One night, Leah passed out in bed with her light on, which Mrs. Reyes lovingly rocked into the dark after reconciling most of their mutual aggravation. Night falls and the camera pans to the darkness outside, then to the shadow of Leah’s window frame where an inky figure stands. The camera shifts to the still sleeping Leah, then returns to the far corner of the room where a blackish mass now exists, pressed into the union of the ceiling and the wall. It’s hard to decipher the cause of the stain until another cut cuts to snoozy Leah and vice versa.
Then the outline moves.
Specifically, the pitch black thing allows the legs to drop as if the undefined being is a human form sitting on a perch, and we see the bottom half unfold.
The camera returns to Leah in the same position, blissfully oblivious of the possible invader hovering, spying from not far enough.
MacDonald is pretty awesome at keeping a tight shot on Leah because our anxiety increases without the ability to keep up with the alien movement. Maybe our eyes are fooled without electric lights, or maybe Pyewacket chose its night to strike. In either case, it is impossible to appease our spirits because the threat exists as far as the eye can see.
Another perspective flip makes it clear that the thing in question is alien and wants to inspect Leah nearby. The hit selection keeps Leah’s body in the frame as Pyewacket first gets to a standing position, then hides with heavy, slow steps towards Leah’s foot of the bed. Once she’s close enough, the camera leans over Leah’s face again as the shadows thicken to suggest that Pyewacket is looming just above the girl’s bedside. Nothing that Leah recognizes, sees or remembers because when we sleep our guard is nonexistent.
It is, hands down, the most frightening thought imaginable.