I don't sleep anymore. My son draws him now. Same top hat. Same skeletal grin. Same long coat that moves even when the air is still.
I heard him whisper: "You invited me."
The Babadook doesn't run. He doesn't scream. Babadook
He doesn't knock anymore. He doesn't have to. I don't sleep anymore
Last night, I saw him in the mirror behind my reflection. Not moving. Just there . Patient. When I blinked, he leaned closer. Same skeletal grin
The first page was harmless. A nursery rhyme about a mother and her boy. But when you turned to the second spread, the letters tilted. The paper felt rough, like scabs. If it's in a word, or in a look You can't get rid of the Babadook. I laughed. Tried to.
That night, the closet door didn't close all the way. Around 3:17 AM, I heard knuckles dragging down the hallway wall. Not knocking. Dragging. Long, slow, like something with too many fingers was learning the shape of our home.