Blood dripped down his face. The room was dimly lit by the moon; the only things he could perceive were shadows slithering across the walls. Their shapes were hazy, but distinct enough to show they were far more than just the trees blowing in the wind. The clock ticked. His heart pounded. His eyes darted, searching for what may have been just an illusion.

Minute by minute, the shadows seemed to crawl closer. They flickered between walls, and now scurried across the floor, almost like mice.

He felt his arms freeze like ice, his legs stiffen like leather, and his face grow rigid. It was as if the shadows had sealed him in. Only his eyes jolted from one fleeting shadow to the next. He felt sweat mixing with the blood, his heart growing weaker, and swore the shadows were creeping up on him every time he looked away. Eventually, he sensed the shadows not only encasing him, but being on him. His throat tightened. His chest became like stone. His mouth cracked open with one final scream of desperation and with that, he awoke from the nightmare.

————————————————————-

“I believe this is because of your time out in Afghanistan,” the doctor said. “You must’ve seen many disturbing things.”

“I… I have,” Albert mumbled, his voice a raw whisper, as if the words themselves felt the fear of the shadows. “I don’t know why. It’s like it followed me back…”

He remembered broken scenes—small bodies under rubble, smoke hanging in the air, their faces pale with dust and panic. The shouting, the scattered toys, the silence that followed. It was too appalling to feel real. Yet, it had followed him back.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what is it that followed you back?” the doctor asked.

“The figures,” he murmured. “The ones I couldn’t stop. They haunt me,” Albert continued, his voice cracking, laden with a weight that he could not release. “They won’t let go. I can’t be free. I can’t be normal.”

The doctor looked at him. Albert’s face was stark white, his eyes veined with curtains of red, and his cheeks sullen—the clear markers of countless restless nights since his return. He pondered what the patient could have seen to have visions this bad.

The doctor paused for a moment, his gaze softening. “That sounds exhausting, Albert,” he said gently. “Do you want to talk about what you remember?”

Albert hesitated, staring at his hands. “Some things… I can’t say out loud. But they don’t go away.”

“I understand it’s hard, Albert. I know you’ve tried so much already.”

The doctor sighed, his voice softer than before. “I wish I could promise you a cure. But I can promise I’ll keep trying with you. You’re not alone in this room.”

Albert raised his haunted voice until it echoed across the whole room. “I told you already, they won’t go away. Every night, they get closer, I tell you! Listen to me! I’ve tried everything! Everything! Nothing helps!”

The doctor took a deep breath, his eyes falling on Albert’s extensive medical history file on the desk. He skimmed through the pages, noting that the patient had tried almost every single prescription—Imipramine, Sertraline, Fluoxetine. Everyone had given him these medicines with names that were hard to pronounce. Could there be some sort of panacea to get rid of all these dreams? Really though, he didn’t know what to do. Mental hospitals had failed, medicine had failed, therapy had failed – in his scientific mind, everything that could have been done had been done.

He looked up again, searching Albert’s face. “We’ve tried a lot of different medications. Some help a little; some not at all. Would you be open to trying something new, or maybe a different kind of therapy?”

Albert shrugged, eyes hollow. “I’ll try. But it always feels the same.”

“I know it feels that way, but we’ll approach this differently. We will. You’re not alone in this fight,” the doctor said softly, playing out what would happen during the next visit.

Albert, lost in his thoughts once more, wearily took the capsules from the doctor. With a heavy sigh and a heavier heart, he left. His shoulders hunched. The doctor could hear the awkward steps as they echoed through the hall. Closing his eyes, he prayed that something would happen, something that would resolve this suffering.

————————————————————-

He looked at his bed. Once a comfort and a safe haven, it now became his greatest adversary. Chugging down his seventh cup of coffee, hands trembling, he vowed to stay awake for as long as his body would permit him to. His time as a Marine had trained him to stay awake for excruciatingly long periods. That was the same time the shadows began to haunt him.

However, tonight, he felt an uneasy sense of dread and exhaustion, both crushing him like an avalanche of darkness. Perhaps it was because he had lasted multiple days without an ounce of sleep, or perhaps it was the shadows dragging him into the underworld.

His head bobbed once, then again. His resolve crumbled like the walls of Jericho, and he sank into the deep trench of familiar nightmares.

————————————————————

He knew the shadows surrounded him—eerie sets of eyes, all staring intently. All filled with a desire for vengeance. All with a look of pure malice. He could no longer bear it. He had to escape. He had to get away.

He threw off his blanket and jumped out of bed. He wasn’t going to let the creatures drag him away into the bondage of misery. Arming himself with the resilience forged through his experiences, he fled toward the door.

All around him, the shadows hissed and pursued Albert. Faster, stronger, and far more cunning, they would soon overtake him and terrorize him utterly. By this point, Albert knew his fight was nearing its end. And yet—he hesitated.

Slowing near a deserted bridge, he looked back at the chasing shadows and then out at the crystal clear water—quiet, cold, and still. Maybe this was the only place they couldn’t follow.

The shadows hissed louder, surging forward. His legs buckled. His chest burned. They weren’t just shadows. They were his grief. His guilt. His sorrow.

Would he fight? Or would he fall?

As the shadows reached for him, he chose.

And he jumped.

The river didn’t notice. It rarely does—not for him, not for the twenty-two who follow tomorrow.

– Iwan Lee

Author’s Note: “The Lingering Shadow”s grapples with the lasting psychological effects of war, drawing inspiration from real accounts of veterans who silently battle their past long after the conflict ends. Though fictional, the piece is rooted in empathy and a desire to give voice to pain that often goes unseen. Through fiction, I seek to honor those whose healing is nonlinear, invisible, and deeply human.