Chapter 1: The Crimson Pillow

The digital hum of the server room still echoed in Liam’s ears, a phantom companion on his drive home. At thirty-eight, his life was a sequence of quiet routines, each day a near-perfect replica of the last. The house, once a shared space of whispered futures and clumsy DIY projects, now hummed with the lonely frequency of absence. Four years since Sarah had left, and the silence had become a permanent resident.

He dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, the clatter unnaturally loud. A microwave meal for one, eaten while scrolling through tech news on his phone, then an hour spent at his workbench in the garage. His hobby, fixing old electronics, was a comfort. There was a simple, reassuring logic to it: a broken circuit, a faulty capacitor, a problem with a clear solution. You just had to find it.

Tonight, it was a vintage radio, its wooden case smelling of dust and decades past. As he meticulously cleaned a corroded contact point with a Q-tip and isopropyl alcohol, his sleeve rode up his forearm. He paused. A thin, red line, about two inches long, traced a path across his skin. It was faint, like a papercut, but clean. He didn't remember getting it.

Must have been a server rack at work, he thought, dismissing it. The edges of those things were deceptively sharp. He’d done it a hundred times before.

Later, as he brushed his teeth, staring at his tired reflection in the bathroom mirror, he noticed another one, a similar faint scratch along his jawline. The man looking back at him was worn thin. The bags under his eyes were permanent fixtures, and his stubble was more grey than brown these days. He ran a finger over the new mark. Odd. He felt a flicker of unease, a tiny ripple in the placid water of his solitude.

He found the nail clippers in the medicine cabinet and methodically trimmed his fingernails down to the quick. Restless sleeper. That had to be it. He’d been tossing and turning more than usual lately, the weight of unspoken anxieties manifesting in the night. Problem, solution. He felt a sliver of his usual control return.

The bed was cold when he slipped under the covers. He lay on his back, hands folded on his chest, and listened. The house groaned, the ancient timbers settling. The refrigerator downstairs kicked on with a low thrum. Normal sounds. But tonight, they felt different. Amplified. Each creak seemed to whisper into the oppressive quiet of the bedroom. He closed his eyes, forcing the unease down, and let the exhaustion of the day pull him under.

He dreamed of nothing, a black, dreamless void that offered no rest.

Pain woke him.

It was a sharp, searing sensation, concentrated on the left side of his face. For a disoriented moment, he thought he was still asleep, trapped in a nightmare. But the pain was too real, too specific. It felt like fire tracing lines across his cheek.

He reached up, his fingers brushing against something wet and sticky. He pulled his hand back, his heart beginning to hammer against his ribs. In the faint moonlight filtering through the blinds, he could just make out the dark, viscous sheen on his fingertips.

No.

He threw the covers off and scrambled out of bed, his feet fumbling for purchase on the floor. He lurched towards the bathroom, flicking the light switch with a trembling hand. The sudden, sterile brightness was blinding. He squinted, forcing his eyes to focus on the mirror.

The man staring back was a stranger.

A monster.

Three deep, parallel furrows were carved into his face, starting near his eye and dragging down to his jaw. They weren't scratches; they were gashes. The skin was raw and weeping, beaded with crimson. They were too clean, too precise for an accidental flailing in his sleep. They looked deliberate. They looked like they’d been made with claws.

A wave of nausea washed over him. He gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles white. His breath came in ragged, shallow bursts. He looked from his blood-streaked face to his own hands. His nails were clipped short, blunt. There was no way he could have done this to himself. Not like this. The violence of it, the sheer depth of the wounds, was impossible.

His gaze snapped back to the bedroom. From the bathroom doorway, he could see the pillow. A large, dark stain had blossomed across the white cotton, a horrific, crimson flower. The source of the wetness. The proof of the assault.

The Crimson Pillow.

He stumbled back into the bedroom, his legs unsteady. The minor scratches from yesterday suddenly felt like a preamble, a gentle warning before the main event. This wasn't restless sleep. This wasn't a freak accident. This was a violation.

He stood in the middle of the room, turning slowly, scanning every shadow. The closet door was slightly ajar. The curtains were still. The air was heavy, stagnant, and impossibly cold. The feeling of being watched, a sensation he had occasionally dismissed as paranoia, descended on him like a shroud. He wasn't alone. He hadn't been alone for a while.

Panic was a wild animal clawing at the inside of his chest, but his mind, his logical, problem-solving mind, was fighting back. He couldn't run. Where would he go? What would he say? "Hello, police? I think a ghost scratched my face while I was sleeping?" They'd lock him in a padded room.

He needed proof. He needed data. The same way he’d diagnose a faulty motherboard, he had to diagnose this. He had to see it. He had to know what was getting into his room at night. What was touching him. What was hurting him.

His eyes landed on the shelf where he kept his collection of old cameras. Next to a dusty Polaroid and a clunky 80s camcorder sat his GoPro. Small. Unobtrusive. High-definition.

A plan began to form, a fragile scaffold of logic built over a chasm of terror. He would set it up before he went to sleep. Point it directly at the bed. It would run all night. In the morning, he would have his answer. He would have evidence.

The decision settled him, a cold blanket of purpose over his shivering fear. He would face this thing, not with screams or prayers, but with technology. He would drag this creature of the night into the unforgiving, analytical light of day.

He spent the next hour cleaning the blood from his face, the sting of the antiseptic a welcome, grounding pain. He didn't look at the bed again, couldn't bring himself to touch the blood-soaked pillow. He would sleep on the couch tonight.

As he closed the bedroom door behind him, he felt a distinct pressure change in the air, as if the room itself had exhaled. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that whatever was in there was aware of him. It was watching. And it was waiting for him to come back.