I was about to leave my room when I asked my mother if something was wrong.

“Your grandmother,” she said, “she’s getting old. She says she sees things again. Don’t think too much of it.”

My grandmother, who had never shown a single sign of dementia or delusion, stood frozen, staring down the hallway.

Her face wasn’t fearful — it was tender, almost moved. She kept her gaze fixed on her bedroom doorway, not even glancing at me.

“It’s there,” she whispered softly, “and It wants me to come.”

Then, out of nowhere, a faint ringing began inside my ear — high, sharp, but not painful. I rubbed around it, trying to make it stop, until the sound faded away. What lingered felt like water trapped behind my eardrum. While I watched my mother and grandmother, I realized something strange: ever since I’d stepped out of my room, something deep inside me had been stopping me from turning around.

It wasn’t fear — more like instinct. A quiet warning that said: don’t look.

But I did. Carefully. Using only the corner of my eye, with the slightest turn of my neck, I followed the row of pictures that lined the hallway, leading to my grandmother’s door.

Her bed came into view. Then the nightstand. The TV. The wardrobe. The half-open door.

I was just about to look away when — in one sudden twitch of my neck — I saw it again. The half-open door. The wardrobe. The thing. The bed. The nightstand.

Before I even understood what I’d seen, my mother was already running. My grandmother, old as she was, ran right behind her. And I, terrified but unwilling to stay behind, leapt forward and sprinted after them.

Just before leaving the hallway, I looked back one last time, as if daring myself to see what I shouldn’t. But this time, there was nothing — only a flash of sunlight glinting off the door handle, bright enough to sting my eyes.

Outside, while we waited for Dad, I saw confusion — no, chaos — in my grandmother’s eyes. My mother just said, “I don’t know why I ran. Between your grandma shouting and the look on your faces, I just needed some air.”

That might’ve made sense, if anyone actually ran like that just to get some air.
And besides… I didn’t remember making any kind of face.

Dad arrived soon after, and we went back inside. I checked every room, every shadow — nothing.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying the moment in my mind, trying to recall the shape of the thing. But it wasn’t something I’d seen — it was something I’d felt. Its form was impossible to hold in memory, but I knew it was big. Too big. Bigger than the doorway, bigger than any person should be.

Eventually, I set my phone down and turned off the lights. My eyelids felt like they were made of stone.

I don’t know if this has ever happened to you — when you stare at something long enough that, when you close your eyes, you can still see its negative image.
You need to understand that before I tell you what happened next.

Because when I closed my eyes, I saw it again — a face.

It wasn’t a trick of the dark. It was burned into the inside of my eyes, floating in the vast black space behind them.

I panicked, turned the lights on — nothing. Turned them off — it was there again.

I must’ve spent ten minutes flicking the light switch on and off, until I finally understood.

I couldn’t stop seeing it.

It was etched into my retina, like a slide, or the ghost of a photograph burned into film. The face was blurry, but the features — the feeling of them — were unmistakable.

It’s been two years since that night. My grandmother’s fine. She never spoke about it again.

But I still see the image.
Whenever there’s a shadow — it’s there.
Whenever the lights go out — it’s there.
When I blink too fast, I catch it between the flashes.

And lately… it’s been getting clearer. Closer.

Now, I don’t recommend this, but — to help you understand — I’ve recreated the image as best I could.
All I ask is that you stare at the red dots for at least thirty seconds. Then look anywhere else, blinking rapidly.

You might notice the face appear, faintly, behind your eyelids. You might see it linger when you blink. And even when you think it’s gone… you’ll feel it watching.

Some people I’ve shown it to say they still see it days later.

I don’t know what that thing was.
But whatever it is — the moment you try to picture it, it stays.
Inside you.