sleep I feared would now bring nightmares.