The night is strange and uneasy, pressing in around me like a swarm of gnats. The bones of my bedroom have been torn apart and strewn all over the place. Nothing is sitting where it belongs, and there are boxes and piles of items creating sinister shapes and shadows. In the dark, my home feels unfamiliar and threatening. The blinds are open and the light from the street casts shadow puppets across the walls. My bed is emptier than usual and I feel exposed, vulnerable.
I try for hours to succumb to sleep, but she refuses to embrace me. The eyes in the walls are unblinking and the shadows shiver in the corner of my eye as I cower under the blankets. The night is quiet, but every sound sends a rocket through my heart.
In the dead of the night, an almost imperceptible sound breaks the silence as my bedroom door slowly creeps open behind me. I freeze, straining to hear more. A soft brushing noise, like someone’s footsteps curls around my bed. I hear it move from the door and around the corner to finally stop at my feet. I remain as still as a statue, heart pounding in my ears like a hurricane.
A gentle tug on the covers, and I clench my jaw. A light, floating touch crawls up the foot of the bed, pressing down harder with each advance it makes toward me until it’s slowly stepping over my feet and up my legs. I take in shaky, shallow breaths as the being crawls up my body in the darkness–unable to move, unable to believe. I can’t accept this disembodied presence in my own bed, silent and invisible.
The tension fades away like water into sand as my cat finally settles down on top of me to go to bed. Her warm body is back to its appropriate weight and as my head rushes, I wonder why she was so much more delicate climbing up into the bed tonight than usual–perhaps just to scare me. With the cat sleeping soundly across my legs, the haunted forest of shadows and shapes in my bedroom finally shrinks away and I drift blissfully into sleep.
Method of Mancy 