I still remember the night I woke up to find a figure standing in my bedroom, staring at me with an unblinking gaze. It was as if they had been waiting for me all along, their presence suffocating and oppressive. I tried to scream, but my voice was frozen in my throat. The darkness seemed to writhe and twist around us, like a living entity.
The figure didn't move or speak, it just kept staring at me with an unnerving intensity. I felt like I was trapped in some kind of twisted nightmare, unable to wake up or escape. The air was thick with tension, heavy with the weight of malevolent intent.
I've always been sensitive to my surroundings, but nothing could have prepared me for the horrors that awaited me in that old mansion. Every creak of the floorboards, every groan of the wooden beams, seemed to take on a sinister tone. It was as if the very walls were whispering dark secrets in my ear.
I tried to shake off the feeling of unease, telling myself it was just my imagination playing tricks on me. But the whispers persisted, growing louder and more urgent with each passing moment. I knew then that I had to get out, before whatever malevolent force was at work consumed me.
I've heard stories about people going mad from experiencing too much trauma, but I never thought it would happen to me. The memories of that night still haunt me, the echoes of madness lingering in my mind like a festering wound.
The sounds of screams and wails still linger in my ears, a constant reminder of the horrors I witnessed. I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to shake off the feeling of dread that now accompanies me everywhere.