That could have been a lovely thing, in the right context, but I’m single and I live alone. Every night for the last two months, someone holds my hand. From midnight to exactly six in the morning, someone grasps onto my left hand and won’t let go. It’s always my left hand, and it is always from 00:00 til 06:00. Without fail.
The hand belongs to no one. What I mean is that it has no arm or body attached to it. It’s simply a hand. A hand I can’t see. His hand is bigger than mine. I say “his” because it feels like a man’s, large and warm. It’s not dry or clammy. Nor is it rough. He is gentle, in a way. He holds me the way you’d want someone to hold your hand. It would be comforting if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s not supposed to be there.
Everything started after what I thought was a perfectly normal day. I got up in the morning, did my morning routine, went to work, to the gym, home, and made dinner. Then I went to sleep. Everything was business as usual in my boring little life. In the middle of the night, I woke up, and that’s when I felt him for the first time. A firm grip around my left hand. Terrified does not even begin to cover what I experienced at that moment.
I have no words for my experience that first night. My lungs collapsed, my heart fell through the floor, my mouth dried up, an icy chill ripped my body apart, I started shaking, and my stomach was twisting and turning. I looked to my side, prepared for the worst: an intruder, a killer, a pervert, a demon, a ghost. I believed that whoever was there would do unspeakable things to me. A million thoughts and images went through my mind. Turning my head felt like an eternity. What I did not imagine or expect was for no one to be there.
I shook my hand
He moved with it
I ran out of my room
He ran with me
I spread my fingers as far as I could
I still felt him on my palm
I made a fit
I still felt him between my fingers
I hit a wall as hard as I could
He still held on
I screamed
Sobbing, hyperventilating, and panicking, I started hitting myself with all my might. I wanted to wake myself up. This had to be a dream, right? I’m not sure for how long I beat myself black and blue, but eventually, I sank onto my bathroom floor, staring up at the ceiling, just feeling him and the pain I had inflicted upon myself. An eternity went by before he let go and I felt insane.
Being that scared drains you. I was beyond exhausted. An hour or two went by before I managed to get onto my knees. Immediately, I threw up all over the floor. Bile left a bitter and discussing taste in my mouth and sent in my nostrils. I wiped my mouth with my sleeve and crawled through my vomit, not bothering to change. I dragged myself into my bedroom and collapsed on the bed.
It was a nightmare. It had to be. Nothing else made sense. It was just a nightmare. A nightmare I can’t remember waking up from. I tried to forget about it, push it out of my mind, distract myself. I picked up a book, but I couldn’t see any words. I played a random show, but after five episodes, I had no idea what was going on or who anyone was. Last night’s event occupied my every thought. I was so tired. I started dosing off, I just needed to sleep. It would all be better in the morning, and I’d laugh it off. That’s what I hoped. But then it happened again.
I woke up and there he was, clinging to my hand. I did not sleep at all that night, or week really. I considered calling the police, but what could I tell them? “Hi there officer an invisible man holds my hand at night. Please arrest him.” They would simply tell me what I already knew, that I was crazy. I experimented instead.
I put my hand in a bucket of water.
I still felt his hand.
I put my hand in a bucket of ice.
I still felt his hand
I sat on my hand for hours, trying to numb it.
I still felt his hand.
I took pictures and videos of my hand, hours and hours of footage, but it showed nothing. Every second of those daily six hours, I felt him, I knew he was there. One night, I sat on my couch and stared at my hand for six hours, barely blinking. Maybe I`d see him if I just looked long enough. My eyes were red, puffy, and hurting the following day. I got drunk, I got high, but he was still there. I held my hand out of my car window and drove as fast as I could. He followed. I was running out of ideas.
Something was seriously wrong with me. I barely slept, I didn’t leave my apartment, and I kept calling into work sick. I couldn’t live like that. I had to talk to someone. That night, I called my doctor. He could see me the following day.
I told him everything, not caring how insane it all sounded. Tears and snot were running down my face, my voice was shaking and cracking. I felt like a little kid describing a nightmare to their parents. After I stopped talking he put his hand on my shoulder. “That sounds terrifying,” he said, “We will get to the bottom of it together”. I wanted to hug him, but I just started sobbing again.
He asked me lots and lots of questions. Mostly about drugs, alcohol, and family history. I answered everything honestly. He said it sounded like I was having tactile hallucinations and that the cause could be physical or psychological.
I went to the hospital the day after. The doctors spent a week poking and prodding me, scanning and X-raying me, and extracting every body fluid imaginable. Nothing. They could find absolutely nothing wrong with me. The next step was to refer me to a psychiatrist.
When I went to see her, it had been about a month since all it started. I told her everything I told my doctor, everything I have told you. She was very nice to me. She listened, and she told me she wanted to help. According to her, some underlying mental condition was probably at fault. I told her everything she wanted to know, and I followed every last tip and trick she gave me.
I went back to work after an extended sick leave, as she told me that keeping up with my normal routine was good for me. I was eating regularly and healthily, I started meditating, I kept a journal, I cut out alcohol completely, did group therapy and I saw her three times a week. I did everything that she said could help, but nothing did. He was still there.
After about three weeks, I started sleeping again. I had gotten used to him. Every night and morning, I would squeeze his hand as a hello and a goodbye. Realizing that I had gotten so used to an invisible hand holding me, I freaked out. That is not something one should get used to, because it’s simply insane. I begged her to medicate me, anything to make him disappear. That’s what anti-psychotic medication is for, right?
It’s been over one month of intense psychiatrist treatment now, and he has held my hand every night for two months. She told me she couldn’t pinpoint a diagnosis, and that giving me medication for something I don’t have could be dangerous. Then she listed all the side effects of anti-psychotic medication. I beg again, and again and again. Told her that I dot care, i just needed it to stop. She just told me she understood. How could she possibly understand? I left in a fury and did not return. It was time to take matters into my own hands.
When I went to see her, it had been about a month since all it started. I told her everything I told my doctor, everything I have told you. She was very nice to me. She listened, and she told me she wanted to help. According to her, some underlying mental condition was probably at fault. I told her everything she wanted to know, and I followed every last tip and trick she gave me.
I went back to work after an extended sick leave, as she told me that keeping up with my normal routine was good for me. I was eating regularly and healthily, I started meditating, I kept a journal, I cut out alcohol completely, did group therapy and I saw her three times a week. I did everything that she said could help, but nothing did. He was still there.
After about three weeks, I started sleeping again. I had gotten used to him. Every night and morning, I would squeeze his hand as a hello and a goodbye. Realizing that I had gotten so used to an invisible hand holding me, I freaked out. That is not something one should get used to, because it’s simply insane. I begged her to medicate me, anything to make him disappear. That’s what anti-psychotic medication is for, right?
It’s been over one month of intense psychiatrist treatment now, and he has held my hand every night for two months. She told me she couldn’t pinpoint a diagnosis, and that giving me medication for something I don’t have could be dangerous. Then she listed all the side effects of anti-psychotic medication. I beg again, and again and again. Telling her that I didn’T care, I just needed it to stop. She just told me she understood. How could she possibly understand? I left in a fury and did not return. It was time to take matters into my own hands.
I had a solution. It was clear in my mind, so simple and obvious. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? The next morning I giddily jumped out of bed, squeezed his hand, and brushed my teeth. At six he let go, as he always does, and I walked out of my apartment.
There is a construction site a few blocks down. I couldn’t see anyone there yet so I slipped through an opening in a fence. I know what I’m looking for. I’ve seen them on plenty of renovation shows. They had to have one there. I smiled as I found it. A circular saw. I flipped what I assumed was the on switch. It started buzzing, I lifted it and brought it down.
Never in my life have I screamed that loudly, bled that much, or been in that much pain. I am fully aware of how insane what I did is. But I need you to understand this was the only thing left to do. Someone I can’t see holds my hand every night for six hours. That is a quarter of my day. For two months now, two horrifying months, with no signs of stopping. But if I don’t have a left hand, he can’t hold on to it. You can’t deny it. That makes sense.
At some point, I fainted, and I woke up in the hospital the next day in a sea of drugs. My hand was still there. I did not entirely cut it off before someone found me. They were able to fix the worst of the damage. I was in plenty of pain, but I couldn’t feel or move my left hand. It was just there, like dead weight.
They ask me what happened. I tell them I tried to cut my hand off because someone I can’t see holds onto it every night. They tell me I have severe nerve damage. However, with enough physical therapy, I should regain close to normal sensation and mobility. “No thanks, I’m good,” I tell them, smiling because I had just discovered that it was five in the morning, and I could not feel him.
I was not let go of course. They considered me an extreme danger to myself and sent me to a psychiatric facility. I expected so. That’s where I am right now. Writing to you. I still can’t feel or move my hand. I don`t care about that though, because he no longer holds my hand.
However, the hand on my shoulder is moving awfully close to my neck.