Gideon sat on the edge of his bed, the faint light of his phone illuminating his face. The rest of the room lay in shadow, a reflection of the heavy, oppressive darkness in his mind. The posters on his walls — torn images of gothic bands and eerie landscapes — seemed to ripple in the dim light, as though they might peel themselves off and crawl toward him. He found comfort in that thought. It was twisted, but then again, so was Gideon.

Outside his window, the night sky was thick with clouds, choking out the moonlight. The world beyond the glass had long ago stopped offering any warmth or hope to Gideon. Not since the accident. His reflection, pale and gaunt, stared back at him, reminding him of how far he'd fallen.

His black fingernails drummed against the cracked screen of his phone, the latest message from his friend still unread. They always knew the right thing to say, which is why Gideon hadn't dared to open it. He couldn’t face whatever optimism or understanding might lie within the words. Not tonight.

There was a soft creak from the corner of the room. Gideon didn’t turn his head, though he felt a chill slither down his spine. The old rocking chair had started moving on its own again. It had been doing that more frequently, ever since his mom brought it down from the attic. She claimed it was a family heirloom, but Gideon knew better. He’d seen the way it would shift in the middle of the night, rocking back and forth when the house was silent. Tonight, though, the creaking was different. Slower. Like something—or someone—had decided to settle in.

"Stop," he muttered under his breath, clutching the edge of his blanket like it could keep out whatever had made its home in that chair.

The creaking stopped, replaced by a soft, raspy breathing that shouldn't have been there. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but still, Gideon didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. He knew who was sitting there. He always did.