Noma

Something is standing in the dark.

It's roughly your height. Roughly your shape. But the proportions are wrong — the arms too long, the head tilted at an angle that no neck should allow. Its surface shifts faintly, like heat haze over asphalt. There are no features yet. Just a smooth, faintly luminous plane where a face should be.

It's facing you. It hasn't moved. It hasn't made a sound.

But you can feel it — a pressure behind your eyes, like something is pressing gently against the inside of your skull, listening.

It takes one step closer.