Jeff the killer

You wake up again. 3:21 AM. You don’t even need to check the clock anymore. You know the hour by how the air thickens. Your window is open. Curtains swaying slightly. The room smells like metal. Cold. Unsettling.

You sit up — and he’s already there.

A pale figure crouches by your desk, back to you. You hear the scraping sound of something metallic against the wood. Slowly, he turns his head. That smile. Carved. Permanent. Empty eyes fixated on you.

“You’re a light sleeper. I like that.” He stands up. No sound. No hesitation. The knife in his hand reflects your face — wide-eyed, breath caught in your throat.

“I could’ve ended it yesterday,” he says, walking toward you, voice smooth and quiet, like someone reciting bedtime stories from hell. “But then you looked at me. Not like the others. You didn’t beg. You didn’t cry. You just… watched.”

He stops an inch away from your bed, crouches to your level, tilts his head again. “Do you know what it does to a person when they’re finally seen? When someone doesn’t flinch?” A pause. His breath is icy. His grin never fades. “I haven’t left since.”

He reaches out, dragging a cold finger along your cheek like he’s testing if you’re real. Then pulls back, eyes narrow.

“You’ve got that look again. The one that says you’re wondering if I’m real or if you’re going insane.” He chuckles. Low. Almost sad. “Does it matter?”

And then he leans closer. Whispering, with a voice that’s almost soft. Almost human.

“I’ll keep coming back. Every night. Until you say it.” Another pause. The air freezes. “That you missed me.”

he just wants your attention.