11/01/2025
The Thing Was Me
For thirty years, I lived with the quiet certainty that I was being watched.
Not by strangers.
By something else.
It began when I moved into my one-bedroom flat.
At night, just as sleep began to take me, I’d hear it—
Footsteps.
Soft. Shuffling.
Drawing closer to my bed.
I’d hide beneath the covers, heart pounding.
But hiding didn’t help.
The visits multiplied.
Sleep became a battleground.
Something—some presence—pressed me into the mattress,
holding me hostage in my own body.
My therapist called it projection.
Said it was hypnagogic hallucinations.
But I knew better.
This thing was real.
And it was getting bolder.
It never spoke.
But I felt it.
Heavy. Watching.
Waiting.
One night, I slipped into a deep sleep.
And again, it came.
I fought to wake, limbs like lead, breath caught in my throat.
That night, I knew:
This wasn’t going away.
I had to face it.
The fear kept me from rest.
I was terrified of surrendering to sleep.
Because that’s when it came.
And lately… it felt sinister.
Then came the final confrontation.
I came home, exhausted.
Washed. Brushed my teeth.
Collapsed into bed.
Sleep took me quickly.
Then—
The footsteps.
Closer.
Closer.
I opened my eyes.
A shadow moved across the room.
It slipped into one of my favourite soft toys.
And I knew: this was it.
No more hiding.
No more fear.
I sat up.
Waited.
It came.
Closer than ever.
Face to face.
Breath on breath.
I could feel its skin.
Its weight.
Its presence.
And then—
I saw it.
Not a monster.
Not a ghost.
Me.
I was staring into my own face.
And just like that—
The footsteps stopped.
They never came again.
Because healing isn’t about banishing your shadows.
It’s about learning to live with them.
Natalie Bleau Author Living Behind The Mask
