It began as something Claire barely noticed. The first night, she thought it was nothing. Mark had never talked in his sleep before, but people develop strange habits over time. Stress, maybe. She was scrolling through her phone in bed when she heard him murmur, “No. Not yet.”
She glanced over at him. Mark was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of deep rest. She smiled to herself and went back to scrolling.
The second night was different. Claire was half-asleep, drifting on the edge of dreams, when Mark spoke again. His voice, low and steady, said, “They’ll notice soon.” She froze, blinking into the darkness.
“Mark?” she whispered, but he didn’t respond. He lay still, his breathing even. Then he spoke again, this time quieter, but with the same deliberate tone. “They’re always watching. Waiting for someone to slip.”
Claire leaned over and shook his shoulder gently. “Mark, wake up. You’re dreaming.”
But Mark didn’t wake. His face was serene, and his lips curved into a faint, unsettling smile as he said, “Don’t let them see you.” Claire pulled back, her pulse quickening. She stared at him, waiting for more, but the room went silent again.
In the morning, she mentioned it at breakfast. “You were talking in your sleep again,” she said, her voice light. She didn’t want to sound too alarmed.
Mark shrugged. “That’s weird. I don’t do that.”
“You were saying some strange things.”
He looked at her, amused. “What kind of things?”
“Something about someone watching. It didn’t make any sense.”
“Probably just a dream,” he said, brushing it off. “You know how work’s been lately. Stress can do weird things.”
Claire nodded, though the memory of his words lingered in her mind. She tried to forget about it, to convince herself it didn’t mean anything.
As the week went on, Mark’s sleep-talking became a nightly event. At first, it was just fragments, words that could have meant anything: “Not yet,” or, “It’s under there.” But soon, the phrases became sharper, stranger. One night, he murmured, “Don’t open it. If you touch it, it’ll know.” Another night, it was, “They’re in the walls. They know you’re listening.”
The worst was when he said her name.
“Claire,” he whispered in the dark. “They’re watching you now.”
Her blood ran cold. She turned to him, shaking him awake. He groaned and opened his eyes, bleary and confused.
“You said my name,” she said, her voice shaking. “You were talking in your sleep again.”
“So? People talk in their sleep.” “Not like this,” she insisted. “You keep saying these… creepy things.”
Mark frowned. “It’s just dreams, Claire. You’re overthinking it.”
But Claire couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. She started staying up later, trying to catch the exact moment when he began talking. Each night, his words became more detailed, more unsettling. He spoke of things that made no sense—places they’d never been, people she didn’t know. And always, always, there was a warning.
“It’s getting closer,” he said one night. “You shouldn’t have listened.”
By the second week, Claire noticed other things. Mark began acting differently, even when he was awake. He’d zone out mid-conversation, staring at nothing. Sometimes, he’d hum a strange tune under his breath, one she didn’t recognize. He seemed… distant, like a different person wearing his face.
The noises started shortly after. At first, they were faint: the soft creak of floorboards, the distant sound of footsteps in the hallway. She dismissed them as the house settling. But as the nights went on, the sounds grew louder, more deliberate.
One night, while Claire lay in the guest room trying to sleep, she heard Mark’s voice drifting down the hall. “They’re here now,” he said.
Her heart raced. She sat up, clutching the blanket. The sound came again, clear and deliberate.
“They’re waiting for you.”
Claire crept toward the bedroom, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. The hall was dark, the kind of dark that felt heavy, alive. As she reached the door, she saw Mark standing by the window.
“Mark?” she whispered.
He didn’t turn around. His shoulders were hunched, his head tilted at an unnatural angle.
“Mark, what are you doing?”
Slowly, he turned to face her. His eyes were open, but they weren’t his eyes. They were blank, like something else was looking out from behind them. His lips curled into a faint smile.
“You shouldn’t have listened,” he said, his voice hollow and strange. Before she could move, the lights flickered and went out.
The next morning, the neighbors called the police when they noticed the front door standing wide open.
Inside, the house was empty. Mark’s phone was still on the kitchen table, Claire’s keys hanging neatly by the door. But neither of them was there.
In the bedroom, scrawled across the walls in jagged black letters, were the words:
“DON’T LISTEN.”