Dad was standing in the hallway again last night. I could never quite make out his face in the dark, but I’ve always known it was him. I had left the lights on, but he always turns them off before he enters. I tried using a flashlight to get a better look at him several nights ago, but that didn’t work either. I had changed the batteries that evening and had tested it before and after he arrived. Electronics don’t seem to work when they’re next to me. Mom doesn’t like light either. She always stands at the front door now.
I first noticed them a month or so ago. I woke up in the night hearing some knocking down the hall, but I figured it was just this old house falling further apart. I turned up the white noise on my phone and went back to sleep, but I woke up again soon after with them standing over me. I remember a jolt of fear ripped through my body and out my legs, making me kick the wood base of my bed I had outgrown long ago. That much adrenaline would usually get me up and moving, but as I continued looking up at them, I was overcome with that awful sunken-chest feeling. It felt like when I was in middle school and I had just gotten my wretched report card, knowing I had to take it home to expecting parents. Or when I could hear the stomping of steps up the stairs after slamming my door. Even in the dark, I knew how their faces were contorted. I had seen and felt it many times before.
After the second night, I asked my friend if I could stay with him overnight. We flipped through some old yearbooks and played some videogames before bed. I asked him if it was alright to leave something on TV overnight to help me sleep, but he complained about the brightness of it. I was hesitant, but eventually told him about the night before. He seemed to brush it off, telling me it doesn’t surprise him that I would see something like that this soon after their deaths. He told me about how his mom is a nurse and she’s told him some crazy stories about the effects of trauma. And while it felt dismissive, he did then allow the TV to stay on.
About an hour after he fell asleep, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to sleep that night, despite not sleeping the night before either. I flipped through the channels on TV until I saw some old painting of a bloody, anthropomorphic bear. There was text at the bottom of the screen that read, “Ursidaerla”. I turned the volume up slightly while trying not to wake up my friend, and it seemed to be a folklore documentary. The story went something like this:
A tribesman sought out Ursidaerla, the forest god, to learn its power of immortality. He found the bear in a cave sitting next to a campfire.
“Ursidaerla, god of the forest, please teach me your power of immortality,” the man pleaded.
The bear slouched over and groaned, “I am too hungry to teach.”
“But you are immortal. You do not need food,” the man replied.
“Your tribe has taken all my food,” the bear bellowed indignantly. “While my life may never end, neither do the pains of it. Do you really seek to learn this?”
“Yes,” the man confidently answered.
Ursidaerla sat up straight again, “Then excommunicate yourself from your tribe. Bring me effigies of your family. Do this, and I will teach you eternal life.”
The man immediately ran back to his camp. He tore cloth off his family’s rags, told the chieftain he was never to return, and set back out towards the bear. On his way back to Ursidaerla, he collected twigs and grass, crafting effigies of his family while hiking to the cave. Upon arriving, he reported his departure and showed the bear his effigies.
“Good,” Ursidaerla said, “Now stomp on your effigies. Break them. Curse them. Then toss them into the fire.”
The man followed the orders, tossing the smashed twigs and brush into the flame.
“You are now immortal,” the bear said before pouncing on the man and ripping his abdomen open. Ursidaerla devoured his insides as the man screamed and screamed, but no matter how much the bear ate, there was always more.
It was not long after that I heard the creaks and thuds coming from either side of the room. As my friend continued to sleep, I peeked under the bedroom door and saw the bottom of Dad’s boots. My friend’s bedroom was on the second floor, but I could’ve sworn that I heard thuds outside the window. I raised the curtain just enough to see Mom’s ankles standing on the shingles.
The night after that, I used Dad’s credit card to book a hotel room on the fifth floor with no balcony. That night, Dad was at the door and Mom was hovering outside the window. I’ve stayed at home ever since, but now I sleep in the living room. It seems like they always stay between me and an exit, and the furthest distance I’ve been able to find from them seems to be here. I wanted to try sleeping outside, but I haven’t been able to open the doors or windows for weeks now. My phone no longer works, even when they’re not around. Maybe I just can’t always see them.
The nights seem to be getting longer. When I looked out the window earlier today, the sky looked like it was breathing. Dad’s standing in the hallway again. Mom’s at the front door. They make me feel so many negative things, but I know what they really want is to make me feel guilty about them. No matter how many days they keep me here, I never will.