The Smiling Man

by Blue Tidal
About five years ago I lived downtown in a major city in the US. I've always bee
n a night person, so I would often find myself bored after my roommate, who was
decidedly not a night person, went to sleep. To pass the time, I used to go for
long walks and spend the time thinking.
I spent four years like that, walking alone at night, and never once had a reaso
n to feel afraid. I always used to joke with my roommate that even the drug deal
ers in the city were polite. But all of that changed in just a few minutes of on
e evening.
It was a Wednesday, somewhere between one and two in the morning, and I was walk
ing near a police patrolled park quite a ways from my apartment. It was a quiet
night, even for a week night, with very little traffic and almost no one on foot
. The park, as it was most nights, was completely empty.
I turned down a short side street in order to loop back to my apartment when I f
irst noticed him. At the far end of the street, on my side, was the silhouette o
f a man, dancing. It was a strange dance, similar to a waltz, but he finished ea
ch "box" with an odd forward stride. I guess you could say he was dance-walking,
headed straight for me.
Deciding he was probably drunk, I stepped as close as I could to the road to giv
e him the majority of the sidewalk to pass me by. The closer he got, the more I
realized how gracefully he was moving. He was very tall and lanky, and wearing a
n old suit. He danced closer still, until I could make out his face. His eyes we
re open wide and wild, head tilted back slightly, looking off at the sky. His mo
uth was formed in a painfully wide cartoon of a smile. Between the eyes and the
smile, I decided to cross the street before he danced any closer.
I took my eyes off of him to cross the empty street. As I reached the other side
, I glanced back... and then stopped dead in my tracks. He had stopped dancing a
nd was standing with one foot in the street, perfectly parallel to me. He was fa
cing me but still looking skyward. Smile still wide on his lips.
I was completely and utterly unnerved by this. I started walking again, but kept
my eyes on the man. He didn't move. Once I had put about half a block between u
s, I turned away from him for a moment to watch the sidewalk in front of me. The
street and sidewalk ahead of me were completely empty. Still unnerved, I looked
back to where he had been standing to find him gone. For the briefest of moment
s I felt relieved, until I noticed him. He had crossed the street, and was now s
lightly crouched down. I couldn't tell for sure due to the distance and the shad
ows, but I was certain he was facing me. I had looked away from him for no more
than 10 seconds, so it was clear that he had moved fast.
I was so shocked that I stood there for some time, staring at him. And then he s
tarted moving toward me again. He took giant, exaggerated tip toed steps, as if
he were a cartoon character sneaking up on someone. Except he was moving very, v
ery quickly.
I'd like to say at this point I ran away or pulled out my pepper spray or my cel
lphone or anything at all, but I didn't. I just stood there, completely frozen a
s the smiling man crept toward me.
And then he stopped again, about a car length away from me. Still smiling his sm
ile, still looking to the sky.
When I finally found my voice, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
What I meant to ask was, "What the fuck do you want?!" in an angry, commanding t
one. What came out was a whimper, "What the fuu?"
Regardless of whether or not humans can smell fear, they can certainly hear it.
I heard it in my own voice, and that only made me more afraid. But he didn't rea
ct to it at all. He just stood there, smiling.
And then, after what felt like forever, he turned around, very slowly, and start
ed dance-walking away. Just like that. Not wanting to turn my back to him again,
I just watched him go, until he was far enough away to almost be out of sight.
And then I realized something. He wasn't moving away anymore, nor was he dancing
. I watched in horror as the distant shape of him grew larger and larger. He was
coming back my way. And this time he was running.
I ran too.
I ran until I was off of the side road and back onto a better lit road with spar
se traffic. Looking behind me then, he was nowhere to be found. The rest of the
way home, I kept glancing over my shoulder, always expecting to see his stupid s
mile, but he was never there.
I lived in that city for six months after that night, and I never went out for a
nother walk. There was something about his face that always haunted me. He didn'
t look drunk, he didn't look high. He looked completely and utterly insane. And
that's a very, very scary thing to see.
Fireflies
by Dyvyant
The first part of a series.
I've been told a lot of things in my life, and many of them were lies. As childr
en we're told that magic is real and the bad guy always loses. As teenagers we'r
e told deviation is dangerous, and conformity is paramount. And as adults we're
promised the perfect bliss of a family, and the peace that old age will eventual
ly bring. None of these are true, of course, and being a slightly cynical man it
therefore came as a surprise to me when the most wonderful thing I'd ever been
promised came true.
They say a mother loves her baby as soon as it's within her, and a father falls
in love with his child the first time he holds it. Staring down into those gorge
ous baby blues as that bundle gently writhed in my arms, I wept. My heart pulsed
and throbbed in overwhelming sensation, and I could scarcely believe I had ever
really known what love was before that moment. She was perfect, and she was min
e. We named her Sophia.
We never had any more children after Sophia, but we never wanted any either. Sop
hia became our world, and what a utopian world it was! Before long she had grown
into a precocious little scamp with golden tresses, a button nose, and brillian
t azure eyes that seemed to grow more deep and blue with each passing month. Tho
se were the happiest years of my life, when every day seemed to leak into the ne
xt like a blissful dream that was without end.
But it did end, of course, as all dreams must. My wife's death was a shattering,
chilling awakening, and the entire affair left me only thankful that she had pa
ssed swiftly on the operating table, and had not been forced to endure months of
needless suffering. The grief was almost more than I could bear, and I found so
lace the only place I could think to look for it - at the bottom of a bottle. An
d things might have gone on this way forever - drunk and useless, throwing away
what was left of my life - had it not been for Sophia.
One dark night I was almost a handle deep when she crawled into my lap, curled h
er little arms around as much of me as she could, and buried her face in my ches
t. "Daddy." She said in that voice that would put a choir of angels to shame. "D
addy, please. Please don't be sad. She's waiting for us, Daddy. We'll see her ag
ain."
I had tried to believe this before, and even when she insisted it with such conv
iction, I still could not quite trick myself into accepting it. But it was enoug
h for me that she believed it, and believed it hard enough for the both of us. I
put down the bottle in that moment, and I have not picked it up again in the tw
o decades since. Things weren't okay that night, but in time they were once more
, and though the dream never returned, we again found happiness.
Seasons changed, years passed, and Sophia grew from an adorable scamp to a breat
htakingly gorgeous young woman in what now seems to me like the blink of an eye.
She attended school, made friends, found and lost aspirations, had her heart br
oken (and broke more than one, I am sure), and lived her life with an insatiable
passion for the world's wonders and mysteries. I could be forgiven for fearing
that my little angel would outgrow me, but blessedly, she seemed to realize even
this.
Several times a week she would insist we go for a walk together, and on those wa
lks she would tell me all there was to tell of her life. She was never afraid I
would judge her or condemn her for the things she revealed to me, and I never di
d. I offered advice and perspective as gently as I could, and she always seemed
in better spirits after I had counseled her on a problem. Our walks always ended
in the same place - a small clearing in the woods a few blocks from our house.
It attracted a lovely host of fireflies in the late Spring and Summer, and the d
ancing lights drifting away in the darkness always delighted her.
But children grow up, and they cannot remain ours forever. I knew that, and whil
e I cannot say I was entirely without jealousy and concern when Sophia began dat
ing, I did my best to respect her choices and her independence. It was harder st
ill when she left for college, leaving me, for this first time in almost three d
ecades, alone. Letting her leave was one of the most difficult things I've ever
done, but standing in the way of her happiness would've been even harder. I grew
accustomed to solitude, though I was always overjoyed whenever she returned hom
e.
That is, of course, until she brought home Vaughn. You might expect that I hated
him because he was almost ten years her senior. You might expect that I hated h
im because he'd been married to another woman only two years prior. And you migh
t expect that I hated him because she was so desperately in love with him, but n
one of these is quite the truth. The honest truth is I just hated him, and for r
easons I could only later put my finger on.
I hated the way he looked at her: a sly predator only barely masking its ravenou
s hunger. I hated the way he smiled at me: a smug, almost sneering grin that see
med to hold as much malice as mirth. And most of all I hated the way he talked t
o me. "Oh, don't worry, sir" He would say in that intoxicating voice laced with h
oneyed venom. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of her. You just rest yourself.
I'll take care of everything, sir." He talked to me like I was old, and the damn
fact was I felt old. But I hated that he could see that, and I hated it more th
at Sophia seemed to see it too. He put me in the past, made me obsolete and irre
levant. He replaced me.
Sophia came home less and less after she found Vaughn, and every time she did, h
e came too. But I knew Sophia was smart. I knew she was clever and perceptive, a
nd I hoped, I knew it would only be a matter of time before she saw through the
slimy bastard's thin disguise and saw him for the cretin he was. And each passin
g visit, each heated argument with her, each cancelled trip and each strained ph
one call, I hoped a little less. Still, there were a few good times to be had, a
nd Sophia still permitted me those summer walks to find the fireflies in our cle
aring.
Finally the time came when they visited without any begging or coercing on my pa
rt, and I secretly knew and dreaded what that meant. I'd expected them to just t
ell me, but they didn't. He asked me, pretended like I had any choice or say in
the matter. I saw through his game even then, but I fell into his trap anyway. I
can still hear her shrieking voice begging me to stop as I dragged him to the f
ront porch and threw him onto the cold ground. I snarled at him, barking that he
would never have her. He would never put a ring on my little girl's finger. She
wailed and wept, rushing to pick him up, and as he rose he just looked at me, f
lashed me that sickly sweet smile and said, "That's alright, sir. I don't need y
our permission for what I intend to do."
They left, and when they did not come for lunch the following day as we had arra
nged, I began to worry. The next day I called, and the next, and the next. Now c
onsumed with anxiety, I phoned the college to ask if she had returned only to be
told she had not. I panicked. The police were initially reluctant to take me se
riously, but after days passed with no word from her, even they began to grow co
ncerned. Meanwhile I sat alone in my empty house, constantly fighting the urge t
o return to a place I'd given up that night Sophia had crawled into my lap decad
es ago.
And then it hit me. I don't know why it had taken that long, or how the idea str
uck me with such certainty, but I suddenly knew where my daughter was. I ran at
a dead sprint all the way to the woods, slowing only when I began to see the fai
nt glimmer of fireflies against the fiery horizon of the sinking dusk. By the ti
me I reached the clearing it was almost pitch black, but the light of the firefl
ies made the scene all too vivid.
I cannot and will not describe what he did to her in any detail. The expression
of anguish on her face was so complete and profound that it tore my heart to pie
ces instantly. She was so twisted and mangled and gnarled that I could scarcely
attribute what had once been my angel to what remained before my eyes; it seemed
more like some grim doll, a gruesome mimic of what once had been. I collapsed,
crawling towards where most of her naked, violated corpse lay, and for how long
I wept, shrieked, and howled in torment I cannot recall. The fireflies seemed to
close in around me, swirling about me and crawling within torn openings of her
flesh, wriggling through her eyes and out of her gaping mouth.
They committed me to a mental institution for the next three months, but there i
sn't much of that time that I remember. My dreams were haunted by distant pinpri
cks of floating light, and the knowledge that my world was empty. The fury when
the police told me that they could not find him was only matched by the nausea t
hat overtook me when they told me she had been pregnant.
I replaced my infinite grief with newfound purpose. I came to know everything th
ere was to know about him: his name, his childhood, his friends, his family, his
failed marriage, his public passions, and his dark desires. I went from being u
tterly computer illiterate to an Internet junky solely for the purpose of diggin
g out every scrap of information there was on him. But try as I might, I could n
ot find him.
Six months after Sophia's death, I was finally beginning to feel truly and inevi
tably defeated. Leads were becoming increasingly disparate and desperate, and Va
ughn seemed so far gone as to be forever out of reach. I stumbled the few blocks
through the woods, drunk for the first time in more than twenty years. The fire
flies were still there, but they seemed now to taunt me as much as they welcomed
me, their haunting lights looking just the same as the night I had found her.
I collapsed just as I had then, but I think I actually wept more this time. Seve
ral times I considered breaking the bottle clutched in my fist in a way that mig
ht allow me to finish myself, but some measure of resolve or cowardice prevented
me. I wallowed away the witching hours in my sorrow until dawn's coming began t
o bathe the fireflies' yellow glow with an orange hue.
And in that new day, that fresh beginning, it came to me: an idea that erased th
e deep frown on my face and replaced it with a jubilant, beaming smile. I laughe
d where only moments before I had cried, rising to my feet with the thought that
filled me once more with purpose and anticipation. Really it had been there all
along - I had known the key to it for months, but it was not until that moment
that it clicked into place. I didn't need to find him at all.
Because he has a daughter. And I know where she lives.
My Son's Closet
by Cptnwalrus
I feel a tug at my side. Groggily, I open my eyes and in focuses my 5 year old s
on standing by my bed.
"Patrick..? What are you....it's 2:30 in the morning..." I whisper, tiredly squi
nting at my alarm clock.
"Can I sleep with you tonight dad?" he says, holding back tears.
I pat the area on the bed behind me to tell him to come up, as I make room for h
im, inching away from my wife, he crawls in between us and drowns himself in cov
ers.
This has been the 4th night in a row.
The next day, I'm making grilled cheese for lunch as my wife walks into the kitc
hen.
"I think we need to do something about Patrick's nightmares" she says concerned.
I don't take my eyes off the lunch in front of me.
"...Nothing really to talk about, I always went to my parent's room when I got s
cared as a kid."
"Yes but...consecutively..?"
Silence overcomes the kitchen, save the quiet grasp of heat on the sandwiches be
low me. She had a point, I remember going to my parent's room in seek of comfort
every now and then but to do it 4 nights in a row? Seemed a little bit overkill
.
"I don't know," says my wife, flipping her hand in the air and breaking the sile
nce, "maybe we should send him to a therapist or something"
"A therapist? Rachel he's 5 years old. This is probably just a little phase, I'm
sure he'll get over it."
"Alright..." she sighs reluctantly.
I finish my sandwich and serve it onto a plate. While part of me agrees with wha
t I just said, the other part is screaming that something is wrong.
9:00 o'clock PM. Patrick went to bed an hour ago, and the wife has gone out with
a friend. The house's creaks are the only thing to hear as I walk up the stairs
, giving in to the fact that I have to work tomorrow.
As I pass Patrick's room something catches my ear. Quiet sulking.
I open the door and I see my son sitting up with blankets up to his shoulders cr
ying on the corner of his bed. He jolts his head to me when the door opens, and
then lets out a louder cry, reaching for my safety.
I run towards him.
"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" I soothe.
Behind tears, he points to his closet and utters "I hear noises in my closet..."
I turn around and see his half opened closet across his room. Poor guy, I rememb
er when I was scared of my closet.
Walking over to the closet and closing it completely, I try to reassure him.
"Patrick, I know sometimes it may seem like the house makes scary noises, but yo
u have to remember it's all natural. You can't let your imagination control you.
Every time you think you hear a strange sound that you're not sure about, just
remind yourself that it's just the house settling, alright?
He reluctantly nods his head, despite it being obvious he doesn't think that wil
l solve any problems. I kneel down beside his bed and gently touch his arm.
"Now, I'm going to go to bed. If you get scared at all, just come into my room.
But I want you to try and be brave, if a noise scares you, just ignore it and tr
y to think of happy things."
He slowly nods again and stares in silence as I walk out of the room. There was
something about his stare though that made me uneasy. Something that made me fee
l like I was abandoning him. Like he was trying to get as much time looking at m
e, an object of safety, before he was left alone in his room. I felt bad, but in
the end thought it would be good for him if he overcame his fear.
He didn't. What was probably only an hour later, as I'm about to drift off into
a deep slumber he comes running in the room, crying intensely. I pick him up fro
m the floor and nestle him between me and a stack of pillows.
"What happened?" I asked.
He sat there, still crying, trying to get the words out.
"I...I...I...I saw a face..."
My heart sank. Please tell me this was just his imagination exaggerating somethi
ng like a coat peaking out into his view.
Eventually his crying stopped and he began to close his eyes. When I was sure he
was sleeping, I softly moved out of bed. The fatherly instinct in me told me I
should check out the closet, even if it was just his imagination.
I closed the door to my room behind me and turned on the hall lights. My hands g
rasped the doorknob of my son's room and I lightly turned it to ensure he did no
t wake up suddenly without a father beside him. The door opened slowly, and as I
tip toed in I could see my son's room unveiling.
It was perfectly fine. I turned and looked into the closet, and just like I had
thought, an arm of a white dress shirt was peaking out from the depths into my s
on's room. In the darkness he most likely saw it as a pale face and became scare
d. I shut the closet door and calmly walked back to my room, stopping halfway wh
en a thought occurred...didn't I already close the closet door?
I've come to terms with the fact that everything I know is a dream.
By Tiyafwons
As a preface, please note that this will probably be very long. I don't care if
nobody reads it; everyone in the world could read it and nothing would change. I
just need to voice my concerns for my own sake. Perhaps by organizing everythin
g on a page I can make sense of things.
Several years ago, I was in a brutal car accident. I was parked in front of a tr
ain track, waiting for the train to pass by. I was the last person not to make i
t across the tracks. For visualization, there was a solid stream of cars on eith
er side. If I had tried to sneak across, I would have rear-ended the person in f
ront of me before successfully clearing them.
I could hear the train approaching, and the black-and-yellow bars lowered in fro
nt of me. I am fascinated by trains, so I was delighted to be so close, finally
getting a front row seat. The train was about a quarter mile from the crossing w
hen the driver behind me accelerated and nudged me forward a few feet. The bars
bent and eventually snapped, and I was knocked joltingly onto the tracks. I pani
cked and threw the car into reverse, trying to back out. The other car apparentl
y had more horsepower, however, and to my horror my car door aligned perfectly w
ith the cattle guard on the front of the train.
I scrambled to get out of the car, but forgot about my seatbelt. I nearly strang
led myself trying to get free. By the time I unlatched it, it was too late. One
fraction of a second of the loudest sound I had ever heard, and then blackness a
nd silence. I was certain that I had died. I didn't feel any pain, and certainly
if I had survived I'd be in agony. I tried to open my eyes, but nothing would h
appen. I tried to make a sound, to wiggle my fingers, or do anything, but I coul
dn't. It wasn't that I was paralyzed; it was more like I didn't have a body to m
anipulate. I was just a mind submerged in a pool of nothing. The only sentiment
I felt was that I had returned to that state after being gone for a long time; l
ike forgetting how your parents' house smells until you visit home for the holid
ays.
Gradually, I started to have feelings of sensation. Passing waves of warmth and
wetness finally allowed me to determine where the edges of my body were. Almost
as soon as I became aware of my physical self, it began to ache. I felt as if ev
ery inch of me had been pummeled with a baseball bat--the heavy wooden kind. Eve
n opening my eyes was a spectacular ordeal.
I was in a hospital. So I had survived after all. People moved to surround me. F
aces that never fully came into focus hovered above my own, and sounds that vagu
ely resembled speech seemed to reach me through water. It wasn't long before I f
elt weak again and my eyes closed.
This fading in and out of consciousness lasted for what felt like a very long ti
me, maybe months, though the doctors told me it was only a matter of days. After
that, I worked on speaking and swallowing food, which seems silly, but it was a
ctually a challenge at the time. Finally, as more and more casts were removed, I
was allowed to sit up and turn my head, for which I was incredibly grateful.
According to my family and my then-girlfriend Sarah, all of whom were overjoyed
at being able to speak with me, I was asleep for several days on end after the c
rash. I remember Sarah specifically saying she had missed being able to "stare a
t those beautiful eyes."
Time passed at an excruciatingly slow pace until physical therapy finally escala
ted to the point where I could be pushed around in a wheelchair. The doctors wer
e surprisingly hopeful that I'd be able to walk again, but it was what they call
ed "cautious optimism." Nobody wanted to tell me I could be independent again an
d then have to admit they were wrong later. Obviously I was very hopeful myself,
though even transferring from chair to bed was a painful challenge. It was arou
nd this time that I noticed I never dreamed anymore. When I slept, I only felt t
he same nothingness that I felt immediately after the crash.
All the days blended together for a while after that. The next memory I can actu
ally separate from the rest is the first time I tried walking on my own. There w
ere staff members holding on to my arms and waist, just in case I fell, and with
their help, I made it all the way across the room on my first try. The doctors
said they had never seen such a rapid recovery. I was giddy.
Obviously I wasn't out of the woods yet, but soon I was allowed to live at home
again with frequent PT sessions, and some weeks after that, I returned to work.
Life was almost normal for a while. Except for a very slight limp in my left leg
, the side that the train hit me on, I was feeling pretty normal. It was only af
ter about a month of living in my own house that weird things started to happen.
The first thing I noticed was that I felt an occasional stinging on my right for
earm, like a thin needle was puncturing my skin. It was a tiny prick, maybe twic
e a day at most. I figured it was just nerve trauma or something and blocked it
from my mind. Feigning ignorance was harder to do when I started hearing things,
though. While I was reading in bed one night, I thought I heard Sarah crying. I
strained my ears to make sure, and I definitely heard her sobs, but very distan
tly, like I was submerged in a pool.
I made my way downstairs quickly, concerned that she had hurt herself or somethi
ng, but she was just washing dishes in the kitchen. "Are you okay?" I asked caut
iously.
"Yeah, why?" She asked nonchalantly.
"No reason."
I dismissed these oddities as best I could. After all, how could anyone expect t
o recover from being hit by a goddamn train without some lingering effects? Ever
y so often, mostly when I was trying to fall asleep or sitting in a silent room,
I would hear occasional sounds that I couldn't connect at first. Gradually, I d
etermined that they were hospital sounds--stretchers being rolled across tiled f
loors, beeping from machines, rapid chatter between nurses and doctors.
Although I figured anyone who had suffered as much trauma as I had would experie
nce some degree of whatever I was experiencing, I decided to bring it up with my
doctor. He told me it was perfectly normal for someone in my circumstances, and
he could prescribe me a sleep aid if I felt it was necessary. I told him it was
n't a big deal; I was just satisfied that a doctor could explain my symptoms.
The odd glimpses of what seemed to be my past only increased in frequency. When
I slept, I finally dreamed again, but it was always the same thing. If I saw any
thing at all, it was a hospital room. Sometimes there were other people in the r
oom, and sometimes I was alone with the machines.
There was one night in particular in which the dream was more vivid and gripping
than usual. My eyes opened wearily to see Sarah asleep on the chair beside my h
ospital bed. "Sarah?" I croaked. She jerked awake.
"Henry!" She scrambled to my side, clutching my hand. At this point, it occurred
to me that I was dreaming. I stared right into Sarah's eyes.
"I'm asleep right now."
She seemed concerned. "No, Henry. You're finally awake. I'm right here. It's bee
n so long."
"Of course you would say that. You're a part of my dream." I smiled, amused. "I'
ll probably wake up any second." But as I spoke the familiar soreness caught up
to me all at once. It practically knocked the wind from my lungs.
"Henry, no." Her distress was now evident. "I don't know what you're talking abo
ut. Stay with me, Henry. Stay awake. Look at me." I shook my head defiantly and
closed my eyes. When I opened them, I was back in my own bed. It was about 3:00
in the morning. I sat awake, pondering what I had just seen. I thought I heard S
arah crying again, even though I could see her sleeping beside me.
When Sarah finally woke up, she rolled over and laid an arm across my chest. "Go
od morning, big guy." She smiled groggily.
"If I was asleep right now, would you tell me?" I asked.
"What?" She chuckled. "That's kinda heavy stuff to drop on a sleepy person."
"Just bear with me. If I was asleep right now--dreaming, you know--would you tel
l me?"
"Well, I feel pretty real," she noted, patting different parts of her body. "Do
you think I'm not real?"
"Of course not," I said. We got ready for our day. I couldn't stop thinking abou
t my dream, though. I noticed that when I tried really hard to space out at work
, and listened closely enough, I could hear the hospital sounds more clearly. I
was naturally concerned about this.
That night, I went to bed early, and just as I thought, I was transported immedi
ately to the hospital bed. I felt the thin sheets beneath my fingers. I opened m
y eyes, and Sarah was reading a book in the same chair as before. I just looked
at her for a long time, trying to discern if she was real. She certainly seemed
real enough. She turned pages with the same flourish that she always had, and ch
ewed on one of the temples of her reading glasses.
Eventually, she looked up and met my eyes. "You're awake again!" She gasped. "Vi
ctoria! Paul! He's awake!" My parents entered the room moments later, looking ex
cited.
I talked with them all for a long time. Of course, my parents, too, denied the f
act that I was asleep, but that topic passed quickly. Instead, we discussed my c
ondition. I had been in a coma for almost three months with little response. The
y had been slowly losing hope for my recovery until my brain showed signs of act
ivity. Since that time, they had been visiting me frequently, hoping that I woul
d wake up. It seemed a pretty convincing story.
After many hours of talking, I had to stop; I was legitimately sleepy. Of course
, they all understood and I fell back asleep. Only this time, I didn't wake up i
n my own bed. I woke up in the same hospital bed a few hours later. I had to thi
nk about it for a very long time, but eventually concluded that I must have imag
ined my miraculous recovery, and had been in a coma the whole time after all. As
you can imagine, it was hard to accept at first.
Since then, I have been making a second recovery, which has been slower and less
successful than the first. That's why, for a long time, I was mostly convinced
that I'm really awake this time. Nobody walks after getting blindsided by a trai
n, at least not without lots of hard work. I've still only left my wheelchair on
crutches, and it's been six years.
It probably sounds like a bittersweet ending, and at one point I agreed. I was p
repared to live happily-ever-after in my wheelchair, and maybe even graduate to
crutches someday, except for one thing. When I'm getting ready for bed, after I
turn off my lamp and my head hits the pillow, I can still hear them; the faint s
ounds of a busy hospital.
I know that many of you will say "But I'm real. This is real life. Of course you
're awake." But that's what you're supposed to say. Nobody's going to tell me "I
'm fake. You're dreaming, wake up." I'm still asleep, and I've learned to deal w
ith it. I know that nobody I meet during the day is real, but I'm tired, so I ju
st pretend, and that will have to do.
Don't Turn Off The Webcam
by 0450AZ001
Linh and I met in 2008. She was from a very small town in Washington with a popu
lation of less than five hundred. I was working my way through college as an eve
nt bartender in Portland. Linh's cousin was getting married in Portland, and as fa
te would have it, the wedding reception was held at an upscale hotel on the Colu
mbia River where I frequently tended to small wine and beer bars. I noticed her
immediately, as I often notice women that I quickly convince myself are too beau
tiful to ever date someone like me. Eventually as the night went on, she made he
r way over to my bar and ordered a white wine. We talked for a while about Portl
and. I sweated profusely as I tend to do around girls like her. She would be spe
nding the next two days in the city, and I took a few moments telling her about
the most interesting sights to see and things to do in town.
Wow, you should just be my personal tour guide she said, grabbing my arm and smili
ng. This happened to me so infrequently that I really had no idea how to react,
so I just mumbled Sure, what time? and laughed nervously to hedge in the event tha
t she was joking. How about 10:30 tomorrow morning she replied.
And so started my relationship with Linh. She was infectious, with a personality
that was so innocent and warm. I immediately fell in love with her. There were
a few issues that we would have to work through. She was still in Washington and
I was finishing school in Oregon. Linh was Vietnamese with a very traditional f
ather who would never approve of her having a white boyfriend. She lived alone i
n a house with her father as her mother had passed away several years earlier, s
o going to Yarrow Point to visit her was out of the question. She would come to
see me every three weeks under the guise of a prestigious internship program.
Being in a long distance relationship, we spoke on the phone and texted constant
ly. When high speed internet finally came to her small town in Washington, I sur
prised her with a webcam for her computer so we could have an even better means
of long distance communication. In the back of my mind, I was always looking for
ways to be with her as even after two years of dating I was paranoid a girl as
beautiful as her would eventually find somebody better to share her life with.
In 2010, Linh's father passed away suddenly in his sleep from a heart attack. He w
as everything to her, and she was heartbroken. When she returned from Florida wh
ere the funeral was held and her father buried, she was all alone in the house w
here she had lost both of her parents. With Linh's father deceased, she was open t
o finally allowing me to come to Washington to see her, which we planned on doin
g in a few weeks after my college finals.
One night during our usual bedtime conversation, Linh mentioned to me that her f
ather had been acting strangely in the days leading up to his death. She explain
ed that he had taken to checking up on her multiple times throughout the day and
night, and scattering religious artifacts throughout the house. This behavior,
she said, was highly uncharacteristic of him. Vietnamese culture and religion wa
s something foreign to me, and at various points Linh had mentioned things like
this that I normally wrote off as just being a little silly. She explained to me
that being in the house alone without her Dad was emotional and may be playing
tricks on her. She hated the feeling of being so alone. She told me that being a
ble to see me on her webcam was the closest thing she had to family, and asked t
hat I promise to never turn off the webcam. She meant the world to me, so I was
happy to oblige.
A few days passed and it was now the Tuesday before the weekend when I would fin
ally come to see her in Washington. We spent our bedtime webcam session excitedl
y talking about our plans and I dozed off with my head on the kitchen table in m
id conversation. It had been a long day. When I woke up, I saw Linh sleeping on
my screen and stumbled off to bed.
At 3:00am, my cell phone begin to ring. Disoriented, I rolled over, took a look
at the clock and knew it could only be her. She took great pleasure in waking me
up in the middle of the night to let me know that she had just gotten a drink o
f water, or had an amusing dream. Anyone else would have gotten an earful from m
e, but her flirtatious giggle made me feel lucky to have my much needed sleep in
terrupted.
"I had a nightmare" Linh gasped. "...You danced in front of my friends". She bur
st into laughter.
"What are you doing up so late honey? You've got to work in the morning?" I said
.
"I was thirsty, and went downstairs to get a drink of water."
"Great, well we really should go back to sleep, tomorrow is a big day".
"Allllright" she conceded, "Hey by the way, don't forg----"
After a few crackles and a brief burst of static, the call disconnected. I hated
Linh's phone, she had an old flip phone that dropped calls with no rhyme or rea
son at least three times a day. I held down the #1 on my own phone, my speed dia
l for Linh. No ring, straight to voicemail.
I tried to call several more times, and each time it again went straight to voic
email.
I was exhausted, and though I loved Linh to death, to be honest I just wanted to
go back to sleep. My eyelids hung heavy.
A little annoyed, I decided to walk out to my kitchen for a quick drink of water
. The two glasses of wine that I drank before bed had left me with a little bit
of dry mouth. As I rinsed the glass and went to place it in the dishwasher, out
of the corner of my eye I saw movement on the glow of the laptop perched on my d
ining room table.
It was the webcam. Two fluffy brown paws were making a swimming motion directly
in front of her camera. As I got closer I saw a close up of two grinning faces.
One of that silly dog of hers, and the other of my giggling girlfriend, who knew
that eventually after being unable to make phone contact I would wander out to
the webcam to say goodnight. I wouldn't put it past her to turn the phone off on
purpose to elaborately stage this scene. Me, standing in my underwear at 3am on
a work night, half asleep staring at a girl and a puppy on a webcam.
I waved goodnight, and she kissed the lens of the webcam and pulled away.
I froze.
I wiped my eyes and looked again.
There.
It's... standing in the corner of the room. It's...
Staring at her.
Wrinkled. Angry, twisted mouth.
Hateful eyes.
What the fuck.
HATEFUL eyes.
It's watching her.
Two hours later, I woke on the dining room floor. I had a ringing in my ears and
a knot on the back of my head. I immediately knew what had happened. It wasn't
the first time. Sudden, extreme stress has given me panic attacks and black outs
a few times before. I had never felt such fear when what had happened came rush
ing back and I nearly had a second panic attack when my thoughts turned to Linh.
I loved her more than anything in the world. It took me several moments to summ
on the courage the look in the direction of my laptop. When I finally did, the s
creensaver had long since turned on. I looked away from the screen as I flicked
the touchpad with my shaking finger. It took me another two minutes to open my e
yes.
Linh laid sleeping in her bed. She looked so peaceful. Sleeping on her side, fac
ing towards the webcam. As frightened and confused as I was, relief at her safet
y gave me a sense of comfort as I desperately tried to process what had happened
. Maybe the wine had hit me harder than I thought. Maybe I slipped and fell on t
he slick tile floor, and it all had been a nightmare.
I stared at her. I loved her. Maybe more than even I realized. So peaceful and b
eautiful as she slept.
The light of her television danced across her room and illuminated the bed. As I
watched on, her hand began to move.
Slowly.
Unnaturally.
She was sleeping but her fingers crawled across the bed slowly until they reache
d something. It was her cell phone.
Her hand moved like a spider, fingers popping in several directions across the k
eys.
What the hell?
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
My phone was vibrating.
"New Message: DON'T..."
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
"New Message: TURN..."
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
"New Message: OFF"
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
"New Message: THE"
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
"New Message: WEB"
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
"New Message: CAM"
Complete terror set in as the messages came across the screen of my cell phone.
"New Message: DON'T..."
"New Message: TURN..."
"New Message: OFF"
"New Message: THE"
"New Message: WEB"
"New Message: CAM"
As I glanced back to my laptop, horror overcame me as slowly a shadow crept acro
ss the floor. Something was crossing in front of the television. Moving closer t
o Linh.
I told myself it was just her dog, right? The color drained out of my face when
I noticed the puppy sleeping in the far corner of the room.
I picked up my phone and dialed Linh. I didn't know what I would tell her, but I k
new she needed to get out of there immediately and never go back. Dammit straigh
t to voicemail! THAT STUPID OLD PHONE OF HERS.
The full shadow now hung completely over Linh.
Her hand jerked, flipping open her cell phone.
My phone was ringing.
I answered, LINH! LINH CAN YOU HEAR ME YOU NEED TO"
A burst of loud static forced my phone reflexively away from my ear.
On the webcam I saw Linh's lips begin to move. Her eyes were shut, but she was spe
aking.
I heard her voice come across the phone, but something wasn't right. She was speak
ing, but a second, deeper voice echoed hers in perfect unison.
DON'T TURN OFF THE WEBCAM. AGRAMON WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOU. DON'T TURN OFF THE WEBCAM. A
GRAMON IS READY FOR YOU NOW
Who? What? What does he want? I yelled in desperation.
HE WANTS TO EAT YOUR SKIN.
The line disconnected.
The shadow across Linh's bed changed directions.
It started moving away from the bed and towards her laptop towards the webcam.
As the shadow moved closer small streams of gray liquid rolled towards the lens.
The images coming across my monitor began to shake violently.
It was almost here. I could now see the top of it's head. It was CRAWLING towards
me. Wet strings of silver and black hair hanging over it's face. I remembered thos
e hateful eyes and I lost control of my bladder as it slowly begin to tilt it's he
ad up.
And then I did it.
In panic I slammed my laptop shut and threw it against the hard tile floor befor
e collapsing to the ground.
I wished for a panic attack to take my consciousness and end this nightmare, but
it didn't come.
I crawled to the panel of switches a few feet up on the wall and turned on every
light that I could. I noticed the bottle of wine still open on the kitchen coun
ter and drank most of it down in a single swallow. I reached up and pulled open
my apartment door, and stumbled across the threshold, extending half of my body
into the common hallway so I wouldn't feel so alone. A pathetic coward sprawled ou
t on the concrete.
My phone began to ring.
I crawled to it. Linh's name was flashing on the caller ID. I held it in my hand,
paralyzed by fear.
And then the ringing stopped.
I took another mouthful of wine and mustered the courage to call back. It went s
traight to voicemail. And then again and again as I tried to call.
Eventually the shock and drowsiness from the wine got the better of me, and I pa
ssed out on the floor after making a few more attempts.
When I awoke several hours later, despite the broken laptop and empty bottle, I
wanted to believe that it was all some sort of horrible nightmare.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw blue flashing light on my cell phone.
You Have One New Voicemail
My hand trembled as I dialed my voicemail and entered my passcode.
The message was time stamped, and was from the missed call I had from Linh befor
e passing out.
Her voice. She was in tears and frightened as though I had never heard her befor
e.
You promised. Why.why did you.turn off the web webcam
His his tongue burns
With a crackle the message ended.
Two years have passed since that night. I never tried to contact Linh again. I n
ever called her work to see if she came in the following morning. I never made i
t to Yarrow Point in Washington where she lived. She was my soul mate, and I let
this happen. I was probably right on the night we met when I told myself I wasn't
man enough for her.
The only reason I am telling this story today, under the cowardly vale of anonym
ity, is because my drug and alcohol counselor thinks it would be good for me. So
here it is. I made the decision to let the love of my life face an unimaginable
nightmare to spare myself, and the worst part is that I may not even regret it.
Now if you will excuse me, I think I need another drink.
Signed,
Anonymous
Eidetic Memory
by TalksAtYou
Recently, my parents brought up that when I was much younger, I had several nigh
t terrors. They talked to a pediatrician and changed my sleep schedule and I nev
er had them again. However, I was rather intrigued since I really don't remember
having night terrors. I asked my Mom to tell me what I was like during one of t
he terrors. She said it was a bit disturbing, as I would have a look of absolute
horror on my face and would not respond to anything my parents said. I also wou
ld say words, but they were in some sort of babbling language that was unintelli
gible.
Our minds tend to protect us from experiences or dreams that are often too distu
rbing for our psyches to handle. Combined with my young age, that's likely why I
don't remember night terrors, and why victims of trauma often forget such event
s. Our minds act as a barrier to horrifying input. It saves us from the terrible
things that would rip through our fragile heads. But that got me thinking- what
about people who don't forget?
The phenomena known as photographic or eidetic memory is one in which people can
remember anything they've seen just by looking at it for a short period of time
. It seems like a wonderful ability, especially given how much information we're
required to remember for our jobs or school. But, it has the obvious downside o
f remembering EVERYTHING. There have been tales of people remembering every wron
g that has been done to them in vivid detail, making it difficult to make and ma
intain connections with friends or family. And what about in my case? Would I wa
nt to remember those horrible terrors?
I met a man named Mark through a friend, and found out that he worked at a Learn
ing and Memory Center. I asked him about eidetic memories and their downsides, a
nd it just so happened that he used to work with very rare and unusual cases. At
first, he didn't seem to want to talk about them, and was really closed-off abo
ut his work. After some prodding though, he agreed to meet me at a quiet cafe, a
nd relayed to me his stories.
When Mark started at the CLM, he was asked if he wanted to take on the case of p
eople with eidetic memories who have had near death experiences. Being a fairly
religious guy, Mark thought that he would hear wonderful tales of life-after-dea
th and as such readily agreed. However, his expectations were shattered after re
ading the file on the first recorded case of eidetics in life after death.
A 37-year-old man had been involved in a car accident and was legally dead for 2
3 seconds on the operating table. After several days of unconsciousness, he awok
e as a nurse was checking up on him. Despite his injuries, he tore out both his
and the attending nurse's eyes, and tried to push his eyes into her empty bleedi
ng sockets. The doctors ran in as the man began to scream at her, Do you see them
?! Do you see them, too?!
Despite the horrible account, Mark traveled to different mental institutions, co
llecting other accounts from eidetics who had near-death experiences. While very
few were quite as severe as the first account, they were still unsettling. No s
ingle near-death eidetic could be what any psychologist would describe as sane,
but very few of them had any psychological disturbances before their near-death
experience. They were all fairly well adjusted people until their various experi
ences.
Several things stayed fairly constant between the patients. Most of them were co
mpletely devoid of recognizable language and had to be constantly sedated and re
strained, as many of them would attempt to remove their eyes or stab their eardr
ums. When asked why they would do this (and in the rare moment that they were co
herent enough to answer), they would say in anguish that they didn't want to hea
r or see them anymore. When not sedated, they writhed on the ground as if they wer
e experiencing a dehabilitating pain. Despite their self-destruction tendencies,
they seemed to have a great fear of death and never injured themselves to the p
oint of possible fatality. Despite all this, Mark still continued in his job unt
il he met the rarest case of them all. After speaking with this patient, he dema
nded a transfer.
The final patient was a lesser known serial killer. His eidetic memory made him
very difficult to apprehend, and very dangerous to his victims. His near-death e
xperience had been after a gunshot wound that was inflicted during his tense cap
ture by police. However, unlike the other patients, this serial killer acted com
pletely calm and lucid. It was as if nothing about him had changed. He did not t
ry to mutilate himself or babble about seeing things. He was still quite insane,
but certainly not in the same way as the others.
Mark sat down with him in a guarded and watched room, and asked him the same que
stions he asked the others. He asked the man if he saw anything and if so, what
did he see? Mark told me his answer verbatim and I repeat it here.
I saw and heard what I always have. The Whisperers. They're inhuman, they are the
exact opposite of what we are. We live and breathe, and they do not. Most of yo
u can't hear them, and even the once-dead forget their words. Those that remembe
r though, are changed. They can't handle the truth of death. Not me though...I'v
e always heard them. They tell me that they want more of you. They tell me to br
ing more of you to them.
That was the last Mark ever heard from any of the eidetics.
I noticed though, as he told me the story, he began to get more and more nervous
. His palms started to sweat and he wrung his hands. After he relayed to me his
story, I asked him what was wrong.
He grabbed my hand then, and I could feel him trembling. His words chilled me.
The reason I started with that project is because I have an eidetic memory...
The Machine
by Nihilistic_novelist
My Grandfather was an inventor, and a skilled one at that. Over his lifetime he
accumulated over forty patents that allowed him to live quite comfortably after
his retirement. After he retired he was able to focus on inventing stuff he enjo
yed and found interesting rather than stuff that would earn him a paycheck. Natu
rally his wife and our family supported the viewings of his latest invention, ev
en though nobody really found them very interesting. But We loved being around h
im, and took every opportunity to drive the short distance to his house to see h
im.
My grandfather wasn't just brilliant, he also was gifted with exceptional social
skills as well as an intimidating IQ. He was the kind of guy who put a smile on
everybody's face, the kind of guy who everyone seemed to like, the kind of guy
everyone wanted to be around and be like, and I was no exception.
One day we get a phone call from my grandpa inviting us to the viewing of his ne
w invention. His "life's work" he calls it, the invention he's been working on f
or the past twenty years, is nearly complete. He says it should be done in a few
more weeks, but he just wanted to inform us on how close he was.
My grandfather hangs up the phone.
We would have dinner at my grandpa's house once a week every week, and in the we
eks leading up the viewing he was ecstatic. He pranced around the house with a s
mile from ear to ear seemingly stuck on his face. His laugh was louder. His food
tasted better. Everything about him echoed happiness.
And then it stopped.
A few days before the viewing was supposed to take place we get a call. It's my
grandfather he tells us the viewing is canceled and so is dinner for the week.
My grandfather hangs up the phone.
After the phone call my grandpa is a ghost. He doesn't pick up any calls, doesn'
t visit our family, and won't allow us to visit him. My grandmother is worried.
She doesn't know what's wrong either. My grandfather the man who used to be the
life of the party was now a reclusive old man who never left his room. The inven
tions in which he took so much joy into creating now gathered dust in his worksh
op.
The phone rings. I pick up the phone to hear my grandmother sobbing on the other
line. It's my grandfather he's hung himself. He didn't even leave a note.
My family goes over to the house to help my grandmother clean, and get rid of a
few items that my grandmother doesn't want around anymore. My father assigns my
siblings and I all rooms to clean.
I get the workshop.
I walk in the workshop and the place is shrouded in a haze of dust. Relics of my
grandfather's creativity are scattered everywhere, each of them adorned with th
eir own layer of dust. I grab a few items and throw them in the cardboard box I'
m holding tucked between my forearm and my hip. I have no idea what I'm supposed
to be cleaning, so I look for the most dusty items first and I throw them in th
e box. Each item that lands producing its own cloud of dust.
In the corner of the room I see a object concealed under a sheet, like the way y
ou see those cars before their unveiled in the movies. And out of all the things
in the room it's the least dusty of all. I walk over the object. I hesitate for
a moment before I pull the sheet from the object revealing what's underneath. U
nderneath the sheet is a chair, a chair that looks like it could be a futuristic
version of the electric chair. It's like nothing you've ever seen before. It's
made of metal, like some type of chrome. It shines so bright that you have to sq
uint your eyes when you're looking at it. In a way it seems to give life to the
lifeless room masked in dust. It's tall and intimidating with chords and wires r
eaching around from the back to plug into some sort of helmet in the front of th
e chair. And from the helmet some kind of looking glass hangs. Like a combinatio
n of binoculars and some sort of retinal scanner that you see in movies from the
future. I see this throne crafted by my grandfather, and instantly I know what
it is.
This machine is my grandfather's life work.
I hesitate for a moment, take a deep breath, and take a seat in the chair. It's
cold and uncomfortable. I think twice before pulling the helmet over my head, bu
t I do it anyways. I pull the looking glasses to align with my eyes, and I wait
for something to happen.
Nothing does.
I turn to look around either side of the chair, and see a small switch. I flick
it opposite of the way it's facing and pull the helmet and glasses to my face on
ce more. This times there's a flash. It's more subtle than I expected, but still
reasonably bright. It's a flash about as bright and as loud as one you would se
e given off by those cameras in the 1930's. A single flash, and than nothing.
I got out of the chair moved around, and nothing had changed. I thought whatever
machine my grandpa had been working on was broken, and that the machine simply
being broken is what caused him to be depressed. However upon seeing my father e
nter the room I knew it had worked. And I knew exactly what it had done.
The machine that my grandfather had crafted, his life work, is unlike any other
machine on the planet. The machine allows you to see people. To see who they are
completely, without any deceptions. It allows you to see into their soul.
The visions you get come to you in the same way a day dream does. Two separate u
niverses bleeding into the same reality. When you see a person after you've used
the machine, you'll never see them the same way again. You see the good and the
evil at the same time. The disturbing part is how little good there is compared
to the evil.
Anywhere you go you're surrounded by monsters instead of people. Wolves in sheep
's clothing. Each person you cross is a terrible fabrication. The man who lives
next door is the man who touches his daughter every night after his wife goes to
sleep. Your mailman is an alcoholic who beats his wife after he gets home from
work. The man you just passed walking down the street is a serial killer. Everyw
here you go you're haunted by the mythological creatures around you.
But that's not what drove my grandpa mad. It's not what caused him to take his l
ife. Because the scariest thing of all isn't what you see when you go outside. T
he thing that haunts you the most is what you see when you look in the mirror.
Some Things are Better Left Unsaid
by DinosaurTheFrog
My memories of my childhood and adolescence have always been hazy at best. I alw
ays assumed that this was just the normal flow of life - that, with time, old me
mories, when not dwelled upon, often began to take on a dreamlike quality where
you have a few brief glimpses into things, but never quite the entire picture. H
owever, I have now reached the age where I, along with my friends, have started
having children. As such, we often find ourselves comparing our childhood experi
ences to those of our children. This sharing of memories has always been uncomfo
rtable for me as I feel I am unable to match the vivid clarity of my peers when
they share tales of their youth. It's these conversations with friends that have
brought me to spend a lot of time just trying to remember things...anything...a
bout my younger days to share with the group. I'm starting to wish I had just le
t the dust settle on these lost memories because I think something else was buri
ed along with them.
My curiosity led me to the most logical place to look for clues regarding my app
arently abnormally fuzzy memories - my parents. I still remember that awkward co
nversation with my mother. I held the phone from my ear a bit as she always spok
e loudly on the phone. Even with the phone held half an inch from my ear, I coul
d hear that familiar voice of my mother.
Well, look who finally decided to call his mom!.
I laughed, knowing that she wasn't actually upset. This was a game she played ever
y time I called.
It hasn't been THAT long since I last called! How are you and dad?
She proceeded to share details of projects my father had taken up since his heal
th problems forced him to retire. She discussed doctors appointments and shared
her frustration over some problem she was having with her computer. This is when
I saw my opportunity.
Maybe I can come by tomorrow and take a look at it? While I'm there, I'd like to ask
you about something.
I had to hold the phone out further as the idea of a visit from me also meant a
visit from her grandkids. She quickly replied:
That sounds great. I'll make fried chicken! I know that's your favorite. What was it
you wanted to ask me about?
I paused. I don't know how, but something in my gut knew my simple question would
end her jubilation.
Well...ummm...I was kind of hoping we could talk a bit about when I was a kid. I
know it's silly, but I have had the hardest time remembering much about it and I'd l
ove to have stories to share with the kids.
Silence. I heard nothing. At least that's how it felt with the phone still a half
inch from my ear. I pulled the phone closer, wondering if perhaps the call had d
ropped.
Mom?
Then I heard her...her voice was no longer the loud boisterous mother I knew. It
was soft, distant, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say she sounded afraid.
I...I don't think tomorrow will work after all. I'll call you after I've spoken to your
father and let you know when might be a better time. Maybe I'll just take the com
puter to Geek Squad or something. I...I have to go.
My stomach churned for the better part of the rest of the afternoon. It was a st
ruggle to push the feeling of discomfort that came along with the abrupt end to
the phone call with my mother. I was able to force it to the back of my mind as
I spent the remainder of the day playing with my children.
Hours passed, and with their passing, so did the sunlight. I tucked both kids in
to bed before trying to spend a bit of time just vegging out in front of the tel
evision. I don't think I actually watched anything as my mind kept drifting back
to that strange phone call. That sudden change in tone. That eerie silence in h
er voice. I had never heard my mother that way before. Then, I felt it. I felt t
he twinge of a memory. I HAD heard my mother sound like that once before! The me
mory started to take shape in my mind. It was later in my childhood - how old, I
can't really recall. What I do remember is that it was very early in the mornin
g. I was sitting at the dining room table across from my parents. They both had
stark looks on their faces. I could clearly hear my mother's words in my mind "Y
ou don't talk to us or anyone else about that ever again, do you understand? It'
s not natural and it just needs to be left alone. If you don't talk about it, it w
ill stop". And like that, I snapped out of the daze of the memory. I can't expla
in why, but I felt a wave of fear and anxiety flood over me.
Something...something had begun to happen. The mechanisms in my mind had begun t
o click, unlocking memories buried deeply inside.
The sharp noise of the vibrating phone on the table caused me to jump. It was my
mother. What was she doing calling at this hour? They are never up this late. I
stared at the ringing phone and for some reason, I hesitated briefly before pic
king up. Nervously I answered.
"Hello?".
There was a long period of silence before I heard that same quiet, distant voice
coming from my mother.
"We will talk about this once and it will never be spoken of again. I know you.
You will ask questions and pry. This conversation will be the end of it because
we can't go through that again."
I sat in confusion and, oddly, in fear. Why was speaking with my mother making m
e afraid? I started to raise a question when I was quickly cut off by her. She s
poke quickly and directly. It felt like she had been practicing this exact speec
h all afternoon and that any interruption would make her lose her resolve.
"When you were a child, you had these...dreams. You would come to us in the morn
ing and tell us...things. Things that you dreamt about the prior night. Horrible
things. Then..."
I could hear her starting to sob, but she pressed on.
"Then...they would happen. That tornado that took Sarah. The snakes and your unc
le Henry. The murder of Alan. All of those people we saw on the news. Every time
. Every damn time you would come and tell us about some horrible dream and then,
within minutes, we would get a call or see something on television. Every time
it was exactly like the dream you had just told us about. This happened for year
s. I started to feel like you were to blame for every bad thing that happened. I
finally made you stop talking about it. I just couldn't take it anymore and I t
old you to just stop telling us. I thought if I didn't have to hear it I could w
rite off anything that happened without having to blame you. After a while, you
seemed different. You slept better. I think keeping you from talking about it ma
de it go away."
I started to speak, but then she cut me off again.
"Don't start talking about it now. If you bring it up again, I'll deny we ever h
ad this conversation. I...I have to go. I love you."
With that, the call ended.
"I'm not dealing with this. I'm going to bed."
I pretended like that bizarre conversation had never happened as I went about my
nightly bedtime routine. However, as I settled in under my blanket, I found mys
elf unable to push out her words. I closed my eyes, focusing on trying to push i
t out of my mind and then...the floodgates holding back my memories opened. My m
other...she didn't tell me everything. That's because she didn't know everything
. I was finally able to remember. It was like reliving many years worth of child
hood nighttimes. I could see it all again and again. I would awaken nearly every
night at the same time - 3:33. I would always be on my side. I could see the cl
ock clearly, but I couldn't move. I would feel overcome with fear and try to scr
eam, but nothing would come. Then, I'd hear the footsteps. Sometimes they would
be slow and deliberate. Others, they would sound like someone sprinting, but the
y always led to the same place...my bed. I could feel the shadow looming over me
. It felt like an eternity. The clocked ticked over to 3:34. The entity would ju
st disappear. I would suddenly feel relief and calm. This was always immediately
followed by an all-consuming sleepiness that would send me off into slumber. Th
en, over time, it got worse. I would start to feel the breathing on my neck and
finally, one night, it spoke to me. I could finally remember the words. They cam
e in a voice that was neither clearly male or female. It merely said "I am comin
g and you will be my prophet". Then...the dreams, the visions, would begin. They
were always horrific. This happened nightly. Every night, I would try to scream
out the same thing, but nothing would come. "Please, no. Don't!". I sat up, pul
ling my knees to my chest. I felt a cold sweat covering me as I found myself str
uggling to catch my breath. The words of my mother started to seep in and I bega
n to recall that as I stopped sharing my visions, my visitor stopped coming. May
be...maybe I was no good as a prophet if I didn't share the visions? Maybe it wa
s just a series of odd occurrences explained away by sleep paralysis and an over
active childhood imagination? My adult mind wanted so desperately to believe the
latter. My breathing slowed and I finally began to cling to my rational conclus
ion on the matter. I slid back into a lying position and closed my eyes, forcing
myself to find sleep.
My head shook as I shot out of bed. She didn't say that. She couldn't have said
that! I could have sworn I heard "Please, no. Don't!" from my daughter's room in
her panicked voice. I sat on the edge of my bed, listening, hoping I was only d
reaming. I glanced at the clock to check the time - 3:34. That's when I heard th
e small foot steps running into my room. I barely had time to look up before my
daughter slammed into me, throwing her arms around me, weeping.
"Daddy, I had a bad dream about grandma!"