The Collector of Nightmares

Warning: what I discovered in my grandmother's attic still makes my blood run cold.

After she passed, I found a locked wooden box hidden beneath floorboards. Inside were dozens

of journals spanning fifty years. But they weren't hers. Each entry was written

by a different person, all describing the same nightmare. A figure standing at the foot of their

bed. Watching. Waiting. The entries always stopped after exactly

seven nights. I counted the journals. Twenty-three people. Twenty-three stories that ended abruptly.

That night, I woke up at three AM. My room was freezing. And there,

at the foot of my bed, stood a shadow darker than the darkness itself.