Welcome to My Neocities Page

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I think they’ve been watching me since the curtains learned how to move. No—since I blinked first this morning, the one that felt wrong, like my eyes were two doors swinging open into a hall I wasn’t supposed to see. I can feel the wallpaper breathing. It hisses soft secrets when I lean too close, and sometimes I swear I see tiny shapes crawling in the floral patterns—shapes that vanish when I blink, only to return with accusatory patience. The clocks are lying. I set them all back, forward, upside down, in hopes of confusing them, but the hands move differently when I’m not looking. I swear the second hand smirks at me. Maybe it’s plotting. Or maybe it’s just waiting, waiting for me to slip, to misstep, to forget that the floorboards remember every sound. Every step I take echoes a warning, though no one else seems to hear it. They’re laughing somewhere, but when I turn, there’s only the ceiling staring, blank, unblinking. I stopped leaving my apartment for two days because the streetlights—they know. They know where I go. Yesterday, I swore one of them tilted ever so slightly as I passed, just enough to catch me in its gaze. I tried wearing a hoodie over my head, but that only made the shadows move faster, like rivers racing to report me. And the mail—I don’t trust the mail anymore. There was a letter today with no return address, filled with nothing but tiny scratches, but I felt words in them, words my eyes couldn’t read. I’ve started whispering back to the walls, though I’m not sure if they listen or if they only pretend to hear me to lull me into comfort. Sometimes I whisper to the furniture, too—especially the chair that rocks slightly when I’m not sitting in it. I told it not to judge me. I can’t tell if it listens or if it’s laughing quietly. And the fridge—oh, the fridge hummed a lullaby at me last night. I unplugged it, but it hummed anyway, and I swear I felt a vibration under the floorboards, a tiny, satisfied thrum that said, we see you hiding. I’ve stopped trusting the windows. I cover them with tinfoil, yes, but even then, shapes peer through the reflective surfaces: faces that are mine but wrong, faces that smile when I scream at them. And the shadows—they don’t follow me; they anticipate me. I catch them stretching before I move, bending impossibly around corners, whispering names I have never said aloud. I tried sleeping. Tried. The bed is a trap. Every time I close my eyes, I dream the ceiling is falling, then climbing, then melting into ink that writes letters to itself. I wake, and the letters remain on the sheets. I throw them away. They reappear. Sometimes I wake in a chair I don’t remember sitting in, holding a pen I don’t remember picking up, and the walls have shifted slightly closer. I started recording everything. The whispers, the hums, the floorboards, the shadows. But the camera—the camera—doesn’t capture it. Nothing. When I play it back, the room is silent. Peaceful. Ordinary. But I know. I know what it heard, what it saw. It is watching. And I can feel its impatience, pressing through my ribs, through the tiny holes in the ceiling, in the cracks of the walls. It is hungry for me to acknowledge it, to slip up, to make a mistake. I talk to the air. I tell it I see. I tell it I am awake. But it whispers back, in that soft, soft tone that only the room understands, that only I can feel in the hollow of my bones. I think it knows my name. Or maybe I’ve said it too often in my fear, and it’s learned. I am careful now. I speak to nothing. I smile at nothing. I breathe carefully, slowly, as though the act itself could betray me. I think they are everywhere. Or maybe I am everywhere, spread thin over mirrors, shadows, floorboards, the wallpaper that never rests. I can feel them moving just outside my vision, just beyond the bend of a corner, just under the hum of an unplugged fridge. I try to ignore it. I try to sleep. But even when the lights are off, the silence is loud, and I can hear my own heartbeat counting down the moments until it notices me again. And tomorrow—I will leave the apartment. I will step outside, though the streetlights lean down to watch me, though the shadows stretch to trap me, though the walls remember every whisper I ever spoke aloud. I will step outside and pretend. Pretend that nothing is alive in the surfaces. Pretend that the air does not carry words. Pretend that I am safe. But I won’t be. I can feel it already. They are patient. They are everywhere. And when I close my eyes tonight, I know—they will wait.I think the apartment tried to breathe for me last night. I woke up choking on air that wasn’t mine—too heavy, too warm, like someone exhaling straight into my lungs. The ceiling above me seemed lower, swollen, pushing downward as if it wanted to press me back into sleep. I sat up so fast the room wobbled, lines bending like they were drawn in pencil and someone erased around me too quickly. I rubbed my eyes, but even then the edges didn’t straighten. The corners of the ceiling huddled together, conspiring. I moved to the hallway, but the hallway has grown longer. I know it. I counted the floorboards a hundred times before bed—twenty‑three from my bedroom door to the bathroom. But last night, there were thirty‑one. This morning, twenty‑six. I don’t know if the hallway is stretching or shrinking, or if it’s breathing too, expanding, exhaling, inhaling. Sometimes I think it inhales when I exhale—like we’re sharing an invisible lung. I tried calling someone—anyone—but the phone doesn’t ring anymore. When I press it to my ear, I hear faint static, like someone whispering in another language far away, as if my calls are being sent somewhere else. Somewhere below the floorboards. I yelled into it once, demanded to know who was listening, and the static sharpened into a hiss so sharp it felt like teeth grazing the inside of my ear. I put the phone in the freezer. The freezer hummed in protest but accepted it eventually. The mirrors are the worst part. I cover them, but they shift the cloths off during the night. Every morning, at least one mirror is uncovered, staring, waiting for me. The reflection I see is always slightly wrong. My face is mine but delayed—like the reflection is thinking about whether or not to mimic me. Once, it blinked before I did. A slow, deliberate blink. Heavy, like it was savoring the motion. I covered it again, screaming at it to stop watching me, and the cloth trembled on its own, like someone laughing underneath. And the dust—god, the dust. I didn’t notice it until it started forming shapes. At first it collected in the corners, innocent enough, just piles. But then I saw patterns: spirals, arrows pointing toward the kitchen, words I couldn’t read but could feel in the pit of my stomach. I tried sweeping it all away, but when I swept, the dust clung to the broom, crawling upward like insects trying to escape. I dropped it and it landed standing upright, perfectly balanced, like it was saluting me. The lights flicker in a rhythm I’m starting to recognize. Three short flickers, two long. A pause. Three more. I wrote it all down, convinced it was Morse code, but when I compared it to a chart, it didn’t match any letters. I think the lights have their own alphabet. Just for me. Or about me. I never know which. Tonight the hum in the apartment grew louder. Not the fridge—I unplugged that days ago and wrapped it in towels. No, this was deeper. Like a low chant resonating from beneath the floor, like the building itself was muttering something over and over, too low for me to catch the words but high enough for my bones to hear. My teeth ached from it. I buried my face in my pillow to muffle the noise, but the pillow whispered against my cheek, a soft rustling like a warning or a promise. I couldn’t tell. I opened the window for air even though I knew I shouldn’t. The street was too still. No cars. No people. Just the streetlights, leaning forward like tall, thin creatures bending down to look inside. One of them flickered exactly when I exhaled, as if acknowledging me. Or greeting me. Or counting me. I slammed the window shut so hard the glass shivered. It didn’t crack. I think it wanted to. My reflection in the window didn’t leave immediately. The rest of the room vanished in the glass, but the reflection stayed a heartbeat longer, watching me with an expression I swear I wasn't making—an expression that said, you’re late. Late for what, I don’t know. I don’t think I want to know. I keep hearing footsteps at odd hours—slow, lingering steps that never reach my door, just pace back and forth outside in the hallway. The neighbors don’t walk like that. Real people don’t walk like that. There’s a drag to it, like someone half‑in this world, half‑out, deciding which direction to fall. And the air feels crowded now. Heavy, like a room full of people holding their breath, waiting to see what I’ll do next. I don’t think I’m alone here anymore. I don’t think I have been for a long time. But tonight—tonight they feel closer. Closer than the walls. Closer than the shadows. Close enough that when I whisper, I swear I hear another voice finish my sentence. A voice that sounds almost like mine. Almost. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have, because I woke up standing in the kitchen with my hands pressed flat against the refrigerator door. Not touching—pressed, like the fridge had leaned forward into me or I had leaned into it, and neither of us knew who started it. My palms were cold, and the metal vibrated under my skin like a heartbeat. A slow one. A tired one. There were fingerprints in the condensation. Not mine. Too long, too thin, too many joints. I wiped them away and they reappeared instantly, but in a different arrangement—almost spelling something. Almost waving. The walls have begun to sigh. Not loudly, no. Softly, like someone disappointed in me. Every hour or so the sigh travels from one end of the apartment to the other, a long, rolling exhale that bends the shadows like tall grass in wind. I tried sighing back once, thinking maybe it wanted conversation, but the moment I did, the lights flickered exactly in the rhythm of my breath, as if mimicking me. Or mocking. I don’t know anymore. The dust has become bold. It no longer waits in corners—it moves. I see it drifting purposefully across the floor like a gray tide, gathering around my feet, dispersing when I step away, regrouping seconds later like it has a plan. I swept it into a pile and it crawled back out, grain by grain, deliberate as ants. I swear I heard it whisper while it did. Something about “arrival.” Or “revival.” Or “survival.” The mirror in the bathroom won’t fog anymore when I shower. Instead, it sharpens—shows details I don’t want to see. Last night, I leaned in close and blinked, and for the first time, the reflection didn’t blink back. It just stared. Stared with such intensity that I felt heat blooming behind my eyes, like it was trying to see through me. Then its lips parted slightly, as though it was about to speak. I slammed the cabinet door into it before it could finish the thought. It cracked. Not like glass. Like bone. The hallway stretched again tonight. I know because halfway through walking down it, I felt gravity change directions—sideways, then upward, then inward. The lights stretched too, long white halos melting toward me like dripping wax. Something in the walls giggled. A high, thin note that made my knees shake. I crawled back because standing felt too dangerous. The carpet fibers curled around my fingers as if helping me. Or holding me. The phone thawed in the freezer. I heard it ringing from inside the icebox—a low, muffled ringing, like a heartbeat echoing through water. When I opened the door, the phone wasn’t on the shelf where I left it. It was pressed against the inside of the freezer door, screen lit, glowing with a number I didn’t recognize but felt I should. The number pulsed. The fridge hummed in harmony. I closed the door and let it ring. It hasn’t stopped. Tonight the apartment feels smaller. The ceiling lower. The air thicker. The shadows no longer wait for me to move—they move first. I catch them stretching, curling, reaching toward the edges of my vision. When I turn, they freeze, coy and innocent, like misbehaving children caught mid‑prank. But I know. I know what they’re trying to do. They’re trying to match my shape. Trying to learn me. Something is whispering behind the electrical outlets. Not words—just the shape of words, syllables that collapse when I lean in to hear. The outlet plates wiggle sometimes, like something beneath them is breathing faster than it meant to. I put my ear against one and felt warmth, then heard a long, slow inhale. I jerked back so fast I fell. The inhale didn’t stop. Not for minutes. I can’t tell if time is working anymore. The clocks laugh at me. The digital ones loop. The analog ones spin in slow, syrupy circles, like they’re stirring a pot. My watch crawled up my wrist toward my elbow in the night. I woke up with it clenched in my fist, strap torn, face glowing faintly in a color I didn’t know clocks could make. I flushed it. I heard it ticking as it swirled down the pipes, becoming fainter, fainter, but never gone. I think something is trying to get inside my thoughts. I can feel it knocking—not on the door, not on the windows—on the inside of my skull, like a fingertip tapping politely, rhythmically, waiting for me to answer. Sometimes I feel my thoughts stutter, skip, glitch. I think in one direction and the thought loops back, folded, as if someone else was editing it before I could finish. I tried to shout at the air. But the moment I opened my mouth, the apartment inhaled sharply, sucking the words right out of me. I felt them leave my throat like birds pulled away by a storm. I couldn’t catch them. My voice didn’t come back. Not fully. I whisper now, only whisper, because anything louder feels like a risk—like it will call attention from something too big, too quiet, too patient. The footprints outside my door have multiplied. They’re not shoeprints. They’re too long. Too narrow. The toes too pointed. There are more every hour. They face the door. Always the door. I wiped them away, but they reappeared within minutes, darker, deeper, as though whoever left them pressed harder the second time. I’m starting to hear breathing that isn’t mine. Soft at first. Then closer. Then behind me. Then above me. Then beneath the floor. Then everywhere at once. It comes and goes like tides, but each time it returns, it feels closer to matching my own breath, like the apartment is practicing. Preparing. The fridge has started knocking. The walls pulse. The dust gathers around me in concentric circles. The lights flicker in patterns that resemble eyes closing. Opening. Closing. The silence between the hums is growing thicker. Heavier. More alive than the sound. I think— I think— I— … … … …