The Touch of the Shadowman

It was the type of night where the shadows outside looked to be reaching in and encircling the entire world. The darkness seemed to go on forever. With the drapes partially closed and only a sliver of moonlight shining through, Maya reclined on her bed.

With the exception of the gentle rustle of leaves outside, the old house was still. But something felt off, like if there was someone watching her from behind that she couldn't see.

Maya rubbed her eyes and turned to the small bookshelf beside her bed, reaching for the old leather-bound journal her grandfather had given her. It was filled with strange stories, most of which she had dismissed as old folktales.

But one particular story always gave her chills—the tale of the "Shadowman." It spoke of a figure who lived between the realms of light and dark, a being who could touch the living but never be seen, except in the faintest slivers of night.

Just as she was about to open the book, a cold draft swept through the room, causing the curtains to flutter.

The air felt thicker, and a strange sensation washed over her, as though someone had just brushed past her, barely touching her skin. She froze, her eyes darting to the darkest corner of the room, where the shadows pooled together, almost unnaturally.

"Is anyone there?"

Maya whispered, her voice trembling slightly. There was no response—just an eerie stillness. Yet, as she strained her eyes, she thought she saw the darkness shift, as though it was not just a lack of light but something... alive.

A figure slowly emerged from the gloom, its form barely discernible, blending into the darkness around it. It seemed human, but its features were blurred, as though they had been smudged out by a careless hand.

Maya's heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to run, but something about the figure held her in place, like a strange pull she couldn’t resist. The figure extended a shadowy hand towards her, and for a brief moment, she could see it more clearly—long, slender fingers, almost translucent, reaching out to touch her.

As soon as its hand brushed against her arm, an icy chill spread through her body, paralyzing her with a sensation that was neither pain nor comfort, but something in between.

She felt a flood of emotions, memories not her own—echoes of a life long forgotten. The Shadowman's touch was not just physical; it was as though he was trying to share a fragment of his existence, his loneliness, his despair.

"Why are you here?" Maya managed to choke out, her voice barely a whisper.

The figure did not speak, but its touch grew softer, almost as if it was caressing her. And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the Shadowman began to fade back into the darkness, leaving behind only the sensation of cold and a lingering sadness that clung to the air.

Maya felt her strength returning as the shadows retreated, but the room still seemed to echo with the presence of something unseen.

She reached for the journal, flipping through its pages until she found the story of the Shadowman once more. In the faded ink, she read the last line: "The Shadowman seeks not to harm but to be remembered, for only in memory can he find peace."

Maya closed the book, her fingers trembling as she touched the place on her arm where the Shadowman had reached out to her. The chill had faded, but the sensation lingered, as though a part of him had stayed with her. She knew she would never forget that touch, nor the sadness in those shadowed eyes.

And from that night on, whenever the darkness grew deep and the shadows seemed to move on their own, she would leave a single candle burning by her window—just in case the Shadowman needed to find his way back.