Chapter 3: The Watcher in the Dark

Chapter 3: The Watcher in the Dark

Sleep was no longer a refuge; it was a battlefield. Every night since discovering the impression on the couch, Clarice had waged a losing war against her own mind. She lay in bed, rigid, her body buzzing with a caffeine-free, terror-fueled alertness. The couch loomed in the darkness, a silent monument to her fear. She had thrown a blanket over it, as if hiding the shape would negate its meaning, but she could still see it in her mind’s eye: a permanent void shaped like a seated man.

She told herself she was being irrational. It was an old couch. That’s all. The confrontation over the TV volume had just put her on edge. André was a deeply strange man, but strange didn't mean dangerous. He was a creature of routine, a human machine. His programming was rigid. 10 p.m., his door closed. He wouldn't deviate. He couldn't.

But her body wouldn't listen to her logic. Her desire for her fears to be unfounded was a desperate, childish wish. Every creak of the old house was his footstep. Every whisper of wind against the window was his breath. The silence was the worst part—a deep, listening void that seemed to press in from all sides.

Tonight, she tried a new tactic. A pathetic, flimsy attempt to regain control. She propped a heavy art history textbook against the base of her bedroom door. If the door opened even an inch, the book would slide and thud against the hardwood floor. It was a ridiculous, makeshift alarm, but it was all she had. With that small measure of security, exhaustion finally dragged her under.

Her sleep was a shallow, grey sea of anxiety. She dreamt of clocks with no hands and hallways that stretched into infinity.

Then, a subtle shift. A change in the air pressure of the room. A stillness that was somehow more profound than the silence before. It was the primal feeling of being watched, a current that ran deeper than hearing or sight. Her eyes snapped open.

And her heart stopped.

He was there.

Silhouetted by the pale moonlight filtering through her window, a figure sat perfectly upright on the small couch. It was André. He was wearing his suit, the fabric a flat, dark grey in the dim light. His hands were resting on his knees, palms down, in a pose of perfect, unnatural stillness. He was a statue carved from nightmares.

His head was angled directly towards her. She couldn’t make out the details of his face, only the pale oval of it and the dark voids where his eyes should be. But she knew he was staring. She could feel the weight of his unblinking gaze. He wasn’t breathing heavily. He wasn't moving. He was just… observing.

A scream clawed its way up Clarice’s throat, but it died as a strangled gasp. She was paralyzed, pinned to the mattress by a terror so absolute it felt like a physical weight. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of it. The book. The textbook was still leaning against the door, undisturbed. How had he gotten in? Had he been in here the whole time? Had he unlocked it? Picked the lock?

The questions were useless. They scattered like ashes in the face of the horrifying reality sitting less than ten feet away. He was in her room. Her sanctuary. He was watching her sleep. The impression on the couch wasn't from a past tenant. It was his.

She forced herself to remain still, to match his silence with her own. She feigned sleep, her breathing a ragged, desperate imitation of rest. Her eyes were slitted open, just enough to watch him. She couldn’t run. She couldn’t scream. Any sudden movement felt like it would shatter the fragile, terrifying truce of the moment and invite an unknown horror. So she watched him back.

The minutes stretched into an eternity. The moon crept across the sky, its light tracing a slow path across her floor. Her muscles ached with the effort of staying still. Her bladder screamed. Still, he didn't move. He was a machine set to ‘observe’ mode.

She risked a glance at her phone on the nightstand. The screen glowed to life for a second. 2:57 a.m.

She watched the clock, the digital numbers becoming her only anchor to a sane world.

2:58. 2:59. 3:00 a.m.

At the exact second the numbers changed, he moved. It was a single, fluid motion. He rose from the couch without a sound, stood for a moment longer looking down at her, and then turned. He walked to her door, his steps utterly silent on the floorboards. He didn't touch the doorknob. The door swung open before him as if oiled and unlocked, and closed with a soft, barely audible click. The textbook slid a half-inch with a faint scrape, a sound that felt like a mocking whisper.

Clarice didn't move until the first grey light of dawn touched her window. She was drenched in a cold sweat, shivering uncontrollably. The vigil was over. The nightly vigils had begun.

The next day was a blur of hollow-eyed panic. She called in sick to work. She couldn't leave the house—the idea of coming back to it was too terrifying. She couldn’t stay—the idea of night falling was even worse. She felt trapped, a specimen in a jar.

By evening, a new resolve had hardened within her. Rage, cold and sharp, cut through the fog of her fear. This was her room. She was paying for it. She would not be terrorized out of it. She would not be his exhibit.

Her action was simple, defiant. She would lock him out.

At 9:50 p.m., she jammed her desk chair under the doorknob, wedging it tight. She pushed her small dresser in front of the chair. Then she stood before the door and turned the flimsy lock. The click echoed in the silent room, a declaration of war. She crawled into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin, her eyes fixed on the barricaded door.

She waited. The house was silent. 10:00 p.m. passed. Then 10:15. Nothing. Maybe he understood. Maybe the locked door was a boundary he would respect. A sliver of hope, fragile as glass, began to form in her chest.

Then she heard it.

Squeak.

It was the sound of the old brass doorknob, turning slowly. A methodical, unhurried rotation to its absolute limit. A pause. Then it slowly turned back.

Clarice’s breath hitched. Her blood turned to ice.

A minute of silence passed.

Squeak.

Again. The knob turned, slow and deliberate. It hit the limit of its rotation, held there by the lock. Then it released.

He was testing it.

Over and over. There was no rattling, no frustrated shoving. Just the calm, patient, rhythmic turning of the handle. A metallic sigh in the dark. A question asked again and again. Are you still in there? Can I come in yet?

It was the sound of a predator testing the bars of a cage, not with frantic force, but with the cold, calculating patience of a thing that has all the time in the world. He knew she was in there. He knew she was listening. This was no longer just about watching her. It was about making sure she knew she was being watched.

The sound continued, a maddening, terrifying metronome marking the seconds of her imprisonment. And Clarice lay in the dark, wide awake, listening to the sound of the handle being tested, again, and again, and again.