Audio PODCAST

It’s 11:57 PM on April 21, 2025, and the air feels thick with something unspoken. Shadows stretch long and jagged across the floor, like fingers clawing at the edges of reality. The clock ticks louder than it should, each second a hammer against the silence. Outside, the wind howls low, a mournful sound that rattles the windows—like something’s trying to get in.

You’re alone, or at least you think you are. The room’s dim, lit only by the sickly glow of your screen, and every creak of the house feels like a whisper you can’t quite catch. Did you lock the door? You’re pretty sure you did, but the thought gnaws at you. There’s a chill creeping up your spine, slow and deliberate, like icy fingertips tracing their way to your neck.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks—sharp, frantic—then stops abruptly. Too abruptly. The silence that follows is heavier than before, pressing down on your chest. You glance at the clock: 11:58. Time’s slipping away, but it feels wrong, like it’s stalling just to mess with you.

There’s a story they tell around here, about nights like this. They say the veil thins out close to midnight, when the world holds its breath. Things slip through—things that don’t belong. You’ve heard the tales: footsteps where no one’s walking, shadows that don’t match their owners, voices calling your name from rooms you swore were empty. Old folks swear they’ve seen it, eyes wide and hands trembling as they recount it over flickering candles.

11:59. The screen flickers, just for a second, and you blink. Did you see something in the reflection? A shape behind you, too vague to be sure, too real to ignore? You turn, heart thudding, but there’s nothing. Just the room, still and dark. The wind picks up again, and this time it carries something—a low, guttural hum that doesn’t sound like wind at all.

Midnight hits. The clock chimes, but it’s off, warped, like it’s underwater. The lights dim, then surge, casting the room in a strobe of light and shadow. And then you hear it: a soft tap-tap-tap, slow and deliberate, coming from the window. You don’t want to look. Every nerve screams not to. But your eyes betray you, sliding toward the glass.

There’s nothing there. Just darkness. Except… is that a smudge on the pane? A handprint, faint and streaked, like someone—or something—pressed against it from the outside. It wasn’t there before. You’re sure of it.

The tapping stops. The silence is worse. And then, from somewhere deep in the house, a floorboard groans. Not near you. Not upstairs. Somewhere else. Somewhere it shouldn’t.

Happy almost-midnight. Sleep tight—if you can.