The Shadow in the Night – A Killer in the Shadow

The Shadow in the Night – A Killer in the Shadow

Subtitle: You never see it coming. That’s the terrifying part.

By ZIA ULLAH KHAN

The night it began, the air smelled like rain, but the sky was dry. Still. Like it was holding its breath.

It was just after 1 a.m. when I heard the first knock.

Three slow taps against the window pane.

I live on the third floor.

My heart paused. I turned off the TV and sat motionless in the dark, listening. Maybe it was the wind, I told myself. Maybe it was a loose branch or my imagination. I stood up, approached the window cautiously, and peeked through the curtains.

No one.

Just the empty parking lot of my apartment complex, dimly lit by a flickering lamppost—and a patch of thick shadow beneath the tree line that hadn’t been there earlier.

I went to bed. But I left the lamp on.

The second night, the shadow was closer.

It lingered just outside the pool fence this time—motionless, for hours. My roommate, Emma, thought I was being paranoid.

“Maybe it’s the maintenance guy,” she said, brushing her hair in the hallway mirror. “Or some creepy perv.”

But I knew better. There was no face, no movement. Just a figure. Too tall. Too still. And it didn’t show up on my phone when I tried to take a picture.

Not even a blur.

Just darkness.

The next day, we learned that a girl had gone missing. Just two buildings over. Her balcony door was forced open. Her name was Lauren, and she lived alone.

Nothing was stolen. Just… gone.

Emma locked our balcony that night. I triple-checked the windows.

But I couldn’t sleep.

Because around 2:14 a.m., the shadow was back—right outside our window.

I didn’t wake Emma. I didn’t scream.

I just sat in my bed, paralyzed, as it stood there.

Watching.

Waiting.

It didn’t knock this time.

By the fourth night, the building was on edge. Police patrolled, but nothing was found. No prints. No hair. No security footage.

“Like a ghost,” they said.

But ghosts don’t leave blood stains.

That evening, Emma didn’t come home. I called her. No answer.

I texted. Nothing.

At 9:37 p.m., I heard it again.

Three knocks. This time, on the balcony glass.

I crept toward the living room, phone in hand, flashlight off. The curtains swayed slightly as if they had been brushed by something not quite solid. I pulled them apart in one swift move—and saw only fog pressed against the glass.

But something was written in the condensation:

"ONE BY ONE."

My scream echoed through the silence.

Emma’s body was found two days later in the woods behind our complex—buried shallow, like he wanted her to be found eventually.

There were no fingerprints, no fibers, no clues.

Only her phone, unlocked, and a final photo in the camera roll.

It was a blurry shot of her face—eyes wide, mouth open—her phone seemingly falling mid-shot.

In the background?

A long, human-shaped shadow stretching unnaturally up the wall behind her.

I moved out.

Far away. A different city. A different life.

I didn’t tell anyone where I went.

But last night, it happened again.

Three knocks.

On the hotel window.

Ninth floor.

I don’t know what it is—this thing that hides in shadows and collects silence like souvenirs. I don’t know why it chooses certain people, or how it moves. But I know it never stops.

It waits.

It watches.

It always comes closer.

One by one.

I’m writing this because I need someone to believe me. To understand what’s coming. Not for me—because I know my time is nearly up.

But for you.

If you ever see a shadow standing still beneath a streetlamp, or fog on the inside of your window, or words that weren’t there moments before…

Don’t wait for a knock.

Don’t check the curtains.

Just run.

And don’t look back.

Because once it chooses you…

The Shadow never leaves.