Three days after my thirteenth birthday, I woke up in the dead of night to the sound of wet pincers clattering at the foot of my bed. A thin layer of sleep crusted the corners of my eyes, but by the light of my Princess Jasmine nightlight I made out the drooping structure of glassy webs hung in every corner of my room. Curtains of the silk were thrown over my toy bin; oversized flies entombed in the stuff were squirming along the curtain rod to my right. Feeling the slightest tickle, my eyes stretched down towards my hip where I felt the touch of coarse fuzz encroaching [vagina?]. I could not lift my head. My arms were useless. Legs numb. And as the prickly shape of a ten-pound spider came shambling up my body, sat on my chest, and ground its forelegs together to hint towards the growth of its malicious appetite, even my throat refused to relinquish a scream.
“Sleep paralysis,” Dr. Nix told my parents the following week. “A parasomnia disorder. Simply put, Heather’s mind is temporarily waking up in the middle of the night, while her body remains asleep. Pair this panic of being unable to move with a child’s natural fear of the dark and your daughter begins to experience night terrors.”
There were few successful methods of preventing night terrors, Dr. Nix informed us. He suggested I begin keeping a dream log in a journal beside my bed. He said that if I paid more attention to my dreams, tried to understand them, maybe I could create a barrier between fantasy and reality and over time, learn to confront, or at least cope, with the horrors of the night. For fourteen years I did as he instructed, sleeping with a pen and notepad beside my bed where most paranoid people would keep a baseball bat or a gun. I never feared what reality might bring me in the night when I was too busy battling my own mind.
At the age of twenty-seven, I had only occasional trouble with sleep paralysis. Sharing a bed with my husband Mark all but extinguished the last traces of the disorder. But in May, I received a call from Sharon, my cousin from Kentucky, with grim news. Uncle Frankie had passed during the night. A heart attack—his third. Sharon explained that while she and Uncle Frankie had been taking care of Aunt Miranda for the past three years without needing too much assistance, Uncle Frankie’s death would put dire strains on Sharon’s situation. You see, Aunt Miranda suffered from early-onset Alzheimer’s, along with a grab-bag of other issues: sleep apnea, mild dementia, insomnia, and a tendency to refuse food for days at a time. Poor Sharon, the last of our extended family that remained in Kentucky, was working out plans to move into Frankie and Miranda’s house so that she could nurse her mother full-time.
“I need your help, Heather. Even if only for a few weeks while I’m out of town for my interviews,” Sharon said over the phone. Her voice cracked as if, like her will, it were about to break. “I have eight interviews lined up in Chicago this July. I can’t miss them, Heather. Please, I know you’ve got a life of your own in Cincinnati, but I need a hand with Mom.”
She was nearly begging, though there was no reason for it. We both knew that I could not, nor would I ever consider, turning her down. Though our family was spread throughout the Midwest by hundreds of miles, we remained close in our hearts. I agreed to tend to Aunt Miranda from July 3rd to the 18th. As an elementary school teacher, my summers were always free. Mark, on the other hand, could not afford to leave work for two weeks.
“I love you,” I said to Mark between kisses, “please, please, please don’t forget to water my aphids while I’m gone.”
“I won’t,” he playfully groaned. His arms were wound around my lower back.
The ride from Cincinnati to Lexington passed the way most long trips in the Midwest did: flat land, fields of soy and the summer crop of corn at knee height, slight hills rising and falling like the ocean along the interstate. I arrived at Aunt Miranda’s house by 9:00 the morning of the 3rd. Though it was still early, the sun had already warmed the air to an almost suffocating balm. Frankie and Miranda’s house was an old Dutch Colonial with a pair of dormers facing the front yard from the dusky attic. A set of cement steps, carpeted in AstroTurf, unfolded from a porch that stretched from one corner of the house’s front face to the other. A two-foot goose statue, dressed in a tailor-made Hawaiin shirt and gaudy pink sunglasses stood sentry by the door. As I was hauling my luggage from the trunk of my sedan, I spotted Sharon waving and grinning on the porch. Aunt Miranda, hunch in a rocking chair beside her, was draped in a floral sundress too big for her frail body. She was clutching a sweating glass of lemonade and did not seem at all aware of my arrival. Instead, she was watching a pair of squirrels dodging each other around a dogwood tree near the corner of the yard.
“Mom, Heather is here,” Sharon spoke softly to Miranda, bent down to the point she was almost whispering in her ear. Her hands rested gingerly on Miranda’s shoulders.
“Heather?” Miranda asked, a mixture of whimsy and confusion in her voice.
“Your niece, Heather. You remember her,” Sharon assured her.
“Oh, I have a niece,” Miranda mused.
I was disheartened, but understanding as I spent the next few minutes reintroducing myself to my own aunt. I scolded myself for not having visited for the last six years. When we went into the house, I felt as if the inside was an almost stereotypical replica of an elderly woman’s home. Doilies and Precious Moments figurines lined shelves that bordered the ceiling. Antique mahogany furniture was decorated with picture frames, gold-plated lamps with lace shades, and crystal bowls.
“We try to keep everything as neat and organized as we can,” Sharon said, noting my astonishment of how set-up everything looked. “That way it always looks familiar and Mom won’t feel out of place.”
Sharon helped Miranda down into a powder blue recliner and turned the television on for her. Once her attention had been absorbed by the commercials, Sharon and I slipped away to the kitchen.
“I try to keep everything on a schedule for her. It helps with her memory,” Sharon said. She plucked a piece of paper off of the refrigerator door and handed it over to me. “Lunch at noon, dinner by 6:00, and lights out after her shows end at 10:00. She doesn’t always like to stay in bed and she’ll certainly protest every plate of food you put in front of her, but you just have to stay diligent.”
“Okay,” I said, looking over the itinerary.
“It’s going to be a hard couple weeks, Heather. I’m not going to lie to you. It’s not easy taking care of her,” Sharon said. She was looking out onto the back yard. A net hammock was rocking in the breeze. A rose bush, long since grown out of any control or tameness, was swarming with wasps. “Thank you so much for doing this.”
“It’s no problem, Sharon. She’s my aunt. You’re family. Family takes care of family,” I told her.
Sharon bit her lip.
“Are you all packed for Chicago?” I asked.
Sharon nodded and smiled, the idea of her job interviews bringing welcome distraction to Kentucky. She lead me through the archway on the opposite wall of the kitchen, down a short hall to where the only staircase to the second floor was located at the back corner of the house. Blue fuzz carpet covered the stairs and black wrought iron railing lined the way up.
The second floor was much smaller than the first. There was a full bathroom at the end of the hall. The door on the left lead to a room crammed full of photo albums, craft supplies, and Uncle Frankie’s clothes. The door on the right was Sharon’s room where I was to sleep.
“Take a look around,” Sharon said as she ushered me into the room, “let me know if there’s anything you’ll need.”
A queen-sized bed was tucked into the far corner of the room next to a square window. An old tube TV sat squat atop a small cart. There was a nightstand with a lamp, a dresser lined with combs and make-up and a round mirror. I pulled the closet open and found just enough space for me to hang the few changes of clothes I had brought.
“The window rattles sometimes on windy nights. And I guess there’s some squirrels or something up in the attic. You can hear them moving around up there sometimes.”
I turned to where Sharon was looking on the ceiling near the foot of my bed where a two-by-two square was cut into the ceiling and covered over with a sheet of plywood that had been painted white.
“Make yourself at home. Any mess you make I can clean up when I get back,” Sharon said.
We talked and wandered the house for another thirty minutes before I could convince Sharon that it was okay for her to leave.
“You have a life too, Sharon. Go out there after it and I’ll take care of things here,” I told her.
“Thank you so much,” she said. Her eyes were growing damp.
Standing in the living room, Sharon bent down and hugged Aunt Miranda. Miranda smiled and hugged her in return, though it was clear she was not fully aware why. For the third time since I arrived, Sharon knelt beside her mother and explained that she was going out of town and that I would be here for the next two weeks to take care of her.
“Heather,” Aunt Miranda said in a haze, “oh yes, my niece. Is she here now?"
“I’m right here, Aunt Miranda,” I said and knelt at her other side, clasping her delicate hand between my own. “It’s so nice to see you again, Aunt Miranda.”
I helped Sharon pack the rest of her suitcases into the trunk of her hatchback and, as she disappeared down the long driveway, Aunt Miranda and I waved from the porch.
The first few days were rough as I struggled to adapt to Aunt Miranda’s schedule. I dealt gracefully with her protesting at every meal and showered her with the utmost of patience even when she questioned who I was and what I was doing there on an hourly basis. And as Aunt Miranda struggled with the unfamiliarity of my presence, I struggled with the unfamiliarity of the house. Windows rattled. Creatures caused a stir in the attic. The staircase let out phantom creaks and groans. And despite the adamant care with which every item in the house had been given its own space, there always seemed to be a toothbrush misplaced, a dish left in the wrong cabinet, or a light left on in the night.
Most disturbing of all, though, was the rare but recurring mention of Timothy. When I cooked a meal for Aunt Miranda, she would occasionally sigh and wring out her hands, saying “no, no, no, Timothy doesn’t like this kind of soup” or “you didn’t make enough for Timothy” with an air of disappointment and annoyance. When prodded to tell me more about Timothy, Aunt Miranda just shook her head and explained that he was a friend of hers.
When I called Sharon, she told me that Miranda often could not sleep at night and would roam around the house in the dark. She would eat leftovers out of the refrigerator at night and when Sharon questioned her in the morning, Miranda would blame it on her friend Timothy never having enough to eat. Ignore it and just play along, Sharon pleaded, because at least Aunt Miranda was eating something. Even when I would find my toothbrush in the kitchen sink, I simply took a deep breath and prayed for patience.
During the fourth night, I awoke in the dark of Sharon’s strange room. The sound of laughter was echoing in the closet. My sleepy eyes widened at the sound, but when I tried to lift my head, my muscles refused. I heard footsteps approaching me. Though it was dark, I clearly saw the body of a man, a doctor, dressed in a bloody white lab coat. He held a rusted scalpel and leaned down over me, flashing me a set of yellow and jagged teeth. When he grinned, it felt as my heart froze over in ice. The skin of my chest tingled with a thousand pin pricks.
“And now I’ll take your brain, too,” the doctor said with bemused cruelty. One of his gloved hands hovered over me. With a fat black marker, he drew a dotted line across my forehead.
I was panting. A thin film of sweat coated me, making my clothes sticky and uncomfortably warm. Move, god damn you! I tried with every ounce of my willpower to move a muscle, any muscle, so that I could escape. Nothing budged. I lay, paralyzed, staring into certain death. Then, in an instant, it all faded into blackness. I was up at six the next morning, scribbling into my dream journal by the light of the yellow light bulb burning on my nightstand. I could hear the TV blaring downstairs, but I wasn’t ready yet to start the day with Aunt Miranda. I nearly sprang through the ceiling when my phone rang.
“Hello?” I murmured.
“Good morning, beautiful,” Mark said on the end.
“Oh, god, Mark. I’m glad it’s you,” I said.
“Are you okay, hon? You sound terrible.”
“I had a night terror last night,” I said. He was right, my voice was hoarse and trembling with each word.
“Oh no. What was it this time?” Mark asked.
“A doctor. He wanted to cut my brain out,” I said, then left a few seconds of silence pass between us. “It always just seems so real, you know?”
“You’re probably just stressed out, dear. Just remember that it’s all in your head. Did you write it in your dream log?”
“Yeah. That’s what I’m doing now.”
“How is your aunt?”
“It’s tough, Mark. It’s like she has the mind of a toddler sometimes. She won’t eat when you ask her to, she fights me on everything, she walks around the house at night,” I said, “she even has an imaginary friend named Timothy.”
“Timothy, huh? I’m sure he’s a charmer.”
“It’s not funny, Mark. God, I hope I never end up this way. What if I couldn’t even remember who you were?”
“Relax, Heather. It’s not going to happen to you, and if it does, you know I’ll be there with you every step.”
“I love you, Mark.”
“I love you.”
“I have to go make Miranda’s breakfast.”
Of course, when I lead Aunt Miranda to the round table in the dining room and presented her with a plate of fried eggs with a few twisted strands of bacon, she looked up at me as if she had no clue what I expected of her.
“Aunt Miranda, you’ve got to eat,” I said.
“I’m not hungry,” she said, staring out into the sun-drenched backyard.
“Now I went through all the trouble of making breakfast for you. Won’t you at least humor me and not let it go to waste?”
“It won’t go to waste,” Aunt Miranda countered. “Timothy will eat it.”
“Aunt Miranda, how come no one else has met Timothy? Where does Timothy live?”
“Upstairs” she said casually, “with you.”
The phone rang in the kitchen and, with a distant dread settling in my chest from Aunt Miranda’s answer, I went to pick it up. Sharon was on the line. I put Timothy out of my mind and asked about Sharon’s interviews. She was sure that she had nailed them. She told me about having dinner with a man she met at a martini bar and that they were having lunch later that day. When she asked how I was doing, I did not mention my nightmare because I didn’t want her worrying. But I did tell her about my frustration with Aunt Miranda and Timothy and having to put everything back in its place every morning.
“I know, I know,” Sharon sighed, “she makes a mess of things at night but it’s really important to make sure everything looks the same. I want to try to preserve her memories as best as I can by keeping her in a routine.”
“I understand,” I said, “I just am not used to taking care of people, I guess. Mark and I not having any children and all.”
“I’m a heavy sleeper, Heather, so it never bothered me much. I know the house can be a little creepy sometimes, though.”
I leaned around the refrigerator to check up on Aunt Miranda. She was still at the dining room table, folding and refolding her napkin in her lap. I had to admit that she was a handful, but she was always cheerful. When she saw me watching her, she smiled and squinted behind her thick bifocals.
The longer I stayed with Aunt Miranda, the less sleep I seemed to be able to get. Often I heard Aunt Miranda bumping into things down in the living room. The plumbing would gurgle somewhere in the house. The seal of the refrigerator would let out a sigh when Miranda opened it, and would take an air-tight gulp when it was closed again. What truly kept me awake, though, was the sounds in my own room. There were always mysterious creaks emanating from the attic. As I lay under my heavy comforted, my eyes were glued to the plywood that covered the little square in the corner of the ceiling.
That night, I again awoke in the darkness of Sharon’s bedroom. I heard a faint hissing and felt cold scales brush across my calf. Though I wanted to reach down to grasp whatever was slithering its way up my leg, my hands ignored my pleading mind.
Snakes, I thought the next morning, my mind is running out of ways to scare me. If reptiles were all that my night terrors had left up their sleeve, I would have no problem coping with such tame fears.
As per usual, Aunt Miranda was already in her recliner by the time I came downstairs, a pink throw blanket laying across her lap as she watched the morning news without any comprehension of what it meant.
“I’m going to start breakfast now, Aunt Miranda,” I called to her from the kitchen.
“Timothy liked the chicken last night. He said he wants more,” Aunt Miranda said with her usual dreamy smile.
Timothy again. I sighed. Like Sharon had said, at least Aunt Miranda was eating something. And the fact that she actually complimented it gave me hope that I could make some small breakthrough with my cooking. With that mote of hopefulness, I began breakfast. Stepping to the sink to fill a pot of water, I found my toothbrush laying by the faucet. My teeth grit and I gave the bristled head a thorough washing under the running water before tucking the toothbrush into the pocket of my pajama pants. I leaned on the counter and stared out through the picture window in the dining room, my head completely blank. And tired. Breakfast came and went. Lunch passed with the usual protests. I made a meatloaf for dinner with my drowsy mind on cruise control.
Before bed that night, I spoke with Mark on the phone. He told me that his brother’s dog had been mysteriously killed in the night. Attacked by a wild animal of some sort, he said. I wondered what kind of animal in the suburbs of Cincinnati could kill a full-grown Collie. After exchanging I love you’s, I said goodnight. Turning off the lamp on my nightstand, I lay in bed long enough to watch two episodes of MASH before I shut off the television and willed myself to sleep.
The sound of wood sliding across wood woke me around midnight. My sleepy eyes opened wide and began to swirl around the room, seeking the noise. There was groaning somewhere from the attic. I was infuriated by the idea of facing another night terror, but found myself helpless. I caught movement in the corner of the ceiling. The white panel that separated my bedroom from the attic slid out of place, revealing the black square leading up. I heard a cough.
A pair of bare feet swung down from the open hole. Above them was a pair of stick-like legs, covered in bruises and fresh scrapes on dirt-sodden skin. An emaciated shadow came sliding down from the attic, its movements awkward, but practiced as it slid down to the floor in near silence. My eyes were glued to the creature. It’s hair sprayed in all directions on its head, wild, unkempt black locks that melded seamlessly into an overgrown beard. This gnarled beard was matted and clumpy, hiding a gaunt face which I could not make out in the dark. The shadow’s mouth hung open and I could hear its dry breathing with every exhalation. The shadow approached. Overcome with fear, I tried to close my eyes as the dilapidated man stood by the side of my bed, bent down, and stared into my face. I felt his hot breath. Smelled the rot of his teeth.
Then, he crept away. He moved around the foot of my bed, his every movement nothing more than clumsily dragging himself along the floor. I heard him open my bedroom door, lumber down the hall, and descend the stairs. I was shaking with horror, though relieved that my night terror had passed so quickly. I begged myself to return to sleep. I was already working out the entry I would put in my dream log the next morning when I heard something crash downstairs. Startled, I moved my hand up to…
I moved my hand…
Shit.
As quietly as I could manage, I took a heavy statuette off of the dresser and forced myself, against every pounding beat of my heart, to sneak down the stairs. When I reached the bottom of the staircase, I heard something rustling around in the kitchen. The refrigerator door was open, casting a rectangle of yellow light across the tile floor.
“Ooh, doesn’t that look yummy?” I heard Aunt Melinda say from the kitchen. The beating of my heart softened at the sound of her voice.
“Aunt Melinda,” I muttered under my breath, knowing I had fooled myself with fright.
“You’re such a hungry young man,” Aunt Melinda said cheerfully.
I turned the corner. The light of the refrigerator illuminated two frail bodies. Timothy stood in dank, ragged clothes. The front of his shorts showed stain upon piss stain and the crust of dried blood. His knobby ribs showed through the tears in his shirt. Coarse hair draped down nearly to his shoulders, the ends twisted and bunched. The thing that will never leave me, though, was his eyes. They stared at me, completely blank, the constant darkness of the attic having long since rendered his sight nearly irrelevant and bleached his irises to milky, empty rings. I gasped loud and his head twitched and shook as he registered the noises.
“Melinda!” I screamed.
The ghoul bellowed, a guttural and shrill screech that shook the whole kitchen. Emaciated arms thrashed and knocked Aunt Melinda to the floor. The man dashed out of the kitchen, clambered over the dining room table like a blind and dying animal, and crashed through the picture window. Mad with terror, I flung the statuette I held out into the yard after him, charged the window, and saw him disappear into the night.
“Timothy!” Aunt Melinda whined from the floor, curled into a ball and weeping. “Timothy! Don’t go!”
I gripped my head so hard in my hands that I thought my nails may pierce the skin. I watched Melinda writhe and cry on the floor, I watched the darkness outside. Truly paralyzed now with terror, I let Aunt Melinda sob for several minutes before I could turn away from the open window frame and peel her from the floor. I lead her up the stairs to Sharon’s room and locked the bedroom door before calling the police.
We sat on the edge of the mattress; Melinda looking out the window as she cried and pleaded for Timothy to come home, and I staring up into the black and silent attic above.
Submitted May 07, 2015 at 05:30AM by Zyclin http://ift.tt/1RemqYU nosleep
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