The scariest moment of my childhood lingers, sharp and vivid, like it happened only yesterday. It started with a bored kid, left alone with nothing but a restless urge to explore. I crept down into the basement, the air thick and stale, shadows draping across every forgotten box and corner. Just as I reached the bottom, a chill ran through me. An intense, unshakable feeling crept over me—someone was there, hiding beneath the stairs, waiting. My skin prickled with a primal fear that I could feel in my bones. I froze, half-expecting a hand to reach out and clutch my ankle. But…nothing. Only silence.

I let out a shaky breath and decided to sit on the floor, my nerves buzzing, and suddenly—out of nowhere—a small orange marble rolled into view. It came from somewhere deep in the shadows, moving slowly toward me, as though pushed by an invisible hand. I watched, heart hammering, as it came to a stop a few feet away. My mind raced. Who could’ve rolled that marble? I was alone… or so I thought.

To this day, I can still picture that marble, innocent and eerie, rolling out of the darkness like it had been sent from some hidden world. Pure terror rooted me to the spot, and even now, I can’t shake the thought: was I ever really alone in that basement? Or was something unseen there, watching me, waiting, sending that marble across the floor to remind me it was there? I’ll always wonder.