I’ve always feared the dark. Not a typical fear, but fear of one thing: a figure. It started as a kid. I’d wake in the night, and in the corner of my room—always there—a shadow. It didn’t move, didn’t do anything, just stood. I’d tell myself it was a trick of the light, and pull my pillow over my head. But each night, it returned. And then it changed. The shadow became clearer. It looked like a person now—tall, hunched. And it moved. Not like a person, just slow shifts, as though testing its form. I still convinced myself it was nothing. But I couldn’t stop looking at it. It felt... wrong. One night, I woke to a sensation—something cold against my leg. I froze. The shadow had moved. It stood close. And then, it reached out. The touch was cold. Too cold. Like ice, but also not solid. My body locked up. I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. The shadow retreated, returning to the corner as if nothing had happened. I couldn’t sleep after that. The next day, I brushed it off as a nightmare. But...