Childhood fears fade

It always started at 12:00 a.m. I had no idea how I knew the time; maybe it was the ancient digital clock on my bedside table, which glowing red in the dark like eyes. Or perhaps it was my body simply learning when to feel fear.

The whispering started when I was eight years old. Initially I thought it might be my imagination. My mother used to say that the house was creaking as it settled. It wasn't the wind, though. It wasn't the house, either. The low, murmuring sound, which sounded like people speaking a language I could not comprehend was coming from the closet.

My closet wasn't as big but little with wooden doors that were jammed, full of clothes and grimy board games that I never played. But it looked deeper in the dark. I would occasionally look at it and ask myself, "What if it never ends?" What if it's a door leading to something else instead of shelves and jackets?

"You have a wild imagination," my dad said, and then he patted my head as if that would help. I therefore stop telling them.

Every night, I continued to listen to the voices whispering behind the wardrobe doors.

Something changed one night, perhaps a week before I saw the eyes. I was laying with my covers up to my chin, observing the 12:00 a.m. glow of the digits. Soft, slithering whispers had begun once again. Then I heard something strange. I noticed the wardrobe door move as I turned my head half an inch.

Only a little. A couple of inches.

It moved as though someone inside was careful not to wake the rest of the house. I was unable to yell. I was unable to even shut my eyes. As I saw that little shadow of darkness expand, I realised that something was watching me.

However, it was closed as I blinked. As if nothing had happened.

My aunt's cat was stayed in our house. His name was Ash, and while he didn't like me, he got into my bed that night. I found it pleasant at first. He huddled close to my feet.

At 3:13 a.m.

He sat up. Rigid. Tail low.

Eyes were focused on the closet. He didn't hiss.

He didn't flee. Like he was waiting for something to come out, he just gazed. Then he snarled. The way animals react when they perceive something that people cannot. I covered my head with the covers. He was gone when I looked again. He never came back into the room.

It was pouring rain. Tree outside my window seemed to be trying to get in by scratching on the glass. I tightened the covers. Already, my heart was racing. The murmurs had started again.

However, something was different that evening.

They made more noise. As if they were calling me. I got out of bed. I have no idea why. Before my brain did something, my body did. I took the torch my grandfather had given me, turned it on, and took a cautious step in the direction of the closet. As I grabbed for the door, my hand shook. I opened it with a slide. Nothing was there. Then the torch flickered. And deep in the back, I caught a glimpse of two flickering eyes.

Morning came, but it was different. I never opened that closet again in my life.

We moved to a new flat a week later. I didn't tell anyone about that night even myself. I buried it somewhere inner myself. I can still recall that moment, though. I question whether I actually saw anything at that time. Or if my fear had taken a shape . Now I had grown up, I no longer think that monsters exist. I don't believe in shadows hiding things worse than shadows. But sometimes I still wake up at 12:00 a.m.

And keep my closet closed.