The first drawing came the morning before the first incident of sleep paralysis. What I thought was sleep paralysis.
I awoke in the middle of the night to a dark figure standing over my bed. I had read about sleep paralysis and wasn’t very frightened, not even when I realised I couldn’t move. The figure reached down toward my face and, almost predictably, I struggled to breathe. I focused on relaxing and trying to close my eyes, hoping to return to sleep. And it worked. I forgot the shadowy figure and the moment entirely until the next morning, when I was eating breakfast and watching the news.
I live alone and wasn’t expecting anyone. Mail dropped right into the slot is a thing of the past, except for flyers, which I always toss into the recycling bin anyway. An envelope, the same yellow beige colour as one I’d received yesterday and didn’t look at, was on the mat. I didn’t go to the door immediately to see what had been left, thinking nothing of it, but only considered it more thoroughly upon noticing the similarity to the previous, when I was about to leave for work.
A little curious, because I knew a nearly identical envelope currently sat in my recycling bin under the kitchen sink, I opened the second envelope and found a page folded into thirds. When I unfolded the paper, I saw a drawing in blue ink of a man and woman, naked but with a fig leaf covering their genitals, and long hair over the breasts of the woman. Adam and Eve. I rubbed my thumb against the ink and could tell, I’m not sure how exactly, that the drawing was not a copy but an original, which I think made it more personal.
A religious nut had left it to be sure, I concluded. Someone with apparent artistic skill but no literacy because no words communicated the intent. A woman living alone, unmarried, could be construed as scandalous and unnatural to those keen on Jesus. I had gone to church as a child and given it up the second I entered university.
Despite the time and the bus I would likely miss if I didn’t leave soon, I went to the kitchen and retrieved the first envelope, which now had a grease stain.
The first picture made less sense to me, at first, and it wasn’t until I was on the bus, riding to work, that I realized what the image might mean - an indistinct, humanoid giant, black but outlined with ethereal light with its or His back turned on a very tiny, yet still detailed, Planet Earth.
On the seventh day, God rested. And, according to the image I studied on the bus, turned away from humans and his creation. Perhaps, the deity moved on into space, which I suppose he also created?
I almost crumpled the drawing up. Religious nonsense. Maybe fringe religious nonsense too. Could be dangerous. I packed both drawings into a single envelope and kept it in my bag, just in case more drawings arrived and the situation escalated into illegal territory.
The following night, I had my second bout with sleep paralysis, and it went more predictably and easier than before. The shadowy figure reached down. I struggled to breathe. I closed my eyes, and fell asleep.
The only notable difference the next morning was a bit of soreness in my jaw, from clenching my teeth or grinding them perhaps. I thought maybe the sleep paralysis had stressed me out more than I first accepted and resolved to make a doctor’s appointment. My job as a school librarian had been incredibly boring since day one, and, with Covid, had recently become redundant. Students weren’t allowed in the library, so I sat there most of the day alone with nothing to do, which might sound great, at first, but isn’t after the first few weeks of reading books, watching TV, etc. There wasn’t much other staff in the building either for many of those months. Learning was online and only a few custodians had been left behind to look after and maintain the building. Still, I had been instructed to report to work and the library. Living alone made the isolation worse too, of course.
The third envelope containing an ink drawing arrived the next morning. I rushed to the door, flung it open, and practically leapt onto the concrete stoop to see if I could spot the deliverer. Along the street, there were a few early commuters already, but I recognized them, and only one person stood out, a woman in a faded, dirty windbreaker with tangled, greasy hair sticking out from a fishing hat.
I knew her too, somehow, but couldn’t immediately place the avalanche of layered track pants and sweat shirts and different coloured rags tied at wrists and ankles.
“Excuse me!” I called and her pace quickened, becoming a jog for a few steps before slackening again into a stiff and awkward retreat. “Ma’am! Ma’am! A moment!”
She stopped so suddenly I almost collided into her back. Then she spun around fast, gracefully even. Her open mouth held darkness, a purplish worm tongue, a vomit stench, and tiny, black screws jutting from swollen, diseased gums, the remnants of dental implants, smashed out and pulled violently.
I realised where I knew her from, the stairs leading down to the bus station, where she begged on occasion.
“Did you-“ I started to ask about the envelopes, but then she screeched, the noise of a thunderous gun shot, her bulging throat reloading another. She lunged at my face with dirt filled fingernails. I was saved by panicking and falling onto the sidewalk. When I removed my forearm from my eyes, I saw the homeless woman walking away again, in a hurry.
“Crazy bitch,” an older man, built like a fit, hip Santa Claus said as he reached down and took my hand without asking, pulling me up and onto my feet. “Never seen her do something like that before. Poor soul.” He shook his head and took off running, a jogger, another featured character in my life but out of the usual context. I saw him most mornings but from a greater distance, a part of the scenery, not a person who could speak and help me up after being attacked by another supporting character, also not where my mind said they ought to be.
I went back in the house, locked the door and decided to call in sick to work. As I put down my cell, I noticed it: A barely visible boot tread imprinted in the loose dirt of the mat by the door. I don’t own any such boots and the size of the foot exceeded mine by inches. The print disintegrated when I crouched to get a closer look. My toe bumped today’s envelope, scattering the dirt and then I was sure I had imagined the boot print anyway.
“Crazy…” I did not repeat Hip Santa Claus’ description of the homeless woman. Swearing is too crass. But the sentiment, even in thought, helped to pin down the disruption she had caused. She was crazy. I don’t know why she had chosen me for her strange drawings but then maybe it was vain to assume I was the only one. Maybe the whole neighbourhood got personalised and vaguely religious ink judgments. I could ask if I ever ran into a neighbour, not that I likely would. Covid kept most people inside and usually far apart. Hip Santa had been taking a risk by doing the decent thing helping me up. I had never introduced myself to the neighbours when I first moved in, long before covid.
Despite the morning disturbance, I had a lovely day, reading and drinking tea and a grey sky eventually thundering and pouring, filling the streets and gutters, drowning ideas of going outside with common sense: No one should leave the house in such weather. Best to stay in and finish your book.
The night brought sleep undisturbed and I felt rested and revived the next morning, and no envelope slipped through the mail slot. All was well again or so I thought.
The next night I awoke to the shadowy figure again, paralyzed but not deaf. The previous episodes had been silent, as far as I can remember, but then maybe I had chosen to forget the ominous whispers in the dark.
“And then you will choose me,” the figure hissed, troubled by something beneath its hand, breathing heavily through a mask I thought. “To erase another of your chosen, great one, is not blasphemy because nothing is holy to you.” Pressure fell against my chest, my face and I tried to speak, to protest, but couldn’t get my tongue to work. It felt heavy, blocked, like the inside of my mouth had been filled with foreign objects. Or one big object.
The figure seemed to writhe and something seemed to be forcing open my jaw. I panicked and tears washed my cheeks and spilled over my lips but I could not taste them. It laughed, a wicked, guttural, dehumanising expression, and brought its approximation of a face to hover close enough to smell sweat and something burning, not wood but something more primal. I had smelled it before and would again but for the moment I could not place it.
The episode ended the same as before. I fell asleep and woke up more tired. My jaw felt very sore and appeared a little swollen when I looked in the mirror. It was time to see a doctor.
But then I heard the squeaky hinge on the mail slot door announce the arrival of the third envelope. I opened my door and peeked carefully around the corner to see the same homeless woman walking away quickly.
I called into work again and got a joke from the secretary about not bothering to call “because who would notice?” I came in through a direct entrance to the school library and left the same way. So of course I didn’t see anyone often. Neither did she and the joke, I’m sure, had been about all of us in general but it felt personal at the time so I hung up without saying goodbye.
The conversation with the doctor’s office had been equally uplifting. An appointment couldn’t be arranged for two months and would probably be virtual.
“Unless you want to speak with the nurse practitioner,” the receptionist ventured.
“Can she prescribe medication?” I asked bluntly.
Silence. Then, “um, yes.’
“Wonderful,” I answered. She would call at 3 PM. Between the morning and then, I sat in the kitchen, clutching a seemingly eternal cold cup of coffee and pondering the third image, alongside the other two, placed in sequence of their arrival: God turning away from his creation; Adam and Eve, fig leaves intact; fish and birds filling a lined page in every available spot.
The drawings were clear but crude, drawn by a novice, not meant to inspire but for exposition. What could be meant by delivering the days of creation in reverse? Was the world to be unmade? Was I?
Perhaps drugs would help. The nurse called at three as promised.
“I’ve never heard of anyone with sleep paralysis waking up with a swollen jaw,” the nurse explained calmly, trying to be calm, trying to ensure I remained calm.
“Have you had many patients with sleep paralysis?” I inquired respectfully
“More than you’d think. Uh, to me this sounds like the paralysis is only a part of your sleep troubles especially if you say you’re waking up tired. Have you noticed anything in your house moved or disturbed when you wake up?”
The boot print came to mind. “Why do you ask?”
“Could be sleep walking.”
“But why would my jaw-“
“People can do almost anything when they sleep walk. I knew a kid who jumped through a window. Cut her up and she almost died.”
I was beginning to panic. “Well what should I do? What do you recommend?”
“I’m not a specialist. I can give you a referral-“
“That’ll take months,” I snapped, “Please help me.” I’m sure I sounded crazy because she asked me to take some deep breaths and talk to her some more to make sure I hadn’t neglected to tell the full story.
“And the pictures keep coming in the mail?” She was doing her best to keep the doubt and judgement out of her voice. I could hardly believe it. “Stress can make people emphasise the importance of, well, unimportant things. If you weren’t so tired you’d probably write it all off on some religious nut.”
Hearing myself unintentionally quoted helped and I began to relax. The nurse wrote a prescription for a sleep aid. “And you might want to visit a dentist if you’ve been grinding your teeth so much your jaw is swelling. Just to be sure it’s not the early signs of infection. If it is, they’ll give you antibiotics.”
“Thank you.” I felt much better, aside from the ache in my mouth, and decided to be proactive and call the dentist. Covid restrictions had shuttered a lot of offices but not mine, luckily, though there were a number of restrictions making appointments hard to come by. After hearing the details of my condition, however, and the possibility of infection, the receptionist somehow made space that afternoon.
In the chair, as it lowered and sprawled into a lounger, the muscles in my chest and face seized and I panicked, visibly.
“Whoa, easy,” the doctor soothed. She’d been my dentist for years. There was nothing to be afraid of. I explained I’d been stressed lately and having trouble sleeping and she made a comment about the pandemic being hard on everyone, often without our knowing it.
“Open wide,” she said, and I hadn’t really noticed the tension relaxing until then. But her face contorted with confusion and concern the moment she looked inside. “Did you have an accident?”
“Pardon?” I murmured, tongue struggling to form words around latex fingers.
“Your front teeth appear to have been crowned,” she said. I grasped the arms of the chair and accidentally bit the doctor. She retracted her hand and refrained from cursing.
I apologised and the two of us discussed what she’d apparently discovered.
“I don’t have crowns,” I said. “I’ve only ever had one cavity.” I kept touching the new additions, trying to feel a difference. Breathing deeply became impossible. My swollen jaw. The figure over me. It hadn’t been sleep paralysis. “Someone was in my house. Oh, fuck. No. It can’t… I can’t… why?”
The doctor’s eyes were wide open and she’d lowered her mask to publish her disbelief. “How?” She wondered. “They would have had to drug you.”
“Why?”
We each seemed to prioritise motivation and logistics differently.
“I’m calling the police,” she said. I didn’t object but didn’t want her to leave the room. I was sinking beneath the panic. She shouted for the receptionist who then made the call. We waited and there wasn’t an ETA for the police so the minutes dragged.
“Okay,” she said, gently, holding my hand, “let me look again.”
“For what? What?!”
“Shh,” she whispered, “I just want to see about the resin they used… a crown… if done improperly could negatively impact your health. “
“You want to see if I’ve been poisoned!” I practically accused her.
“Not exactly,” she promised, “but let’s just be double sure I shouldn’t be calling for an ambulance too, okay?” She reached into a cabinet and plugged in a device. “This is a uv light, you might- oh…“ The uv light, the black light, slipped from her gloves and hit the floor.
“What?! What is it?! What the fuck!?”
We became hysterical and it took two police officers to calm us enough to explain and show what the dentist had found: Two days of creation had been tattooed to the crowns, the seventh - god rested - and the sixth - man and woman - in fluorescent paint. The mirror told me these images were identical to the ink drawings coming in the mail. The cops had never seen anything like it and I was so psychologically wiped out by that point, I just laughed and laughed like the world had ended and nothing but death remained.
After a car ride and a series of interviews I can hardly remember, they placed me in a hospital room with an officer outside the door. Another or maybe a dozen watched my house for signs of the invader dentist. With generous amounts of drugs and liquor, I slept and woke up to the officer bearing news: No one had been spotted trying to enter my place.
I saw doctors and more dentists over the next few days, and they said so many things that never penetrated the haze of drugs suppressing the madness trying to consume my brain. Gradually, very gradually, disbelief and panic dissipated and I felt the urge to get out of the room and walk and think and be alone.
I declined the company of an officer to escort me to the drug store in the hospital, so I could buy a toothbrush and antiperspirant; one followed in plain clothes and at a distance anyway.
Six days of creation. On the seventh, He rested. But the tattoos, the drawings had been made and delivered in reverse. An un-creation? Nothing about the invasion of my home, my mouth made sense and the invader, a skilled yet obviously insane dentist, accredited or not, had gone to great lengths to commit this deed.
I ran my tongue over the crowns.
She came to mind next, she and her broken, dirty mouth. I skipped past the drug store and walked right out the door. The bus station isn’t far, so neither was my house but police were there and the plainclothes officer still followed at a respectable distance, which emboldened me to confront the homeless woman, the deliverer of the drawings, the one with broken screws in her gums where crowns used to be.
As I descended the steps, I found her seated on a blanket, smoking a cigarette and openly drinking whisky from a plastic flask.
Wary, her bloodshot eyes studied my face and I hesitated, suddenly uncertain as to how to proceed. She raised her hand just as I was about to speak.
“You already know,” she said. Then she turned away and leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes, sleeping or pretending anyway.
And she was right. I already knew.
I went home. Told the officers to please leave, which they refused to do. It didn’t matter. He’d come tonight. The third drawing had been delivered.
The preparations were surprisingly swift. Then I waited by the window, blinds drawn, and a bright light behind me. Just past the wrong side of midnight, he appeared under an umbrella, an average sized shadow, features hidden inside his high collar. Only his eyes could I see and they flashed in the night like a cat’s.
His tools, if he carried them, were nowhere in sight. He lingered on the sidewalk beneath my window and the police in the cruiser didn’t seem to notice him at all.
I showed him with a smile, the black screws where my front teeth and his tattooed crowns used to be, blood still pouring down my chin and into my throat.
He raised his index and pinkie fingers, the horns of the devil, and used them to tap his canines. Adults have thirty two teeth. I still had thirty.
Any sense of victory, ideas of safety, were torn away in an instant.
I knew what I had to do.
I presented the pliers to him.
The devil’s horns indicated his eyes. He would watch, to be sure.
I nodded. It made sense. Silently we agreed, and I began with a canine, tearing the root and flesh, blood washing metallic salvation down my throat.
The sun rose and never touched the darkness of my empty mouth, my vacant soul.
He nodded and finally moved from where he’d stood the entire night, watching as I flayed my mouth clean to freedom.