Do Not Read This

Do not read this.

I have to write this, but you don’t have to read it.  You can turn back now, while you’re still safe and ignorant.

It started with a dream about her – that’s how she got in I think.  I started thinking about her, and the more I thought about her, the closer she got. 

Now it’s like an itch that has to be scratched, a compulsion that I can’t control.  I have to think about her – I have to write about her.  I have to get others to know about her. 

I can hear her whisper in my ear sometimes, she’s calling my name, and I can see her when I close my eyes and when I fall asleep.  She’s getting closer.

She knocks at my door and scratches at the walls when I’m asleep.  I can hear her drawing nearer every night by the squeak of the floorboards and the chill in the air.

I can feel her standing behind me, watching me even as I write this and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I’m afraid to look in the mirror or even into the reflection of the computer screen in front of me, because I know I won’t be alone.

Teresa is always there.

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