So today I am blessing you with two stories. This one is one of my favorties. It scared me to write it because it was late at night. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
My family and I moved into a house built in the early 1900’s. It had recently been extensively remodeled, so not much of the original building was left.
The day my husband, two sons and I moved in was chaotic. But what I remember most of all about that day was the feeling when we immediately entered the front door. It was freezing, the kind of cold you couldn’t get from simply too much air conditioning.
My husband had gone over to check the thermostat. It was set at sixty-eight. It did not feel sixty-eight, it felt like twenty. I shivered and headed to put some boxes in the kitchen.
My sons were running amuck, giggling and play fighting. I had to constantly tell them to be careful and knock it off. Frustrated, I had gone into the bathroom with the box of bathroom items and shut the door. I mostly needed to clear my head and have a minute to myself. This move had been so stressful.
As I was running my hands under the warm water and splashing it on my face, I looked up at myself in the mirror. I looked so tired. The late nights of packing were definitely wearing on me.
I splashed some more water on my face and reached down in the box for a roll of paper towels. When I was upright again, water still dripping off my face, I saw her. A little girl standing behind me, head cocked to the side, smirking.
I froze. I wanted to wipe my face, but she looked so menacing and I was scared of blocking my vision for even a moment. Could she hurt me?
Finally, I mustered the courage to wipe the water off of my face and she was gone. What I had hoped would be a stress relief had turned into something completely different.
I exited the bathroom, stiffly trying to gain my wits. What had just happened? Was I so sleep deprived from packing that I made it all up?
After fifteen minutes or so and nothing else unusual happening, I shrugged it off and went back to unloading the truck.
That evening, in our half-unpacked room, I laid on the mattress on the floor next to my husband. (We had not had time to put together bedframes yet.) He was exhausted and ready for sleep. I, on the other hand, needed to read first to wipe away some of the day.
We had a small table lamp plugged in a foot or so away from our mattress. I turned it on and began to read. Before long, my eyes grew heavy and burning and I could not read anymore. I kept reading the same sentences over and over.
I rolled over on my side and reached to turn off the lamp. Before I reached the switch, the bulb burst. Shards of broken bulb cascaded over the back of my hand like fallen snowflakes.
I gasped and sat there terrified. What had just happened? The bulb did just fine in our old house.
I laid there for minutes, just listening for anything to be afraid of. Nothing. I was too tired to clean up the bulb mess, so I wrote it off for something to take care of in the morning.
Finally, I scooted under the blankets and spooned up against my husband as if his sleeping body could keep me safe. He snored on, impervious to the light bulb shattering.
Finally, I drifted off. I do not usually dream, but in this house, I dreamt all of the time, almost every single night. And they were not good dreams, but reoccurring dreams of terror.
I dreamt I was a little girl around the age of eight. A man led me tightly by the wrist into the basement of our new house. I did not put up a fight even though the grip he had on my wrist was so tight that I worried it would bruise.
I looked up at the man, and his facial features were present, but blurred. This confused me. I somehow knew in my dream that this man was my father, but I could not see clearly enough that he was.
In the basement was a sink in the far corner. It was a small stand alone, with a deep bowl. The bowl was full to the top edges with water. The man stopped me in front of the sink and slapped me across the face so hard that I fell backwards onto the ground.
Through strands of hair I gazed at him, shocked and hurt. His blurred face smirked or smiled, hard to tell which.
My body began to shake in terror. What was I to do? And why was this happening? These thoughts sprinkled my mind consistently.
Again, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me to my feet. He pulled my hair back as if putting it in a ponytail and plunged my face into the water.
I kicked at the air and screamed muffled sobs that were absorbed by a waterless abyss. I choked on water and felt everything going black.
Just then, he pulled my head from the sink. His face was inches from mine and I heard him hiss, “I will fucking kill you.” Then, before I had a moment to comprehend or run, my face was again driven deep into the water. Again, it was a fight for my life. I was kicking, using my hands as leverage on the sink to pull my head out, but to no avail.
As the blackness surrounded me a second time, I woke up coughing, holding my throat.
The room was pitch black, my husband’s snores barely audible next to me. I scanned the room searching for familiarity. Reality set in, and I remembered where I was. The new house.
My heart racing, I laid there in the dark, trying to catch my breath. What a dream. What a horrid, horrid–
Footsteps. From the hallway. Stomping closer and closer to the door. Too heavy to be my son. My heart began beating faster, and faster, my chest aching.
The handle of the door, which we had shut when we had gone to bed, jangled slightly, just enough to hear.
I held my breath and laid there. Do I put the covers over my head and close my eyes like a five-year-old? Do I just sit still and hope it goes away? Do I wake my husband and tell him? So many thoughts cascaded, too many to recollect. The only thought I held on to immensely was, I am going to die.