It didn't stop when I was awake. At first, I thought it was just nightmares. My parents told me I was having "an active imagination," that it was just a bad dream, something I'd eventually grow out of.

But it wasn't just in my sleep.

I'd lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, only to feel it—the distinct weight of eyes on me. The sensation crawled along my skin like a colony of ants, making my stomach churn. I'd pull the blankets over my head, press my hands to my ears, but even then, I could hear the creek.

The soft gurgle of water. The hum of his voice.

You should go in the culvert...

The first time I screamed in my sleep, I woke up to my dad shaking me, his face pale and drenched in worry. "It's just a bad dream," he said, but his voice trembled, like he was trying to convince himself. I didn't remember what I'd been dreaming about, but my throat was raw and my sheets were soaked with sweat.

That was the first night I woke up to scratches on the front door.

The following weeks blurred together, a haze of sleepless nights and whispers. Each time I fell asleep, I found myself back at the creek. In the dreams, I'd be standing on the bridge, gripping the rail as I stared down at the culvert. The man would be there, crouched inside, his smile glowing faintly in the dark.

"I've been waiting for you," he'd say, his voice soft, inviting. His fingers would tap on the edge of the culvert, beckoning me. "Come closer. It's safe."

And I would start walking. Every time.

In the waking world, things grew worse. My parents started finding me in strange places at night—standing in front of the door, my fingers bloodied and raw from scratching at the frame. Once, I woke up in the yard, my hands covered in dirt, the front door swinging wide open behind me.

They didn't say it out loud, but I could see the terror in their eyes.

"I think we should take him to a doctor," my mom whispered one morning, unaware I was listening from the hallway.

"It's just stress," my dad replied, but he didn't sound convinced. "Kids go through phases. He'll grow out of it."

I didn't tell them I was seeing him.

At first, I thought it was in my head—the shadow that lingered in the corners of my vision, the flash of white teeth when I glanced over my shoulder. But I started catching glimpses of him in places he shouldn't be: crouched in the tree line across from my school, sitting on the edge of my neighbor's roof, his body bent and warped in that unnatural way.

Always watching.

And then there was the humming.

It started faint, a sound I could almost convince myself wasn't there. But it grew louder, especially at night. Sometimes, it came from outside the window. Sometimes, it came from under the bed. Once, I swear, it came from the vents.

But no matter where I heard it, it was always the same haunting melody. The same words.

You should go in the culvert... You should go in the culvert...

I stopped sleeping.

The bags under my eyes grew dark and heavy, and my body felt like it was running on fumes. My mom started packing lunches with extra snacks, whispering about how skinny I'd gotten. My friends stopped asking me to hang out after school. They said I looked "weird," that I wasn't fun to be around anymore.

And still, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being pulled back.

Every night, I felt it stronger—the urge to leave. I started locking my bedroom door and tying myself to the bedpost with belts, hoping it would keep me from sleepwalking. But it didn't matter. I'd still wake up with dirt under my fingernails, my knuckles raw and bloody from scratching at the walls.

One night, I woke up standing in the middle of the road, barefoot and shivering. My dad had to carry me back inside. He didn't say anything, but his hands shook the whole time.

The night after that, the humming came from inside my room.

I was too scared to open my eyes. I lay there, trembling under the blankets, as the sound grew louder, closer.

You should go in the culvert...

His voice was right by my ear.

I bolted upright, gasping, but there was no one there. The room was empty. The door was still locked.

But on the floor, just by the foot of my bed, were muddy handprints leading to the window.

I didn't tell my parents. I didn't tell anyone.

I just sat there, staring at the glass, until the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon.

I don't know how much longer I can keep this up. The pull is getting stronger. The whispers are getting louder.

And last night, when I looked out the window, I saw the man standing at the edge of the yard.

He waved.

He's waiting for me.