🖤 The Fear You Don’t Speak Of

Hello all readers hope all you guys will be in high spirits. Today i am here with some enthuistic topic . Hope you guys will like it. So lets start .....

The house was quieter than usual.

No footsteps creaked across the wooden floors. No wind knocked at the windowpanes. No radio murmured in the kitchen like it used to when her father made breakfast.

Just silence. Thick, ancient silence.

Emily stepped into the room at the end of the hallway, the one she had avoided for seventeen years. The door had always been closed, swollen slightly in the frame as if it didn’t want to be opened. But now, with the house officially hers and the memories bleeding from the wallpaper, she had no excuse.

The door groaned open.

It looked exactly as she remembered — and exactly as she didn’t. Dust floated like lost snow in the sunbeams spilling through a narrow window. The light stretched thin and silver, barely touching the floor. The old wooden chair sat just beneath it, angled slightly toward the window, like someone had meant to sit but changed their mind at the last second.

She didn’t know why she had come in.

No, that wasn’t true. She did.

When she was eight, she had seen a man standing in the corner of this room.

Not a man exactly — more like a shadow that had grown teeth. A silhouette, motionless, but so undeniably there that it had stolen her breath and her childhood all in one moment.

She’d told her parents, of course. Tearfully, frantically. Her father had searched the room, top to bottom. Found nothing.

"Just a bad dream," he had said.

But she hadn’t been dreaming.

From that day on, she never went back in. And they never asked her to.

Now she was twenty-five, and the house belonged to her. Her parents were gone, claimed by a winter road and black ice, and there were no adults left to tell her it wasn’t real.

She took one step into the room, then another. Each one felt like stepping back in time. Her chest grew tight. Her hands trembled, not with fear, but with anticipation — like something in the walls had been waiting for her.

The chair remained still.

The shadow remained absent.

She almost laughed. Almost.

Until she looked at the window.

There, in the glass, reflected faintly in the glow, was the outline of something behind her.

Tall. Thin. Watching.

She turned.

Nothing.

Her breath fogged in the air. The room had gotten colder.

"You never left," she whispered to no one.

The words came uninvited, rising from a place in her she didn’t know still worked. A broken, bruised part. A part that still checked closets. That still turned the bathroom mirror to the wall. That still heard whispers at night when there were none.

The chair creaked.

Not loudly — just enough to be real.

Emily froze. The shadow was back. Not quite a man, not quite a figure, more like the outline of grief wearing the shape of fear. It didn’t move toward her. It didn’t speak. It didn’t even seem to breathe.

It just waited.

Her hand reached for the doorknob, instinctively.

But she stopped.

Seventeen years she had run from this room, from this thing, from the silence. And what had it given her? Fear without a face. Paranoia without a name. She was tired. Tired of pretending she was fine, tired of answering every “how are you” with “I’m okay,” when inside her chest was a scream that never got loose.

Emily took a deep breath and walked to the chair.

She sat.

At first, nothing happened.

The shadow didn’t fade. It didn’t vanish. But neither did it lunge or whisper or reach for her.

It just stood there, like it had always stood there — a silent companion to everything she never said.

“I remember you,” she said, voice steadier than she expected. “I remember how you looked. I remember how you made me afraid to sleep with the lights off. I remember telling myself I was crazy.”

The shadow seemed to listen.

"I thought if I ignored you long enough, you'd go away.

"You didn’t."

A soft creak — the floor shifting. Or maybe the air. Or maybe her.

She looked toward the window. The light was warmer now. Brighter. Not by much, but enough to make her blink.

When she looked again, the shadow was gone.

Emily sat there for a long time, even after the cold lifted and the dust settled.

The chair beneath her felt less like an anchor and more like a place to begin. She didn’t feel brave, exactly. But she felt honest. And that was something.

Sometimes, fear isn’t a monster with claws.

Sometimes it’s a memory waiting to be faced.

Sometimes it’s a room you finally enter.

Sometimes it’s a shadow you sit beside until it no longer frightens you.

And sometimes —

sometimes that’s enough.

Writer; HAMID KHAN

THANKS FOR READING

..........THE END...........