“Can you describe your dream, Suraj?” Kiranmai, my psychiatrist, asked softly, her eyes holding a calm, steady gaze.

“Yeah,” I replied, my voice unsteady. I swallowed, feeling my throat tighten, as if the words were too heavy to let go. I looked down at my hands, watching them shake. “I mean… it felt real.”

“Go ahead. I’m here to listen.”

As the memory stirred, I found myself back in my house, alone, in the dead of night. Rain battered against the windows, and thunder rumbled above, filling the silence with unease. The power was out, and shadows lingered in every corner of the room. I’d felt an intense thirst that night, one that gnawed at me until I couldn’t ignore it any longer. But a deeper fear gripped me, one that kept me glued to my bed.

I told Kiranmai everything. “I needed water,” I said, struggling to find words for the dread that settled over me as I remembered. “So I took my flashlight and crept down to the kitchen. I was moving slowly, every step just… careful.”

A flash of lightning lit up the room, followed by a boom of thunder so loud that it seemed to shake the house. In its wake, the silence felt deeper, almost suffocating. I turned on the flashlight and swept it across the walls, half expecting something to leap out. But there was nothing.

I reached the kitchen, found a glass, and poured water from the jug, savoring the cool relief as I drank. But just as I was about to put the glass down, there was a loud knock at the window.

I froze. Slowly, my gaze shifted to the window across the kitchen. A figure stood there—a tall, shadowy silhouette with broad shoulders, his face lost in darkness.

My heart drummed in my chest, and my skin prickled. “Who…who’s there?” I whispered to myself, more afraid than I’d ever been in my life. Then the figure stepped forward, his face still hidden, and spoke in a low, raspy voice.

“Please open the door.”

The words echoed in my head as I recounted them to Kiranmai. I couldn’t stop my hands from trembling as I spoke.

“And then?” she asked, almost as if the story entertained her.

“That’s it. I can’t remember what happened next.” I shook my head, the rest of that night blurring into an indistinct haze. “I just know… his face. I couldn’t see it. But it was”

“Unsettling?”

“Yes,” I whispered, feeling the fear settle back over me, as tangible as the rain outside her office window.

Kiranmai gave me a small, knowing smile. “Suraj, dreams are just your mind’s way of processing your fears. Nothing more. You’ve been alone for much of your life, and it’s natural for such dreams to surface.” She reached over, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “There’s nothing to worry about. Dreams can’t harm you.”

She dismissed me with those words, but as I left her office, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was wrong.

A few days later, I found myself in the same situation. The storm was back, lightning flashing outside, thunder rumbling in the distance. The streetlights flickered before they went out, plunging the street—and my house—into darkness. I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that I wasn’t thirsty, that I didn’t need to go back downstairs.

But the thirst grew unbearable, scratching at my throat like sandpaper. I squeezed my eyes shut, whispering to myself, “It was just a dream. It was just a dream.”

I took a deep breath, grabbed my flashlight, and, with shaking hands, swung my legs off the bed. This time, each creak of the floorboards seemed amplified, echoing through the empty house. I crept down the stairs, holding my breath, the flashlight casting erratic beams as my hand trembled.

Once in the kitchen, I hurriedly poured water, eager to drink and return to my room. The cool liquid washed down my throat, and I closed my eyes, savoring the relief.

Then I heard it. The knock at the window.

Every nerve in my body froze. I held my breath, willing myself not to look. But I could feel his presence outside the window, a dark figure looming just beyond the glass. This time, I knew he was there, waiting.

Slowly, against my better judgment, I turned and let the flashlight beam trace across the window.

There he stood, impossibly tall, his face still obscured by darkness.

My heart raced. He didn’t move, only stood there, his hand clenched in a fist, tapping the glass. “Please open the door,” he said, his voice like gravel, low and thick with something… unnatural.

I wanted to scream, to flee, but my legs felt rooted to the spot. Then, something unexpected came over me. I wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion, defiance, or some strange kind of courage, but I found myself whispering, “Why?”

“My car broke down. If you could help me push it, I’d appreciate it,” he replied, his voice distorted, both soft and rough, as though from another world.

My body moved as if on autopilot. Against every instinct, I grabbed an umbrella, unlocked the door, and stepped out into the rain. I kept my eyes down, focused on the muddy ground. I didn’t dare look up at him.

Together, we pushed the car, the rain falling harder, blurring my vision. The car engine roared to life, breaking the silence.

“Thank you,” he said, voice calm and almost… pleased. He removed his hood. “Look at me.”

I knew I shouldn’t. My mind screamed at me to keep my eyes down. But, compelled, I glanced up.

A surge of terror flooded my veins as I saw his face—or rather, his lack of one. There were no features, no eyes, no mouth, no nose. Just a smooth, blank, pale surface staring back at me.

“It's not a dream,” he whispered.

My heart stopped. Every inch of me felt frozen, my scream trapped in my throat.

Thrilling Note: This story is inspired by a real-life event, though the events depicted are fictionalized. Suraj’s tale echoes the mysterious case of Charlie Matheson Jr., a child believed to have encountered the infamous “Slender Man.” Authorities never found him, and many suspect he vanished at the hands of this shadowy figure.