A Welcome Haunting

TW: Mental health, gore, violence, grief

Fan blades are whirring above my head and blowing cool air onto my face, the smell of manure is drafting in the open window from the farm down the road, and the sound of your voice is croaking, “my beloved.” I glance over to the pillow beside me and, to my horror, see you staring at me wide-eyed, with blood pouring from your mouth. I gasp, but I can’t move. I can’t even speak. Towering over your body beside the bed is a dark figure engulfed by the shadows. As a car drives by the house and headlights stream in through the bedroom window behind the figure, I can make out the blade in his hand and the outline of his cheeks rising as if giving a sinister smile. It feels like the ceiling fan is getting louder. Your blood has soaked the pillow now. As you try to speak again, your exhale sprays more of your blood onto my face. I close my eyes and struggle to move. I start by trying to move my head and curl my toes. Eventually, I’m free; my head begins to move back and forth on the pillow and I can kick my feet. I look to my left, where you were just lying in a pool of your own blood, and see you sleeping peacefully on a dry pillow. “Jesus Christ,” I whisper with a sigh of relief.

I decide to wait until the morning to tell you of your latest demise. It’s always you, always done in by him. I reluctantly go back to sleep, and when I awake in the morning, you’re there scrolling on your phone in bed.

“Hey, I had sleep paralysis again last night,” I tell you as I reach over to touch your chest. 

“I’m sorry you have to deal with this.” Your eyes are sympathetic. “Did I die again?” You ask with a knowing smirk.

I nod my head and bury my face in your arm. “It just feels so real every time it happens. It’s terrifying even when I realize it’s just a nightmare.” You continue to comfort me with your words and hold me tightly. Honestly, I don’t know how I would survive without you.

Two nights later, you’re murdered again. This time, he’s standing over you with a shadowy, outstretched hand over your face. You look at me through the spaces between his fingers and mumble, “my beloved,” before he drags his hand down to your neck and squeezes. I want to scream, but my mouth won’t open and I can barely even make out a hum. Again, I see the grave outline of the monster’s face contort into a wily smile. His white teeth are visible in the darkness. Once I can move again, the figure vanishes like he always does. I lie there for a moment, breathing heavily, and look over at you. You’re safe.

The next morning I have a counseling session, for this very problem (along with some other past traumas). 

“I’ve had sleep paralysis 4 times this week.” I say desperately. 

“I’m sorry, Jen. I've had sleep paralysis a few times myself and I know how terrifying it can be.” She looks at me with the kind of empathy you know your insurance is paying for. I nod my head and look at the floor.

“I just wish I could figure out how to make it less frequent at least.” I reply, shrugging my shoulders.

“Well, you’ve cut out the caffeine after 3pm, you said you’ve still been journaling, you’ve tried to stop sleeping on your back. All of those things can help, but in your case, it’s clearly not.” Maybe this is where she tells me, I just have to suck it up and keep watching you get murdered several nights a week. After all, it’s not real; no one is actually getting hurt. After a pause, she continues, “If you’re open to it, perhaps it’s time we try some medication. Sleep paralysis is often linked to anxiety and PTSD, so sometimes antidepressants can help.” 

She’s brought this up before, and I was hesitant at first, but this is looking like my last resort. “Um, sure. Let’s give it a go.” I smile and try to feign enthusiasm.

“Great! And it’s possible the medication can help you with other aspects of your life as well.” She waves her hands for emphasis. I return her smile. Maybe she’s right, I could use a pick-me-up these days.

It takes a couple of weeks for the medication to really kick in. The first week, I have the nightmares just as much as any other week. I see you stabbed, bludgeoned, and shot. The second week is better with only one incident. This week, I don't experience it at all. 

You’re more distant too though. The first week is just fine. The second week, you spend so many late nights at work that I hardly see you. This week, we don’t even speak. I know you’re busy at work, but I wonder if it’s something I did that’s making you pull away. You won’t answer me though and I’m getting worried.

As I’m lying in bed on Wednesday  evening, I look over to your pillow. You’re not there. Another late night at the office I suppose. You’ll probably come home after I’m asleep and leave for work again before I wake up. I miss you.

In the morning, I have another counseling session. 

“The Lexapro has been working great!” I clasp my hands together. “I haven’t had sleep paralysis all week, which feels amazing.” I wear a wide smile while saying this. 

My therapist seems pleased. “That’s really good to hear! And if anything comes up, we can always increase the dose too. I got you started pretty low,” she says.

“Okay, yeah, that sounds good.” My eyes drop to the floor and my disposition follows. “There was something else I wanted to talk to you about. I haven’t seen or talked to my husband in like three days. I’m getting worried.” 

I meet her gaze and she looks confused. I furrow my brows too. “What do you mean, you haven’t seen or heard from him?”

“Like, he’s been staying late at work or something. But he won’t even answer my texts.” I sound desperate as I shake my head. “You don’t think he could be cheating, do you?”

“No.” Her mouth stays open for a moment. “Um, were you seeing him before this week?” What kind of dumb question is that?

“Yeah, of course. It’s just recently that he’s been distant.”

She takes a deep breath. “Okay, uh, I think we have a lot of work on our hands here.” She won’t look at me now. “I’m so sorry.” I can tell she’s struggling to speak. I’m struggling to understand. “About a year ago, David passed away.” She pauses to peek at my expression. I am so confused.

“What? No he didn’t. I just saw him last week! I can show you text messages!” I fumble to pull my phone out of my purse. You’re not dead! I know the truth, but my heart is racing anyway. “See!” I open our messages and hand her the phone.

She looks at the phone, then looks up at me, then looks back at the phone and scrolls. She turns the phone towards me. Her voice is low and slow, almost a whisper. “Honey, all of these messages are from you. There aren’t any from David.” She looks like she pities me. I suppose I deserve her pity. All of the messages are blue. They’ve all been sent by me. My eyes fill with tears. “I - I don’t understand. I just saw him last week.” 

“That’s what concerns me.” She brushes her hair behind her ears and sits back. “My assumption is that the trauma has caused you to hallucinate, and the antidepressants have subdued that.” What the fuck?

“So, I’m crazy then,” I state matter of factly. 

“No.” She shakes her head vigorously. “No, you’re not crazy. You have been through unbelievable trauma. Just keep taking the Lexapro - in fact, I’ll increase the dosage - because that seems to be working. If we need to, we can also add an antipsychotic.” Yeah, I’m crazy. She fakes a smile. “And we’ll work through it together.”

“Okay.” I can barely think. “What happened to him?” My lip quivers and my tear ducts well, but I can’t manage a sob yet. It still feels like you’re here. None of this is real.

The counselor takes a deep breath. “Last year, in early October, the two of you were asleep in bed and someone crawled in through the open window,” she says. I’m hanging on her every word. She’s speaking slower than normal. “Since the window was on David’s side of the bed, the intruder started there. You woke up after David had been stabbed,” she says before apologizing again. “You told me that he looked at you and the last thing he said was ‘my beloved.’” She gave me a weak smile and I finally let out a sob and covered my mouth. 

“Why didn’t he kill me too?” I wish he had.

“He certainly would have. When you saw what was happening, you ran. You had the advantage since the door was on your side of the bed. He lunged over the bed at you and managed to get your arm pretty good, but you were obviously okay . . . physically, that is.”

She goes on to say that the man was never caught; I didn’t see his face and couldn’t identify him. She explains that I must have repressed the memory of the event because it was too traumatic for my psyche to bear. Apparently, I started hallucinating too as a coping mechanism. My mind just decided on its own to act like nothing had happened. Sometimes reality is peril and reverie is mercy. 

I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want this to be real. I want to forget again. I want you back, even if you’re a figment of my imagination. We’ll never have the life we were meant to. You will always be frozen in time - a past version of you that will never change -  but you will be with me. I don’t care if demons haunt my nightmares, as long as your ghost continues to haunt my daydreams. 

When I get home, I walk over to the medicine and take out the Lexapro. I study the label for a short time, then I throw it into the trash. A few days later, you finally come home.