You notice it only because
the dark feels heavier than it should.
Not colder.
Not deeper.
Just—
heavier,
as if something in the room
has quietly taken its seat.
The wind outside the chalet stills.
The rafters stop creaking.
Even your breath hesitates,
caught between wanting to rise
and wanting not to be noticed.
You take the old staircase to the bedroom,
past the timber walls where the knots
look a little too round,
a little too much like watching eyes.
Something shifts on the other side of the door.
Soft.
Slow.
A weight adjusting itself.
At first, you think it’s the quilt.
Or the shape of your own shadow.
Or the mind, reaching for reason
where reason doesn’t belong.
But then the air folds inward—
tight,
narrow,
pressing your chest
before you even lie down.
The stories call it the Alp.
The press of the night.
The shadow that remembers
who you are when the world forgets.
It doesn’t enter through doors.
It slips through keyholes,
through cracks in the timber,
through a single piece of straw
that wasn’t near your bed yesterday.
It takes shapes that hurt to understand—
a cat made of breath,
a child made of weight,
a neighbor’s face half-finished,
as if the dark got bored before it was done.
You lie down.
You shouldn’t have.
The mattress sinks beside you,
though no one touches it.
Something climbs the blankets.
Not fast.
Not slow.
With the careful patience
of something that has done this
for hundreds of winters.
Your limbs forget themselves.
Your breath thins.
Your ribs remember
what fear does to bone.
And then—
it sits.
Right on your chest.
Light as a child,
heavy as a sin.
A presence with no shape
until you open your eyes.
You shouldn’t have done that either.
The Alp tilts its head.
Your tangled hair lifts on its own,
braiding into knots
you will never fully untie.
It breathes in.
You feel it take something.
Not air.
Something warmer.
Something yours.
You try to scream.
Your throat forgets how.
The dark leans closer,
wearing a face you almost know—
one reflected in windows
when you walk alone,
one you hoped the night
had forgotten.
It didn’t.
Behind you,
from the attic above,
another weight settles.
Two presses,
perfectly out of rhythm,
like a heartbeat you don’t recognize.
The old tales say
the Alp rides only once.
Tonight,
it rides twice.
And it remembers
every sleeper
who ever forgot to fear
their own shadow.
This time, it is real.
❓ If something sat on your chest tonight—
would you fight the weight,
or pray the dark doesn’t finish your name?
🜍 Support & Join (EN)
🍷 Discord Tavern — @Dunchan1712
👥 Facebook Community — facebook.com/groups/mythveilchronicles
🔥 Ko-Fi — ko-fi.com/mythveilchronicles
🏮 Patreon — patreon.com/mythveilchronicles_bydunchanhuntergames
🎲 Play epic. Feel the story. Join the family — Mythveil awaits.