Growing up in the mountains, I learned to ignore that prickling sensation of being watched from an early age.

As if attention is consent for the eldritch horrors waiting in the woods for confirmation to consume.

But that unwavering attention never prepared me for this.

Right now, I’d almost prefer the promise that follows acknowledging their presence.

I flinch as the beast begins another bout of its bellowing.

They say being afraid is optional, but I’ve always had more fear than choices.

Until now, I’ve refused to address the portent of dread that began as a nebulous concept, its tendrils now looming ominously overhead with heaving breaths emanating from each shrill cry, sending chills directly down my spine.

Like a siren summoning unsuspecting sailors, long has it demanded my attention, coaxing me closer with the promise that the culmination of anticipation will dissipate into relief after granting it only a moment of my time.

My eyes slide towards the dark surface at my side and the deceptively empty room reflected within.

I know that I’m not alone.

The expectant presence thickens the air, my spine curling under the weight of it.

The walls might as well be incrementally caving in with each roar the creature releases.

I’m clawing at my chest before I’ve consciously considered the action, futilely attempting to catch one of my breaths.

The knowledge that this strangling sensation can only be abaded by succumbing to the very thing that brought it on lessens none of my panic.

Heated and frantic, it burbles to a roiling boil until I’m unable to decide if the wailing is the beasts or mine.

My shaky hand rises before me, boldly reaching for the unfettered reflection.

It lights up in delight at my attention, the reaction bolstering both my resolve and breath as I attempt the action I most dread.

On a staccato exhale, I raise the device.

Horror isn’t fiction with a mind like mine.

Resigned but assured that the suffering will all be over in the moments after my surrender, I answer the phone call.