Please help me I think they're outside again

part 1

Reddit I'm still alive! Is anybody still out there? I don’t even know how to start this without my hands shaking, but I need to keep documenting this. I spent the entire day huddled in my bed, trying to convince myself that maybe I’d wake up and find this was all some horrible dream. But it’s not. The fog’s still out there, and whatever’s inside it hasn’t left.

The silence has been unbearable—every small noise I make feels like a beacon. Every shift of the blankets, every creak of the mattress, even the sound of my own breath feels too loud. I’ve tried to keep as still as possible, wrapped in blankets, gripping my phone like a lifeline, refreshing the screen even though there’s no signal, no updates. Just the same blank notifications and a dwindling battery icon staring back at me.

But as the day dragged on, the tension became suffocating, like the walls were pressing in tighter, the air heavier. My thoughts started looping, irrational and frayed. What if the fog seeps inside? What if it already has, and I just don’t know? By the time the sun began to set—at least I think it set; the fog makes it impossible to tell, the dim light just fading into deeper gray—I heard it.

Scratching.

It was faint at first, almost imperceptible, like claws lightly raking across the wooden boards of the back porch. I froze, every muscle locking up so suddenly that it felt like my body stopped working. My heart stopped too—or at least it felt that way, one sharp beat followed by silence. For a moment, I thought I imagined it. Maybe the fog was playing tricks on me again, warping the sound of nothing into something.

But then it came again. A slow, deliberate scraping, the kind that raises goosebumps even if you can’t quite place why. And then, just as I started to convince myself it would stop, it didn’t. A sharp tap-tap-tap against the glass of the back door sent ice down my spine.

I couldn’t look. I couldn’t move. All I could do was sit there, my breathing shallow and my pulse pounding in my ears so hard it made me dizzy. I tried to focus, to stay perfectly still, even though every instinct in me screamed to run or to fight. But I knew—I knew—that whatever it was, it had found my house again.

I don’t even remember how I moved, how my legs carried me, but somehow, I slipped out of bed and into the hallway closet. My legs felt like jelly, barely holding me up as I fumbled to close the door behind me without making a sound. My hands were shaking so badly that I could barely grip the doorknob, and when it finally clicked shut, I held my breath like even the air might give me away.

The darkness inside the closet was smothering, pressing in from every side, but I didn’t dare turn on my phone for light. I pressed myself against the wall, curling as small as I could, clutching the steak knife I’d grabbed from the kitchen earlier. My fingers hurt from how tightly I was holding it, but I couldn’t let go.

The scratching grew louder.

I couldn’t tell where it was coming from anymore—every scrape felt like it was right outside, circling, closing in. My ears were straining so hard it hurt, trying to track the sound, but it kept moving. Stopping. Starting again. Every pause was worse than the noise, like it was giving me just enough time to imagine the worst. And then, I heard it—this horrible, wet sniffing, like something huge was searching for me.

Oh God, it was looking for me.

I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep from making a sound, but my breathing was so loud in my head I thought it would hear me anyway. My chest felt tight, like I couldn’t pull in enough air, but I didn’t dare gasp. I didn’t dare move.

Then, the crash.

The sound of glass shattering was so sudden, so violent, that I almost screamed. My whole body jerked, and the knife slipped in my grip, nearly falling. I caught it just in time, but it didn’t matter. My hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t hold it steady anyway.

It was inside.

No. No, no, no. I could feel the panic clawing at me, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. I squeezed my eyes shut like that would somehow make it all go away, but the sounds kept coming.

Heavy footsteps thudded through the house, slow and deliberate, the kind of steps that let you know something is taking its time. Each one sent a fresh wave of terror crashing over me. Then came this awful dragging noise, like something being hauled along the floor. It was searching. It was looking for me.

And the destruction—oh my God, the destruction. I could hear it ripping through everything, tearing my house apart like it was nothing. Cabinets were slammed open so hard I thought the doors would snap off. Glass shattered again and again, like a thousand tiny explosions echoing through the dark. Furniture scraped and groaned, heavy things being shoved aside like they weighed nothing.

Every sound made me jump, made my breath hitch, made my stomach twist into tighter knots. I pressed myself as far into the closet as I could, but it felt like no amount of walls or doors or darkness could keep me safe. The knife in my hand was slick with sweat, useless, shaking as badly as I was.

It stopped right outside the closet door.

I don’t even know how I didn’t scream. My whole body locked up, every muscle frozen, but inside, I was shaking so hard it felt like I might fall apart. My chest burned as I tried not to breathe, not to make even the tiniest sound. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it—this awful, heavy presence just on the other side of the thin wooden door.

For what felt like an eternity, it didn’t move. It just stood there, waiting. Listening. The doorknob rattled lightly, a tiny metallic jingle that sent a jolt of terror straight through me. My heart was beating so fast and so loud I was sure it could hear it, that any second now it would push the door open and… I don’t even know. I don’t want to know.

And then, after what felt like hours, it moved away.

The sound of its footsteps faded, but not far enough. I could still hear it rampaging through the house, smashing, ripping, destroying everything in its path. Each crash and thud made me flinch, clutching the knife so tight my hand started to cramp. I don’t know how long it went on—it felt endless. And then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

Silence.

Not the kind of silence that feels calm or safe. This was the kind that stretches too long, that feels wrong, like the air itself is holding its breath, waiting for something terrible. I stayed in the closet, too scared to even shift my weight. Every creak of the house made me freeze, my ears straining for any sign that it was still there. My breathing was so shaky, so loud in my head, I was sure it would give me away.

I don’t know how long I stayed like that. It felt like hours, but it could’ve been minutes. Time didn’t feel real anymore. Finally, when I couldn’t take it anymore, I moved. Slowly, so slowly, I reached for the door and cracked it open just enough to peek out.

The house was a disaster.

Chairs were overturned, shelves ripped apart, books and shattered glass covering the floor. The TV was smashed into pieces, the screen nothing but jagged shards. My heart was still racing, but I forced myself to look—really look—because I had to know if it was gone.

It was gone.

I don’t know how I knew, but I did. That suffocating, crushing feeling of something being too close, too wrong—it wasn’t there anymore. For the first time, I could breathe, but the relief was short-lived. If it came back, it would find me.

I knew I couldn’t stay.

My legs felt like jelly as I forced myself to move, every step feeling too loud, too risky. I made it to the basement and grabbed an old backpack, shoving whatever I could find inside with trembling hands. Bottled water, a few granola bars, a flashlight, extra clothes. The knife. God, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking—it took me so long just to zip the bag.

I thought about my phone charger, about grabbing it just in case, but then I remembered there was no point. No electricity. No signal. It was dead, just like the house. Just like I would be if I stayed.

I had to leave. I didn’t have a choice.
The fog outside was as thick as ever, a choking, smothering gray that swallowed everything beyond a few feet. It clung to me the moment I stepped out, damp and icy against my skin, but staying wasn’t an option. My heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might crack my ribs, and every instinct screamed at me to move, to keep moving.

I opened the basement’s back door as quietly as I could, cringing at every tiny creak of the hinges. The cold, wet air hit me like a wall, sharp and unforgiving. The silence out here was worse than inside—it wasn’t just quiet, it was wrong. The kind of silence where every little noise feels magnified. The faint rustling of the fog as it shifted made my skin crawl, like it was alive. Watching me.

I didn’t have a plan. I couldn’t think beyond the next step. My feet moved on their own, fast and unsteady, every crunch of grass and dirt beneath them sending a spike of fear through me. I headed for the neighbor’s barn because it was the only thing I could think of. Somewhere high, somewhere enclosed. Somewhere I might be able to see what was happening.

When it finally loomed out of the mist, I almost cried. The barn looked massive and eerie, the weathered wood dark and slick with moisture. It creaked softly in the faint breeze, the sound cutting through the fog like a warning, but I didn’t care. I had to keep going. I had to get inside.

The climb up to the loft was agony. My legs felt like they might give out with every shaky step, the ladder groaning beneath me. I gripped the rungs so tightly my knuckles ached, every movement slow, deliberate, terrified I’d slip and fall or—worse—make too much noise.

When I finally reached the top, I collapsed onto the hay-covered floor, gasping for air. My throat burned, my lungs felt raw, but I couldn’t stop trembling. The barn was still and suffocatingly quiet, but at least I was off the ground. At least I could see the door. I pressed myself back against the wall, trying to calm down, trying to believe that maybe, finally, I was safe.

And then I heard it.

The faint crunch of gravel outside.

I peered over the edge of the loft, my stomach twisting itself into impossible knots. My hands were slick with sweat, gripping the wooden edge so tightly it felt like splinters might push into my skin. I forced myself to stay still, to barely even breathe. Through the gaps in the old planks, I could see it—or at least, the shadow of it.

It was back.

The shape moved with a horrible, unnatural slowness, circling the barn like it had all the time in the world. My chest tightened with every scrape of its claws against the wooden walls. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t frantic. It was testing. Searching. Feeling its way for a weak spot.

Oh God, it was looking for a way in.

I pressed myself flat against the hay-covered floor, my whole body trembling. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. But I couldn’t do anything except lay there, shaking so badly I thought the creaking floorboards might give me away.

The loft felt smaller now, suffocating. The false sense of safety I’d clung to was slipping away. I could hear it pacing down below, the heavy thud of its steps sending vibrations up through the beams. It wasn’t in a rush. It didn’t need to be. It knew I was here. I could feel it in the way it moved, this slow, deliberate pacing, like it was waiting. Waiting for me to panic. Waiting for me to slip up.

I don’t know what to do.

Every option in my head feels worse than the last. Climbing down is suicide, but staying here—just sitting here while it stalks below—it’s unbearable. My breath keeps hitching in my throat, and I keep thinking I’ve made a noise too loud, that any second now I’ll hear the sound of it climbing, of it coming for me.

Please, if anyone sees this—anyone—tell me there’s something I can do. Call someone, anyone. Or if you’re nearby, if you can hear this somehow, please… maybe we could meet up? Being alone like this—it’s killing me.

I don’t know how much longer I can last.