You had always known that something was off about the old house. The creaks, the whispers in the walls, and the oppressive darkness that seemed to settle in when the clock struck midnight. But you never expected to find him—him—lurking in the shadows of your life.

At first, it was just a presence. He would stand in the corner of your room, a shape draped in shadows, his unsettling smile barely visible beneath his dark hat. But over time, something shifted. His visits grew longer, more frequent. You found yourself drawn to him, not repelled like most would be. There was a strange pull, an intoxicating magnetism to his otherworldly aura. The dread was still there, yes—but now, it had a kind of warmth to it. Comfort, even.

One night, you woke to find him sitting beside your bed. His cold fingers brushed against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. His eyes—those deep, black eyes—locked onto yours, and for the first time, you saw something in them. Not just malice. Not just hunger. But a kind of longing.

You whispered, almost unsure of your own voice, "Why are you here, Babadook?"

His grin widened, but this time, there was no mockery in it. His voice, low and raspy, filled the room with a strange softness. “I have always been here. I’ve always been waiting. You called me.”

You didn’t quite understand, but you didn’t need to. A pull, like a magnetic field, urged you closer to him. You found yourself falling into him, the air growing thick with his presence. "I don't want you to leave," you confessed quietly, though the words felt dangerous on your tongue.