Stay Awake, Jake

If you sleep, you die.

That’s what Jake’s brother had told him before leaving for Grandma’s. He’d said it with that stupid half-grin, like he was in on a joke Jake would never understand. He’d even laughed—but he never took it back.

Now it was past midnight, and Jake was still wide awake.

He rolled onto his side, his blanket pulled high under his chin. The red glow of his clock seeped across the wall, bleeding into the edges of his dresser, his posters, his half-open closet door. In the dim light, the shadows looked thick, sluggish, like they might start to move if he stared too long.

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. His stomach had been churning all night, a slow, queasy twist that wouldn’t stop. Every time he closed his eyes, his brother’s words came back, more intense than before.

The house was still otherwise. Even his own breathing sounded loud. Then, from somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaked.

Jake’s eyes snapped toward the hallway.

A shadow slid across the wall, jerking quick and sharp, like something had passed in a blink. Then—click—the kitchen light flicked on, casting a harsh yellow glow that painted the edges of his doorway in sharp, eerie lines.

He heard it then: a scrape. Then a shuffle. Small, sharp noises, like something being moved across the counter.

Jake sat up, every muscle tight. He pushed the blanket away and crept to his door. One cautious step into the hallway, leaning just far enough to peek around the corner.

Mom was there.

She stood with her back to him, still, except for the slow movement of her hands. She was doing something on the counter, but he couldn’t tell what.

Without turning, she spoke.

“How many times have I told you—if you can’t sleep, you stay in your room.”

Her voice wasn’t loud. Wasn’t even angry. It was flat but demanding in a way that made his skin crawl. Jake’s mouth went dry. He stepped back slowly, retreating into his room without a word.

He crawled under the covers, heart thudding, telling himself it was nothing. Mom was just…tired. But his mind kept drifting back to his brother’s voice as he’d left earlier that day: “Until sunrise, Jake.”

The kitchen light clicked off, but her footsteps didn’t head back toward the bedroom. They moved slowly…closer. A faint shadow cut across his doorway. His mom stood there for a long moment, the darkness swallowing her face. Then she stepped inside.

She leaned over him, eyes fixed on his face. Her breath brushed his cheek, warm and uneven, nothing like the soft, comforting checks she used to give. This was different—urgent, tense, almost pleading, like she needed him to drift back to sleep. Jake lay paralyzed, counting each second, realizing she wouldn’t leave until she was certain he was unconscious.

He forced himself to stay still, breathing slow, eyelids shut tight. After what felt like forever, she straightened, turned, and padded back into the hall. Curiosity tugged at him harder than fear. He slipped from bed, careful not to let the floorboards groan, and followed the sound of her steps.

At the kitchen, he stopped just behind the wall. Mom stood at the top of the basement stairs, the door yawning open, a wave of cool air rising from below. She knelt and placed something gently on the top step. He couldn’t see it clearly, but it looked small in her hand.

She waited there for a few seconds and stared before closing the door and walking away. Jake stayed perfectly still, listening as the footsteps grew distant and vanished into silence.

He pressed a hand to the wall for balance and moved toward the basement door. The air around it felt colder, almost damp. The door groaned when he opened it just enough to peek through. There, on the top step, rested his favorite pencil—bright yellow, its point slightly dulled, the eraser chewed down halfway like it had been gnawed in thoughtless habit.

His stomach knotted. Mom had…placed it there? Or had it fallen from his backpack? No—his bag had been zipped tight. Surely he hadn’t imagined it.

Fingers trembling, he reached for it.

A deep whoooosh exploded through the vent by his feet, cool air blasting against his leg. Jake jumped back, heart hammering. A puff of black fog slipped from the vent, winding around his ankles and climbing upward against his body like it was alive. He bolted for his room, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

Beneath the covers, the clock’s red glow seeped in like a silent signal, a warning flashing insistently: Stop. Don’t go any further. But after a few minutes, the thought of the pencil wouldn’t let go. School wouldn’t feel right without it.

He needed it back.

Pushing off the covers, he crept toward the basement door. When he reached the top step, his stomach dropped. The pencil was gone. Every nerve in his body screamed. How could it just…disappear?

A sudden roar from the vent shattered the silence, louder than before, sending a jolt of fear racing up his throat. His chest tightened, breath catching in ragged bursts. Shaking, Jake slammed the light switch. Rules, punishment, getting caught—they didn’t matter anymore.

The basement stairs lit up.

At the bottom stood his parents. Shoulder to shoulder, arms straight at their sides. Their heads hung low, eyes wide but heavy with something else—Mom’s cheeks glistened with tears, silently rolling down. Dad’s face was tense, pale.

Behind them, a black mass towered, nearly touching the ceiling. Shadowy fingers draped over their shoulders. Its head hunched between theirs, faceless, a writhing black fog clinging to its form like living smoke.

Jake stumbled back, hands clawing at the wall. He wanted to run but couldn’t look away. A fear he’d never known gripped his chest—and something sharper, twisting within it: realization. The figure clutched things he recognized. His mom, all this time, had been feeding it. Protecting him.

Her voice trembled. “You should have stayed in your room, Jake.”