I spent the next few days repairing the door, patching the cracks in the walls, and trying to convince myself that I could rebuild, that the figure’s presence wasn’t something I needed to think about. But denial has its limits.
Even as I worked, I could feel it—a heaviness in the air, a subtle prickling at the back of my neck. The figure didn’t appear, but its presence lingered, like the faint smell of smoke after a fire.
By the fifth night, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Sleep was fleeting, and when it came, it was fractured by strange dreams—visions of the woods, the shattered door, and words that didn’t make sense. Fear isn’t conquered in a single moment. It must be faced again and again.
On the sixth night, the figure returned.
I was sitting in the same spot by the fire when the shadows in the corner began to twist and expand. At first, I thought it was the flicker of the flames, but then the temperature dropped, and I knew.
This time, it didn’t creep toward me. It rose, massive and overwhelming, filling the room with its shifting, chaotic form. Its presence was suffocating, its edges blending into the darkness until it felt like the entire world had been swallowed.
I stood, instinctively clenching my fists, though I knew that physical defiance meant nothing to it. My breath came in shallow gasps as it loomed over me, its faceless void seeming to stare directly into me.
“Fear,” it said, its voice reverberating through the room. “I am always here.”
Its words hit like a blow, but I didn’t back away this time. I forced myself to meet its formless gaze.
“I know,” I said, my voice steady despite the pounding in my chest.
The figure seemed to pause, its shifting form slowing for a moment, as if my response had surprised it.
“I know you’re here,” I continued. “And I know you always will be. But you don’t get to decide who I am.”
The figure reared back, its form growing larger, darker. The shadows stretched toward me, the cold biting at my skin. For a moment, I thought it would consume me, that this would be the end.
But then something shifted and a realisation dawned on me.
I took a step forward.
The shadows faltered, receding slightly. The figure seemed to shrink, its edges losing definition.
“You’re fear,” I said, my voice growing stronger. “You’re the doubt, the hesitation, the voice that tells me I can’t. And you’ll always be there. But that doesn’t mean I have to listen.”
Another step.
The figure’s form wavered, its darkness thinning, its size diminishing.
“You’re not gone,” I said, more to myself than to it. “You’ll never be gone. But I don’t have to fight you. I just have to keep moving.”
The figure let out a low, guttural sound—a mix of frustration and something else. Acceptance, maybe. Its form collapsed inward, folding into itself until it was nothing more than a faint shadow on the wall.
The air in the room felt lighter, but not entirely. I could still feel it there, lurking in the corners, watching, waiting.
I stepped outside into the cold night air. The woods stretched out before me, dark and endless, but for the first time, they didn’t seem threatening. They were just… there.
Fear hadn’t disappeared, but it no longer controlled me.
I looked up at the sky. The faintest hint of dawn was beginning to creep over the horizon, painting the edges of the clouds with a soft, golden light.
There it was, I thought. A brighter day.
And this time, I was ready for it.
