WHEN FEAR COMES KNOCKING

A few days after we moved in, the kids’ rooms were mostly unpacked, their toys and clothes finding new homes in our old homestead. Ted and I, on the other hand, still had box­es stacked in the corners of our bedroom and the living room, filled with everything that wasn’t an immediate necessity.

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It was a quiet Tuesday night. After a simple but satisfying dinner with the family, I stood at the kitchen sink, washing dishes. The rhythmic sound of water running, and the clinking of plates provided a comforting background noise. The kids’ laughter echoed faintly from the living room, mingling with the soft hum of the night outside.

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As I gazed out the window, an eerie stillness settled over the farm. Little did I know, this tranquil evening was about to mark the beginning of an extraordinary and terrifying chapter in our lives.

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The window above the sink overlooked the yard and the barn beyond. The moon was bright that night, casting a silvery glow over the landscape. I was lost in thought, my hands mov­ing automatically as I scrubbed plates and utensils. It was a rare moment of peace in our otherwise chaotic life.

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As I rinsed a plate, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked up quickly and saw a humanoid figure on the roof of the barn. It was dark, tall, and slim, moving with an un­settling grace. Before I could fully process what I was seeing, the figure ran to the back of the barn and seemingly jumped off. It happened so quickly that I wasn’t sure if I had imagined it.

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My first instinct was to assume it was a person on our barn roof. I opened my mouth to call out for Ted, but then I hesitated. The figure had been extremely tall, much taller than any person I knew, and it had moved with an unnatural speed. It hadn’t just run—it had glided across the roof and then jumped off a height of at least 10-12 feet without hesitation. The sight was so bi­zarre and terrifying that my mind struggled to make sense of it.

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I stood there, frozen, staring out into the dark yard. My heart pounded in my chest, and my hands were still in the soapy water. I didn’t know if I should tell Ted. The thought of him go­ing out there in the dark, with no lights on that side of the house yet, filled me with dread. I remained at the sink, unable to move, my eyes fixed on the barn, searching for any sign of the figure.

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The sound of the kids arguing in the living room finally broke my trance. I stepped away from the sink and sat down at the dining table, trying to collect my thoughts. Ted was glued to the TV, oblivious to my distress (and the kids arguing, apparent­ly). I replayed the sighting in my mind over and over, trying to rationalise it. Maybe it was a trick of the light or a shadow cast by the moon. But deep down, I knew I had seen something.

 

Eventually, I went back to the sink to finish the dishes, my movements slow and deliberate. I closed the blinds, not want­ing to see whatever was out there. After finishing, I sat down on the couch next to Ted and mentioned that I thought I saw some­thing on the roof of the barn. He glanced at me, half-interested, and asked if it was a possum or something. I shook my head, trying to find the words to explain.

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“It was more like a human,” I said, “but extremely tall and dressed in dark clothing. It moved so fast.”

Ted laughed softly, dismissing my concerns. “You must have been daydreaming or seeing things,” he said, his attention already back on the TV.

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Frustrated and unsettled, I got up and went into the bath­room to wash my face. The cold water did little to calm my nerves. I went to bed early, but sleep was elusive. I lay there, tossing and turning, my mind racing with thoughts of what I had seen. Every creak and groan of the old house set my nerves on edge.

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The night stretched on, each minute feeling like an hour. I kept replaying the sighting in my mind, trying to understand it. What had I seen? And more importantly, what did it want? Had it been sitting there watching me? A shiver ran down my spine at the thought. If it was just a human, why did seeing it disturb me so deeply?

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I finally drifted off to a restless sleep just before dawn, haunted by dreams of dark, gliding figures and the unsettling sense that our new home held more secrets than we had ever imagined.

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The next morning, I woke up feeling drained. Ted had al­ready left for a truck run, and the kids were getting ready for school. The memory of the previous night’s sighting weighed heavily on me, but I decided to keep it to myself for now. Ted’s reaction had made it clear he wouldn’t take me seriously, and I didn’t want to scare the kids.

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As I went about my day, the unease lingered but I tried to put it to the back of mind, telling myself that it was a trick of the light and I had just been overwhelmed with the move. What the heck else could it be?