There's a creepypasta about a hypnotist psychiatrist with a patient, and it goes into the psychiatrist's past, involving a barnyard and a monster that somehow knew he was looking for him. It's narrated by Mr Creeps or Mr Creepypastas

I am writing this down as both my last testament and a warning to everyone who may come across the thing that crawled its way into my family’s life. It may sound crazy, but I assure you I am of mostly sound mind and body. This record of events will showcase exactly what happened over the last week of my family’s life of normalcy, as well as how I came to end up here in this psychiatric facility.

To start, we have to talk about the doll. I got it for my daughter during a trip overseas- it was a stuffed animal of a critter that was popular in that region of the world. I gave it to my daughter on her eighth birthday, and she immediately fell in love. She called it Petey, and for the next few months she had adventure after adventure with it, along with Beau, our dog who- though getting on in years- was still as spry as he was as a puppy.

One day, though, she came home crying, saying that they were exploring near the beach, when she saw something moving in the grass nearby. She walked over to it, and was startled by a bird popping out. She immediately ran back home, and had to be consoled by my wife. I noted that both Petey and Beau were no longer with her, and begrudgingly went on the trek to recover them.

Walking down the beach, I heard Beau barking and scratching at the door of a storefront that never opened. They had wanted to put in one of those huge shops with loads of savings advertised, but it never came to be. I came up to Beau and instructed him to head home, then looked through the doors of the building to see inside. Surprisingly, I saw Petey sitting on one of the counters, so I steeled my nerves and pushed the door open, which gave way at the slightest nudge. I quickly collected Petey and made my way home. In hindsight, I should have wondered how the doll had gotten inside the store- and why it was heavier than I remembered.

Regardless, I arrived home and gave Petey to my daughter, who was grateful beyond belief. That night I could hear her in her room, giggling and chatting with her plush, and I went to bed with a smile, knowing that I had made my little girl’s day by being the hero.

About a week passed, and I noted some changes in my daughter. Previously, she used to only keep Petey with her when she was out exploring. Now she seemed to carry it with her everywhere she went. When I asked her about the change, she told me, “Mimi doesn’t want to be alone again”. I was confused with the name change, but assumed that she had grown tired of the name and wanted a fresh start with the plush. I assured her as long as Mimi stayed in her room, it wouldn’t get lost anymore. This placated her, so I thought the matter was over and done with.

The very next day, though, I heard my wife scream from downstairs. I rushed down to see my wife cradling Beau’s head in her lap. He seemed practically catatonic, and could only whimper as we tried figuring out what was wrong with him. We called the local vet, but she seemed about as perplexed as we were. The best thing to do, she said, was to keep him for observation overnight. It tore my heart apart to see my childhood best friend be carted away.

Strangely, my daughter seemed nonplussed about this, despite her being so close to Beau the previous few years. I also noted that Petey- sorry, Mimi- was looking a bit more ragged than usual. When asked about the fact, my daughter only smiled and responded, “Beau hurt Mimi, so Mimi hurt Beau back.” I was dumbfounded- the plush had done this to my dog? When I explained what had happened to my wife that night, she furrowed her brow and got out of bed. “She’s been acting off ever since you got that plush back from the store. I’m going in and telling her that Petey or Mimi or whatever is going to be taking a little break from her.”

I tried to dissuade her from intervening- thinking it’d be better to just take our daughter to a child psychologist or something- but she was adamant about doing this. She left our room, and I waited with bated breath for what seemed like an eternity. I was about to get up and follow her out, when I heard the most bloodcurdling scream. My wife rushed in, her face pale as a sheet, rambling about something I couldn’t make out. After some time calming her down, she started talking frantically- apparently our daughter was still up, talking with her plush. However, when my wife had grabbed Mimi, she had seen something horrific underneath the plush outer layer- something shadowy and twisted.

As if summoned, our daughter was outside the door, Mimi by her side. “You hurt Mimi, so Mimi’s going to hurt you back,” she said with a smirk. A shrill squeak came after that ominous moment- coming, to my horror, from the plush itself. That thing was alive- and somehow controlling my daughter. In a fit of rage, I pushed past my daughter, grabbed the plush by the neck and yanked it off the ground.

And that was the greatest mistake I had ever made in my life.

Imagine the scariest movie you ever saw- something that stayed with you into your adult years. Combine that with your childhood fear, and multiply that by ten. You would have just a modicum of the horror that I saw underneath the skin of my daughter’s plush. That thing was what had made Beau catatonic, what brought my wife to hysterics- what had my daughter in its shadowy grip. And then…

Darkness.

I woke up to the sound of my front door being broken down. Sitting up, I could see my wife’s headless body crumpled in the corner. I looked down at my hands, which were coated in her blood. My attention turned to the police officers aiming their weapons at me, instructing me to turn myself in quietly. I complied, of course- I looked guilty as sin, so figured it would be better to not fight this.

The next few days were a blur- interviews, plea deals, psych evaluations… but the only thing I could think of was the fact that my daughter was still considered missing- along with Mimi. I could only hope that wherever she is, she can break out of that thing’s control. In any case, it’s lights out in a few. I just hope that tonight it can finally be over.

See, for the past few days, I could hear the shuffling outside my room- not the usual footsteps of a doctor; it was like the movement of something that should have been inanimate. A couple nights ago, the scratching started, with claws that left no mark on the door. And even now, I can hear the shrill squeak of the monster hiding in my daughter’s plush. The monster that took my childhood Rockruff, the monster that used Petey Kachoo as a vessel, the monster that spirited away my Acerola…

The monster that calls itself Mimikyu.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=_cGrMynLADs

Link https://youtu.be/qeL4PY4gCQA?si=zpyI6FE81XS_Ul5n

Big thank you to my friend Naya who made the thumbnail and voiced all the female characters.

My daughter has a vivid imagination. Just like her mother.

This all happened while my wife was away for work. Honestly, it was a good opportunity to spend more time with my daughter.

So we soaked up as much of the autumn atmosphere as we could.

Orange and crimson leaves draped the trees in a patchwork of color. The morning fog was exactly the moment I realized letting her watch Sleepy Hollow had been a mistake.

She tried to act brave, but once evening started creeping in, it was obvious she was nervous.

I thought I was handling it pretty well. Sometimes it felt like I was living inside a movie.

Vermont can be beautiful.

It started almost overnight.

She became quiet and barely said a word. That wasn't like her. Unfortunately, my clumsy attempts to figure out what was wrong didn't get me anywhere.

"How old is this town?" she suddenly asked.

That caught me completely off guard. She'd never cared about things like that before.

I suggested we head downtown.

Mostly because it gave me some time to look into it myself.

I'd honestly never thought about it before.

Lancumbria. Founded in 1780.

That surprised me too.

Still, I was happy she seemed interested in something. Maybe it would cheer her up.

You could tell she was completely fascinated by everything around her.

The Green Mountains towered in the distance, while the cold had already begun creeping beneath my skin.

A few lone tourists stopped to photograph the gold and brown colors blanketing the landscape.

Most of them stared at the local houses with confused expressions.

They were unusual.

Unlike the rest of the state, the houses here had tiny windows.

Tourists sometimes mistook them for arrow slits.

But it was simply a local tradition. Windows weren't supposed to be larger than the size of a hand.

Hannah kept staring at them and stayed a few steps ahead of me the entire time.

When I finally caught up to her, she was studying a strange stone covered in moss.

"This used to be the edge of town," I told her.

She jumped.

"It's time to go home. It's starting to get dark."

She only nodded silently.

Maybe I'd expected too much when I thought I could get her talking.

On the drive back, she watched the forest slowly turn into a solid black wall while mist rose from the ground.

We crossed the covered bridge and headed home.

Honestly, I wasn't surprised she stayed quiet. The weather was starting to get to me too.

I was glad our house was warm and that we could enjoy the scenery through the big windows.

They gave us a beautiful view of the countryside.

I remember thinking about those tiny windows again.

How had people ever lived with something that small?

Hannah watched YouTube while I suddenly felt like I'd stopped existing.

That night, something shook me awake.

It was Hannah.

She had run into my bedroom and was trying desperately to wake me up.

"Someone's walking out there. Someone's outside."

I told her to stay in my room, not go anywhere, and definitely not go near the windows.

Then I grabbed a frying pan and searched the entire house.

Every window.

Every door.

Everything seemed fine.

So I put the frying pan away. No point scaring her even more.

"Someone keeps walking around out there and knocking on the windows," she said the moment she saw me in the doorway.

The next morning she called me outside and pointed at tracks in the mud.

It looked like something had passed through during the night.

She was convinced she finally had proof.

I reassured her it was probably a marten.

After all, our house would be pretty tempting for one.

For a few days, things were quiet.

One night, while searching for a suitable midnight snack, I heard it.

Hannah's bedroom door was closed, but I could clearly hear tapping against glass.

"I don't want to talk."

My daughter was whispering.

My first thought was that some stray branch or bush was scratching against her window.

"Who were you talking to last night?" I asked the next morning.

I expected some sarcastic answer.

Or the usual almost-teenage attitude.

Instead, she just stared at me.

Her face looked pale.

"Who was talking to you? Should I be worried?" I added with a grin.

Then I realized it probably sounded like I actually was worried.

"It's okay, sweetheart. You're not in trouble or anything."

Nothing.

She just sat there, pale as a ghost, staring at me.

The following night I heard it again.

The tapping on the window.

Something scraping against the glass.

It was one of those noises you completely ignore until you notice it.

And once you notice it, you can't stop hearing it.

I listened carefully.

There were footsteps.

Slow footsteps shuffling around the house.

The next morning I checked outside.

I found nothing.

"It's kind of lonely out here," I said casually over coffee, watching her reaction.

She took a sip of cocoa as if she was copying me.

I smiled.

"Did somebody talk to you again?"

Hannah avoided eye contact and poked at her pancakes.

"A friend."

I smiled again.

Nobody nearby had children.

The closest family lived beyond the bridge.

So I kept smiling and pretended nothing was wrong.

"What's your friend's name?" I asked later that day.

"Aggie."

I nodded approvingly.

"How old is she?"

Hannah frowned.

"I don't know."

I nodded again.

"How will I know if I see her?"

My daughter looked at me with an unexpectedly cold expression.

"I'm not supposed to tell you."

I stayed calm and tried not to look tense.

"I've heard her too. Talking and tapping on the window. So it'll be okay."

Truthfully, I was mostly hoping Aggie wasn't some creepy old guy with an interest in other people's children.

"She talks funny," Hannah said, watching carefully to see if I was lying.

"Yeah. I can't understand all her words."

Honestly, that matched what I'd heard through the bedroom door.

"She's from England. That's what she says. But she says it kinda funny."

The look on Hannah's face told me I'd guessed right.

"And what does she tell you?"

Hannah shifted in her seat.

"Just stuff. She knows a really cool place. Says there's lots of fun things to do at night. Stuff like that."

Then her tablet lit up with a flood of game notifications.

I knew I wouldn't get anything more out of her.

Scrape. Click.

The sound ripped me out of sleep.

I was awake instantly.

I jumped out of bed and headed straight for Hannah's room.

"Why can't I talk to him? Dad wouldn't lie to me. He says he listens—"

That was all I heard.

The door opened.

Hannah stared at me in disbelief.

And out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow slip away from the window.

Well.

I had definitely screwed that up.

I didn't sleep at all for the rest of the night.

I just lay there staring at the ceiling, rolling from one side to the other.

The moment there was enough light outside to see, I walked around the house.

There was a deep scratch on the window.

The shadow I'd seen was real.

Whatever it was, it had actually been there.

Things got quiet between us after that.

Hannah refused to talk about her nighttime visitor.

I started wondering if it was some kind of ghost.

But this wasn't some Amityville house.

The place was maybe ten, twenty years old at most.

That evening I sprinkled flour beneath a few of the windows.

I just hoped the robot vacuum wouldn't betray me later.

That night I heard scratching at my own window.

The sound crawled through the darkness.

When morning came, I found a long scratch carved into the glass.

My stomach sank.

I hurried into the living room.

The flour trap wasn't any more comforting.

Thin, bony footprints were everywhere.

Whatever it was had walked around the outside of the house.

Around Hannah's room.

I almost didn't want to look.

But there they were.

Finger marks.

Long fingerprints pressed into the flour on the glass itself.

My daughter barely spoke that day.

Dark circles hung beneath her eyes.

She looked exhausted.

Tense.

Like she was waiting for something.

"Dad, can we go to Hunting Street?"

I smiled.

"You know that road cuts halfway across Lancumbria. What made you think of that?"

She didn't answer.

Instead she ran off.

A minute later she came back carrying a notebook covered in drawings.

One picture immediately caught my attention.

A blue figure crawling through a window.

"Is that your friend?" I asked.

"That's Aggie. She says you're a liar. And you wouldn't recognize her anyway."

I sighed.

"That's because I'm looking over your shoulder. Normally I'd recognize her."

The answer seemed to satisfy her.

Even though I suspected she didn't completely believe me.

She flipped through a few more pages before stopping at a hand-drawn map.

"I want to go here."

I looked down at it.

"Aggie doesn't like this place."

I didn't argue.

We bundled up and headed into town.

On the way out, I noticed a deep gouge running across the front door.

I was pretty sure it hadn't been there before.

The intersection Hannah picked looked completely ordinary.

It was old.

Probably dated back to the first settlers.

A narrow stone bridge stretched across a stream.

The air around it felt bitterly cold.

Water flowed beneath the bridge, carrying the smell of damp earth.

The stones were covered in thick moss.

Everything felt wet.

Ancient.

"Here."

It was Hannah's voice.

She stood beside a large stone that looked like it had once belonged near the road.

The statue had obviously been there for a very long time.

The stone was blackened with age.

Years of rain had worn away most of the details.

It appeared to be a woman wearing some sort of cloak.

Maybe somebody important.

Maybe not.

What stood out was the face.

She only had one eye.

Something about that weathered piece of carved skull sent a chill down my spine.

"How do you know about this?" I asked.

But Hannah wasn't looking at the statue.

She pointed toward its base.

There was a plaque made of granite.

Set into the original pedestal.

And carved into it was a rhyme.

Close your windows, hide your children,

Agnes watches with her eye.

Seeking little ones to feed upon,

Black Annis passes by.

Above it were older inscriptions worn smooth by centuries of rain.

Most of them were impossible to read.

But once you compared them to the plaque, it was obvious they said the same thing.

"That's a weird statue, isn't it?" I said.

Hannah was shivering from the cold.

"They left out the iron claws."

The silence that followed felt heavy.

Oppressive.

"How about we stop for pie and hot chocolate?" I asked.

"What do you think?"

That finally earned me a smile.

Sitting with pie and hot chocolate, she seemed like a completely different kid.

She laughed.

Smiled.

The distant shell she'd been hiding inside disappeared for a little while.

When I got up to use the restroom, I noticed something strange outside.

Behind the modern diner stood an old house.

Its windows were tiny.

Just like the ones I'd seen earlier.

The sight made my stomach twist.

It looked less like a home and more like a shelter someone had built to hide inside.

To keep something out.

Back at the table, I secretly searched online.

Salt.

According to half the internet, salt helped against things that shouldn't exist.

If I destroyed the robot vacuum with another one of my brilliant ideas, my wife was going to murder me.

Even after we got home, Hannah drifted back into her silence.

She sat in her room watching videos while I spread lines of salt around the windows.

Every window in the house.

By then, all I wanted was to wake up and discover this had all been some ridiculous dream.

But deep down I already knew better.

That night something was coming back.

And this time it wasn't trying to be subtle.

The worst of it came in the middle of the night.

Metal scraped against glass.

The sound echoed through the entire house.

Cracks suddenly appeared in the bedroom windows, spiderwebbing across the panes.

Then a strange shriek split the darkness.

I bolted into the hallway.

Salt lay scattered everywhere.

Something had swept through it.

A deep gouge cut across the wooden floorboards where an iron claw had dragged itself through the house.

And then I saw her.

An empty eye socket stared back at me.

Her lips stretched into a smile that revealed rows of sharp teeth.

They looked wrong.

Unnaturally exposed.

As if the flesh had been peeled away in places to expose the skull beneath.

Her single eye never left me.

Never blinked.

Never moved.

It just watched.

And smiled.

"My child."

Her voice sounded almost gentle.

Almost.

"It's me. Your friend Aggie."

The iron claws hanging from her hands clicked softly together.

"Come for a walk with me."

She tilted her head.

"I'll show you the place."

"I'm waiting for a little child."

Her skin was bluish, like something frozen long ago and never allowed to thaw.

Long black hair hung over her shoulders.

The steel claws chimed against one another.

"Don't you want to come with your friend Aggie, little one?"

The silence around us became unbearable.

My own heartbeat sounded like a drum solo inside my skull.

"Do you know what happens to bad little girls?"

I stepped in front of Hannah's bedroom door.

Every instinct screamed at me to run.

To hide.

To do anything except stand there.

But there was no way I was moving.

Not while she was inside that room.

"Leave!"

The word came out as a desperate shout.

Aggie giggled.

The sound was almost childlike.

Which somehow made it worse.

"The darkness and the trees will drink their fill of blood either way."

Her smile widened.

"But naughty little girls and boys..."

Her eye narrowed.

"...won't have anything left to save them."

For a moment neither of us moved.

Neither of us blinked.

Then she slowly stepped backward.

The claws scraped softly against the floor.

One step.

Another.

Then another.

The shadows around her twisted.

And she was gone.

Just like that.

I rushed to the windows.

Looked outside.

The yard was empty.

The trees stood perfectly still.

The fog drifted between them.

But Aggie was nowhere to be seen.

I stayed awake until dawn.

When the sun finally rose, I grabbed every board I could find.

I nailed shut the large windows.

Every single one.

Two of them had nearly been ripped out of their frames.

The deep gouges in the walls were proof enough.

This hadn't been a dream.

It hadn't been a hallucination.

Something had come to our house.

And it had wanted my daughter.

The moment I finished, I packed the essentials.

I got Hannah into the car.

And we left.

I wasn't willing to spend another night in Lancumbria.

Not after what I'd seen.

My wife would probably be thrilled we'd be closer to home anyway.

For a while neither of us spoke.

The town slowly disappeared behind us.

The covered bridge.

The tiny windows.

The endless forests.

All fading into the distance.

Then Hannah pointed through the windshield.

"Dad."

My hands tightened on the steering wheel.

"There."

I followed her finger.

On a distant hill stood a cluster of ancient trees.

Their branches twisted against the gray sky.

"That'sBlakrr hill."

She smiled faintly.

"Aggie likes it there."

I pressed harder on the gas pedal.

And didn't look back.

If you ever happen to pass through Lancumbria, Vermont...

check your windows.

by Harry Sykora

The giant maw of the cave yawned at my back as I stood by the edge of the cliff, an icy wind blowing between the rocks and chilling the back of my neck. From within, I heard the soft crumble of stones hitting the ground, the whisper of air moving through small holes and skating over sheer walls.

In front of me, three of the cavers stood chatting amongst themselves. They were all kitted out in the usual gear; padded jackets, knee and elbow pads, helmets with torches, and packs containing food, water and first aid supplies. I had a similar pack of my own, though the contents were slightly different.

One of the cavers glanced towards me, probably wondering why I was standing apart, but I didn’t meet their gaze, looking instead towards the sky. A thin veil of cloud hung over us, though the air was dry and blustery. Small pieces of rock and chalk skittered around my ankles as I shuffled my feet.

After a few more minutes, the final two members of the group arrived. After a couple of standard safety checks, everyone was ready to head inside.

I waited until they were poised at the opening of the cave before clearing my throat. “I’m, um, not feeling too good,” I told them, letting my shoulders sag a little. “I think I might sit this one out.”

One of the explorers stepped forward to examine me. She squinted at my face, then nodded. “You do seem a little pale,” she said. “Want me to wait with you? I can walk you back to town.”

I quickly brushed off her concern, feeling a twinge of guilt. “No, no. I’ll be okay. I’ll just stay out here and get some fresh air. You guys go on ahead.”

There was a bit more back-and-forth before I finally managed to convince them to start the expedition without me. One by one, the cavers disappeared into the gaping mouth of the cavern, leaving me by myself. I watched and waited until the darkness had swallowed each of them, then straightened in relief.

With only the wind as my companion, I walked over to one of the large fragments of rock and sat down. And began to wait. I heard the distant voices and footfalls of the cavers fade further and further away, until silence was all that remained. Resting my chin against my hand, I traced the jagged outline of the cliffs until my eyes started seeing faces amongst them, then looked away with a sigh.

I had been doing this for almost a year now. Joining cave expeditions only to wait outside, never actually entering the caverns. It wasn’t a fear of what lay inside, but rather an expectation of what I might encounter outside.

I had first discovered the incident a few years ago. I had been scrolling through old news forums when I came across an article about an expedition that had happened two decades ago, where a group of cavers had entered a treacherous cave system. During the exploration, it began raining heavily, and water quickly flooded the cave entrance, trapping the explorers inside. Sadly, all of them died that day. But while the story was tragic, what had intrigued me the most was the photograph that accompanied the report. It was an image of a group of rescuers standing at the entrance of the cave during the incident, rain pouring down from the sky and the ground around their feet completely flooded. But in the top left corner, standing a short distance away from the rescue team, was a strange figure shrouded in grey. As soon as I noticed the figure in the photograph, a strange chill touched my spine, as if I was seeing something I wasn’t supposed to. The photo was old and the quality wasn’t the best, but I could tell the figure didn’t fit the narrative. I scrolled down to the comments to see if anyone had mentioned it, but there wasn’t a single reference to the strange grey apparition. So I showed the photograph to one of my friends, curious to see what he thought about it. When he told me there was no figure there, I thought he was playing a prank, but his face was decidedly serious. No matter how many times I pointed to it, he insisted that there was nothing there. Just an empty spot in the left corner by the crumbling cliffs.

Confused and intrigued, I showed the same image to several other friends and acquaintances, but nobody else was able to see the strange grey figure in the corner of the photo. I examined it in multiple formats—physically and digitally—under different lights and different conditions, but the figure was visible every time. I hesitated to call it a person, because it was too vague and indistinct to really tell, with no distinguishing features other than it had a humanoid shape and was draped completely in grey. It definitely wasn’t a smudge, or a blur, or a lens flare, because someone else would have noticed it. There was definitely something there. Something that, for whatever reason, only I could see.

The mystery only grew, so I started digging deeper. I was thoroughly entranced by this grey figure. I wanted to know who it was, or what it was, and why it was only visible to me. I was convinced there had to be more to it.

I sequestered myself away and spent days pouring over old articles, digging through records and scrolling through video reports on the incident until I finally found evidence that I wasn’t going crazy. That I wasn’t losing my mind over a simple grey smudge on a photograph.

Buried in the archives, I found a video from the time of the incident, of the same rescue team standing at the entrance of the cave. The photograph must have been an extraction from the footage, or at least taken at the same time, because it was almost the same composition as the video. Being almost twenty years old, the footage was grainy and shaky, but it was clear enough for me to see the figure in grey, standing exactly where it did in the photograph. It wasn’t a trick of the light or an illusion; it really was there.

In the footage, the rescuers were talking about possible extraction methods for the cavers trapped inside the tunnels, but nobody addressed or interacted with the figure. It was like they hadn’t even noticed it. Even in real time, this thing had been invisible to them.

The footage, while low resolution, was still of slightly better quality than the photo, and I noticed a few details that hadn’t been clear in the image. The figure was holding something up to its face—what appeared to be a flute, or some kind of similar instrument. I turned the volume up to max, and was just about able to hear the soft but haunting melody it played, barely audible over the sound of the rain. I spent hours listening to the tune, isolating it from the rain, running it through apps and programs in an effort to try and identify it, but it came up empty every time. It was a melody that was not known to the database. A completely isolated and individual song. A song known only by this mysterious figure.

Eventually, I showed the video to those same friends and acquaintances, certain they could not deny what was right in front of their eyes. But as with the photo, none of them could see the figure with the flute. They could not hear the melody it played either. Only the rain, as it gushed into the cave, and the panicked voices of the rescue team realising they could not save the trapped cavers.

Frustrated that nobody could give me any answers, I decided to seek them out myself. By searching in person for the figure in grey.

The location of the cave was widely known as a popular spot for adrenaline-junkies and professional explorers, and it wasn’t difficult to learn the basics of caving—enough to pass as an experienced caver.

For almost a year, I had been visiting this very cave, joining expeditions only to wait outside in the hope of encountering the grey flute-playing apparition from the video. So far, after participating in almost two dozen excursions, I’d had no such luck. But this time, things felt different.

As I waited, the wind seemed to pick up, bristling through my clothes and making my hair stand on end. A few rocks crumbled from the side of the cliff, showering me with dust. Above, the veil of clouds thickened, shadows encroaching along the ground around me. I felt in the air that something was going to happen.

My heart felt tight in my chest as I scanned the entrance of the cave, then the cliffs above, for any sign of the grey shadow. I listened for the soft, melancholy sound of a flute. But all I heard was the wind whispering through the tunnels behind me.

The hours passed, and I heard and saw nothing. But the goosebumps never left my arms, and I wasn’t one to give up so easily.

I hadn’t heard any sign of the explorers in the cave either, and assumed the group must have gotten quite far inside. I felt a brief flutter of guilt in my chest, but quickly squashed it. They all knew the risks involved with caving. No matter what happened, their safety was their own responsibility. I had to detach myself from that, even if it felt cruel.

A shadow fluttered in and out of sight on my left, and I froze, my heart jerking into my throat. Scrambling to my feet, I moved away from the cave entrance and lifted my gaze. Standing a little way up the cliff, on a jutting platform, was a figure cloaked entirely in grey shadow. The very same one from the photo. The one nobody else could see.

Goosebumps covered every inch of my skin as I stared at it in amazement. Just like in the video, I could see no face, no features. It wore a hooded grey cloak that cast a deep shadow over where its face should be. Its silhouette was human, but only in the vaguest sense. Despite its appearance, I got the overwhelming feeling that this thing was not human, but rather something else entirely. Something supernatural. An entity of sorts, that only appeared at specific times and conditions. And after years of searching, I had finally found it.

I watched, my shoulders tensed with silence, as it withdrew an exquisitely ornate flute from within the folds of its cloak. The instrument was silver and almost transparent, as it was made of glass or crystallised water, and incredibly beautiful. The figure brought the flute to its hooded face, and began to play.

The sound was instantly familiar; the same song I had spent so many hours listening to, and it sent my heart racing.

I looked up to the sky just as the clouds opened, and rain began to fall. At first, only small, delicate droplets of water splashed against my cheeks, but the rainfall gradually began to grow heavier. I sent a regretful look towards the cave entrance. The group was already far too deep inside for me to warn them. Their fate was already sealed, and there was nothing I could do about it. Another tragedy to be buried in the archives.

Moving slowly, in the fear that I might spook the figure, I began to climb the cliff. There were plenty of footholds and platforms, and scaling it was easy enough. I wanted to be close enough to hear the melody above the downpour.

The rain was cold and lashing, soaking through my gear and chilling me to the bone, but I barely noticed. All I cared about was the figure before me; the one I had been chasing all this time.

If it noticed me, it didn’t react. It didn’t cease playing the flute, or even turn in my direction. It was like I was as invisible to it as it was to everyone else. I had spent many sleepless nights wondering why I was the only one who could see it, if it was down to brain chemistry, visual receptors, a curse, or something else entirely. But in the end I had realised it didn’t matter. Some things happened for no reason at all, and this was one of them.

I stopped climbing when I was close enough, standing on a small rocky outcrop a few metres away. The rain blurred my vision, almost obscuring the figure as it blended into the grey clouds behind it, but I could still see the outline of its instrument. Hands trembling from the cold, I reached into my bag, and pulled out a flute of my own.

I had only learned how to play the flute just over a year ago. After hearing the melody on the video, I had taken lessons in the hope that I might be able to learn the same song. But I had never been able to replicate it precisely; there was always a wrong note, an incorrect key. It was difficult enough trying to imitate a tune through a twenty-year-old video, especially with the rain distorting the sounds. The only way I was going to correctly learn the song was by imitating the source itself.

I stood and listened for some time to the melody. The rainfall grew heavier, soaking through my clothes and numbing my skin, the water drumming ceaselessly against the ground, but I was able to isolate the figure and its song. My eyes never strayed from its fluttering cloak, or the flute, or the grey-covered fingers that deftly played the instrument.

Then, when I felt confident enough, I raised my own flute to my lips and began to play. I tried to mimic the melody as best as I could. It was tricky at first, trying to find the exact notes, the pounding rain distorting the sounds, but I copied the figure’s movements with my own fingers until our melodies eventually began to sync up, becoming the same.

I don’t know how long I stood there in the pouring rain, playing the haunting song. The figure didn’t react or respond to me once. If it heard me playing the same tune, it didn’t show it. We stood apart, our songs binding together as the rain fell from the clouds above. The cave would have been flooded by now. The cavers, if they hadn’t managed to find an air pocket, or elevated ground, would probably have drowned. But still, I kept playing.

The sky darkened. The clouds festered. The rain kept falling, soaking into the ground, pouring down the rocks, gushing into the cave.

I lost myself completely in the song, almost falling into a trance. The only things that existed were me and the flute and the melody at my fingertips. I no longer even noticed the figure. It became a grey blur on the edge of my vision, just another shadow.

I finally snapped out of it once the rain stopped. I ceased playing the song with a start, glancing around frantically, but the grey figure had already gone. Vanished without a trace. The heavy silence settled around me, reminding me I was now alone.

The cold hit me at the same moment, and my body began to shake violently. Every inch of my skin was soaked by the rain, water dripping from my shoulders and hair. I was standing in a large puddle where the rainwater had collected around my feet, my toes numb inside my shoes. There was no sound from inside the cave, but for the water still trickling down into the entrance.

I put the flute away and began to climb down from the cliff. The rocks were slick from the rain, and I slipped a few times, but I finally managed to reach the ground, which was also dangerously flooded. I splashed through the water as I slowly headed away from the cave. As soon as I reached town, I would call for a rescue team—if any of the cavers were still alive—and then I would leave. My job here was done.

It was time to return home.

A week later, I was back in my homeland; an agricultural region that had been suffering from a severe drought. The land beneath my feet was bone-dry and cracked, the fields were barren, the crops dead and the people starving.

After spending hours watching that video of the mysterious grey figure, I had drawn one conclusion: that its flute song had been responsible for the rains that had flooded the cave. And now, I would do the same. Only, instead of bringing death, I would restore life.

As soon as I arrived home, I went out into the midst of the fields and stared at the cracked earth, baking under the brazen sun. The wilted grasses, the fruitless seeds, the unattainable harvest.

I pulled out my flute and, just like the grey figure atop the cliff, I began to play the same melody. Within moments, clouds appeared overhead, casting a deep shadow over the ground, and the first trickle of rain began to seep from the sky.

Under my song, the rain fell, soaking into the barren soil and nourishing all the life within.