The Man Who Watched Me Sleep

I always believed I was a heavy sleeper — the type who could snooze through thunderstorms or loud city traffic. That belief changed last winter, in a quiet, snow-covered village where I had gone to escape the chaos of city life.

I rented a small wooden cabin in a secluded part of northern Vermont. No neighbors. No internet. Just a fireplace, a stack of books, and endless silence. It was perfect — or so I thought.

On my second night there, I woke up suddenly at around 3:17 a.m. My heart was racing, though I couldn’t understand why. There was no sound. No storm. No reason. But something didn’t feel right. It felt like I wasn’t alone.

Brushing it off as paranoia, I turned over and tried to fall back asleep. But before I could close my eyes, I felt a distinct chill. Not the kind that comes from cold air, but the kind that crawls down your spine. And then… I heard it.

A faint creak.

It was soft, like someone stepping carefully on old wooden floorboards. I held my breath, straining my ears. Another creak — closer this time.

I wanted to believe it was the cabin settling, or perhaps a wild animal outside. But it wasn’t. I could feel the presence now. Someone — or something — was in the cabin with me.

I slowly reached for the flashlight on my bedside table, but it wasn’t there. Strange — I always kept it there. My phone was dead too; I had forgotten to charge it. Cursing silently, I sat up in bed, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness.

That’s when I saw it.

A tall, shadowy figure was standing at the foot of my bed. Perfectly still. Not moving. Not breathing. Just… watching me.

My body froze. I wanted to scream, to run, to do anything, but I was paralyzed. We stared at each other in complete silence. After what felt like hours, the figure slowly turned and walked toward the door. It didn’t open the door. It simply faded into the darkness.

When morning came, I convinced myself it was a dream. A vivid, terrifying dream caused by isolation and cold. I packed my bags, ready to leave — but something stopped me.

On the wooden floor near the foot of the bed, there were footprints. Large, muddy, and human.

I hadn’t stepped there. No one else had access to the cabin. I checked the door — locked. The windows — sealed. Still, those prints were real. I took a photo with my now-charged phone and left immediately.

But the story doesn’t end there.

Back home in the city, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. At night, I heard soft breathing near my bed. My dog growled at empty corners. I started waking up at exactly 3:17 a.m. — every night.

One night, I decided to set up a motion-triggered camera facing my bed. I needed proof that I was either losing my mind — or that something had followed me back.

The next morning, I checked the footage.

At exactly 3:17 a.m., the camera detected motion. The room was pitch black, but the infrared captured everything.

There it was.

The same figure. Tall. Still. Standing over my bed. Watching me sleep.

But the worst part wasn’t the figure.

It was me.

I was smiling in my sleep.

A wide, unnatural smile. One I never remembered making. One that didn’t look like it belonged to me at all.

I moved out of my apartment that day. Burned the mattress. Threw away the camera. I’ve tried to forget, tried to move on. But every night, no matter where I sleep, I wake up at 3:17 a.m.

And sometimes, just sometimes… I catch a glimpse of someone disappearing into the shadows.

Still watching.

Still smiling.