At the Threshold, He Waits

An expanded members-only version of this story is available here: Cato at the Threshold

It wasn’t sleep paralysis. Because I know what that's really like—your body pinned, your mind wide awake, and the horrifying weight of something sitting on your chest while you try to scream and nothing comes out.

It’s also happened more than once so that’s how I know it’s real.

I even ruled out the possibilities of it being a dream or a pesky cortisol spike and I don't even stay up late scrolling on my phone anymore.

The first time, I told myself I forgot to lock the door. The second time, I started paying more attention.

By the third instance, I started recording it—my hand turning the lock, the click, the handle not moving.

Proof that everything made sense in that moment.

There's something about waking up to an unlocked door, night after night that does something to you.

It makes you question the part of yourself that’s supposed to keep you safe.

Now I lock that damn door every night. I stand there for a few seconds after, hand still on the knob, dropping a prayer like I’m sealing something out.

Or in.

I’m not sure which one anymore.

And since I started doing that…

he hasn’t come inside.

I didn’t see him clearly at first. He was a towering presence that stood where the hallway met my room, where the light never quite reached.

The realization came slowly over time and in pieces.

The way he never made a sound walking in and the way the room held a different energy before I ever saw him.

The way my body reacted before my brain caught up—heart slowing instead of racing, like something in me recognized him before I did.

And the way he only ever appeared when the door was unlocked.

I've never caught him breaking in or forcing anything. Just… crossing the threshold when he was allowed.

But even then, I stopped leaving it to chance, so I lock the door every night.

And now he stands in the hallway.

I’ve seen more of him lately, only past midnight.

There was an odd thought I considered, that if he stepped into the light, I would recognize his face.

But I don't think the light favors him, or maybe he doesn't favor it.

He never tries the handle and doesn’t move closer.

He just… kind of waits like he knows I’ll slip again.

Last night, I almost did.

I was tired. My cat kept pacing across the bed, intrigued about him, her tail curling around me like she could see him clearer than myself.

I fed her, checked the windows and turned off the lights.

And for a second—just a second—I walked away from the door without locking it.

I felt the hollow drop in my chest immediately.

Quickly, I turned back and locked it.

When I got into bed, my cat was already there curled near my feet, watching the doorway.

I followed her gaze and his shadow was at the threshold. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was looking at me.

My cat shifted suddenly, her paw brushing against my ankle.

I flinched hard enough to suck in a breath.

And the second I reacted—he vanished from my sight like I’d almost made a mistake.

Eventually, I did fall asleep I think. Because in the morning, everything was normal.

The door locked, and morning light spilling in like nothing had ever been there.

But when I walked to the kitchen I saw that there was a vase on the counter.

I don’t own any vases. This one was a clear crystal and it was filled with flowers.

Specifically, it was a gradient of fresh roses from bright red to black.

They were still damp too. like they’d just been cut. But I knew.

Because that night when I checked the door—my hand hesitated on the lock.

And from that place just beyond the threshold, I felt like he was waiting to see what I would do.

I locked it.

And I swear—

I didn't feel like he was disappointed, but rather patient.

Like he knows…that eventually I'll stop locking the door.

You’ve reached the end of this story.

But not the end of the world it belongs to.

New stories appear regularly.

Stay curious.

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