I slept on the left side of the bed at my husband’s insistence.
It wasn’t out of selfishness. No one side of the bed is better than the other, really. At least it didn’t used to be. It just came down to my husband’s theory that the man in any relationship should sleep closer to the front door, bettering their ability to protect the bride should someone kick it open in the middle of the night.
I never minded this until a few weeks ago. In fact, I considered it flattering and chivalrous. Still do. It’s just that recent experience has taught me that everything I have to fear is in the back of the house… in the recesses… the moist, dark spots that hadn’t been cleaned since it was built. The crawlspace we can’t fit in. The closet at the end of the hall that’s too shallow to step inside. I don’t know where it comes from exactly, just that it’s somewhere back there. An area less than 200 square feet that even our dog, a runt bullmastiff named Boomer, refuses to visit.
The funny thing is… our house… a starter for us in the twilight of our 20’s… is absolutely tiny. I thought life-wrecking pieces of real estate were supposed to be cavernous, musty affairs full of atmosphere, dust and history. But our place doesn’t even have the back door required of a shotgun shack. It’s a guest house. A rental in the backyard of the larger, more official, abode that shows its face to the street. The one with the dirty windows and owners that keep to themselves in classic fashion.
Now I’m beginning to wonder if we’re getting its spiritual runoff.
We’ve only spoken to the owners twice. Once at the open house, which had such a competitive vibe that we felt compelled to write an essay about how much we loved the place – or a rental -- when the truth was the only thing compelling about it was the price and the shared yard for Boomer. The second time we spoke with them was when we moved in, when they came by drunk, as if that was the only way they could will themselves into being cordial. After a few perfunctory exchanges they gifted us a cheap bottle of wine, reminded us to keep quiet after 10, and retreated back to their house. Safe behind its filthy windows.
Maybe they knew the… thing… I was about to meet and didn’t want it looking in.
The first time it happened… it was around 3AM on a night like any other. My husband got up to pee. This meant him sitting up and climbing out of bed, a motion that almost always woke me. As always, he got his bearings and adjusted to the darkness before crossing in front of the bed and entering the hallway to the immediate left, where he would then disappear into the bathroom.
Except that night I felt something tugging on my hand. I initially thought it was Boomer… until I glanced down to my feet and saw that he was already sprawled out on the bed. Firmly to the right of me.
I felt my wedding ring dig into the flesh of my finger, as though someone was drunkenly trying to remove it, and looked to my left.
There she was. A little girl. Maybe seven or eight. Pale. In a tattered dress. Holding my hand.
I closed my eyes, trying to wipe her out of existence, but she was still there when I opened them. I closed my eyes again. And again she was there when they opened.
I FELT her flesh against mine. The tugging of the ring had only been to get my attention… to get me to look away from the dog and look to her… ‘over here, over here…’ but now she was just… HOLDING MY HAND… cupping it… staring into my eyes… I couldn’t tell if she needed help of if she was offering it… but I didn’t leave a spare moment to figure it out. Not on that first night.
I SCREAMED.
I remember the urgent, almost goofy, slap-stomping of my husband’s bare feet as he ran back in from the bathroom.
He flicked the switch on the wall… flooding the room with blinding white light… AND SHE WAS STILL THERE.
My eyes met with my husband’s for moment… then I glanced to where she stood… his gaze followed mine but I knew instantly that he could not see her.
She held my gaze as she crossed in front of the bed… moving to the right and then the left… pacing back and forth… gliding as though some dark cloud beneath the bed was ferrying her… trying to communicate something awful I had no hope of understanding…
… and then she passed behind my husband… into the back of the house… into the hallway with the small closet and the crawlspace for no one… and disappeared.
Once I knew she was gone I explained to my husband what had happened and he politely searched for her as best he could, humoring me no doubt. Tugging at the grate to the crawlspace. Shining his iPhone flashlight into its abyss. Opening the closet. Nothing.
He was kind. Understanding. At least on that first night.
We came to the conclusion that it was some weird form of sleep paralysis. A waking nightmare. A neurological hiccup.
And that was enough.
Until she held my hand the next night.