For ten years, the calendar had a shadow. Once a month, like a dark lunar cycle, I would fall asleep and wakeup in the same house. The architecture was never quite clear, a blur of beige hallways and heavy oak doors but the atmosphere was razor sharp. It was the scent of cold floor wax and the crushing weight of pure, primal terror.

The first few weeks at 113 Blackwood Lane were defined by the subtle dread that clung to the air like dust. It was the scent of old wood, mothballs and something metallic, something rotten. I quickly learned the house and two main inhabitants besides myself.

Slowly, carefully, I lifted my gaze from the magazine toward the doorway. The door was wide open, revealing a stretch of dark hallway. And she was standing there.

My mother always reassured me that the dark was just the absence of light, nothing more. Every night, after tucking me firmly under my princess duvet. She would linger by the door, promising a good dream, oblivious to the true, systemic terror that took hold the moment the hall light vanished.

The first night, I dismissed it. It was exactly 8:00 pm when three sharp, deliberate knocks echoed from my front door. I had just settled into my worn armchair, the evening paper still crisp in my hands. I walked to the door,peered through the peephole, and saw nothing but the empty porch, the street lights casting long, lonely shadows. I figured it was some neighborhood kids prank and went back to my reading.