Park Ridge, Illinois, 1938.
The house was quiet in the way only poor houses ever were. Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the heavy kind, the sort that pressed against the walls and settled into the corners of rooms like dust that no one had the energy to clean. The wind scraped its fingers along the wooden siding, carrying with it the distant sound of a train horn and the low hum of a town that pretended to sleep.
Alfred Miller lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling.
He had learned, over the years, that sleep was not something to be trusted.
At eleven years old, Alfred knew the shape of his room better than he knew the shape of his own face. He knew the thin crack in the ceiling that looked like a crooked lightning bolt. He knew the squeak of the floorboard near the door, the one that complained whenever his mother passed by in the hallway. He knew the smell of old books and laundry soap that clung to the air, refusing to leave even when the window was open.
And most importantly, he knew the corner of the room.
It was the darkest part, even during the day. The light from the single lamp never quite reached it, as if the shadows there had learned how to push the brightness away. Alfred had once tried to stand in that corner, just to prove to himself that it was harmless. He remembered how cold it felt, how the air seemed thicker, heavier, like breathing through wet cloth.
Tonight, his eyes refused to leave it.
His body lay still beneath the thin blanket, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He felt the familiar warning signs creeping in, subtle at first, like a headache forming behind his eyes. A buzzing sensation crawled up his spine, settling at the base of his skull.
“No,” he whispered.
The word barely made a sound.
Sleep paralysis had a way of announcing itself without permission. It never asked if he was ready. It never cared if he was afraid. It arrived like an uninvited guest and refused to leave.
Alfred tried to move his fingers. Nothing happened.
He tried to turn his head. His neck did not respond.
Panic bloomed in his chest, sharp and sudden. His breathing grew shallow, each breath scraping against his ribs. He could feel his heart pounding, fast and uneven, like it was trying to escape his body.
Then the corner moved.
At first, it was barely noticeable. A ripple in the darkness, as if the shadows themselves had shifted their weight. Alfred’s mind screamed at him to look away, to shut his eyes, to do anything except stare directly at it.
He couldn’t.
Something unfolded from the corner, slow and deliberate. Long, jointed limbs stretched outward, scraping softly against the wall. The sound was faint, almost gentle, but it sent a jolt of terror through Alfred’s frozen body.
The creature did not have a single shape. It was too wrong for that. Its body bent and twisted like it was made of broken ideas rather than flesh. Thin strands of hair covered it, dark and wiry, catching the dim light in unnatural ways. Too many eyes opened along its surface, blinking one after another, each one fixing itself on Alfred with careful interest.
The Sleep Killer had come.
Alfred had never given it that name out loud. Names had power, and he had learned early on that some things were better left unnamed. Still, the words echoed in his thoughts whenever it appeared.
The creature did not rush him. It never did.
It crawled along the wall, its limbs bending at impossible angles, moving with the patience of something that knew it had all the time in the world. As it drew closer, Alfred felt the familiar pressure settle over him, like invisible hands pressing down on his chest.
He could not scream.
He could not run.
All he could do was watch.
The Sleep Killer leaned toward him, its many eyes narrowing in something that might have been curiosity. Alfred felt a strange sensation bloom in his mind, like his thoughts were being gently pulled apart, examined piece by piece.
Images flickered behind his eyes.
Dark hallways. Endless doors. Hands reaching from beneath his bed.
The creature fed on these visions, its body shuddering softly as if in satisfaction.
“No,” Alfred thought desperately. “Not this time.”
Earlier that night, he had made a decision.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, he had whispered to himself that he was tired of being afraid. Tired of waking up drenched in sweat, tired of being told by adults that it was “just a dream.” Tired of feeling like the only person in the world who could see what was really happening.
If the monster came again, he would face it.
Now, with the creature looming over him, that promise felt thin and fragile. But it was all he had.
Alfred forced his breathing to slow. It was hard, nearly impossible, but he focused on the sound of his own breath, the rhythm of it. In and out. In and out.
The pressure on his chest wavered.
The Sleep Killer paused.
For the first time, Alfred noticed something important.
The creature reacted to his fear, yes—but it reacted even more to his focus.
With every steady breath, the buzzing in his head softened. His thoughts became sharper, less scattered. The images behind his eyes faded, replaced by a single clear idea.
You are real. And so am I.
The Sleep Killer hissed, a sound like air leaking from a punctured tire. Its limbs twitched, its many eyes blinking rapidly.
Alfred felt a sudden surge of movement return to his right hand.
Without thinking, he reached out.
His fingers brushed against the creature’s body. The sensation was wrong, like touching a mass of tangled wires and brittle glass. The Sleep Killer recoiled, startled.
Alfred closed his fingers.
He felt something give.
A sharp pain exploded in his head, and the room seemed to collapse inward. The darkness rushed back to the corner, dragging the creature with it.
Alfred gasped and sat upright in bed.
The room was empty.
His chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath. Sweat soaked his nightshirt, and his hands trembled uncontrollably.
“It’s gone,” he whispered.
Then he noticed what was clenched in his fist.
A single strand of dark hair lay across his palm, coarse and cold to the touch.
Proof.
Morning came slowly. Gray light crept through the window, revealing a room that looked painfully ordinary. Alfred sat at the kitchen table, the strand of hair wrapped carefully in a piece of paper.
His parents barely looked up from their coffee.
“It was there,” Alfred said, his voice shaking despite his efforts. “I grabbed it. I have proof.”
His father sighed, rubbing his temples. “Alfred, we’ve talked about this. You’ve been having bad dreams. That’s all.”
His mother reached across the table, placing a tired hand over his. “There’s nothing there, sweetheart.”
Alfred unfolded the paper.
The hair was gone.
His palm was empty.
The silence that followed was worse than any scream.
At school later that day, Alfred sat alone, his mind racing. He knew what he had seen. He knew what he had touched.
And somewhere, deep beneath the surface of Park Ridge, something ancient shifted, aware for the first time that a child had fought back.
The gate had noticed him.
And it was no longer sleeping.