The White Crone

Blood.

The taste is the only thing I have awareness of, my sole focus. Blood in my mouth, metallic and somewhat brackish.

Awareness of my body comes back to me gradually, radiating outward from that point. The taste of blood in my mouth awakens awareness of my lips, my chin, throat and nose. I breathe in, expecting the coppery scent of blood, and instead am nearly overwhelmed by the fresh smell of clean linen.

Blood and linens. That is the extent of my reality until I become aware of the existence of my eyes and open them.

The white textured ceiling stretches out above me, intersecting the pale gray walls. Toward the middle of the room, the ceiling fan swoops rhythmically.

I become aware of the soreness along the side of my tongue. That at least explains the taste of blood.

My neck is made of stone, or at least it feels that way when I strain to move my head. My eyes are able to dart to the periphery, where I see her outline, though even without seeing, I would know she was there.

Most call her the Old Hag. I came up with a different name for her in my youth, before I knew anyone else could see her: the White Crone.

I have never seen her directly, only in my periphery. Standing at the bed side, staring down at me. As such, I can’t say that I’ve seen her, but I know she what she looks like, all the same.

The fact she does not exist is irrelevant. I feel her eyes searing into me, as real as anything else I have ever experienced.

Sleep paralysis, the logical part of my mind recites. A temporary inability to move or speak while falling asleep or upon waking.

The White Crone does not move. She doesn’t do anything but stare. Yet, I can sense she is angry at my thoughts. Enraged that I dare doubt the reality of her.

Most people who have had sleep paralysis report an overwhelming evil presence in the room. The intruder often takes the form of a witch or demon. Sometimes the entity sits on their chest, crushing the life out of them.

For me, she is always standing just beside the bed, at the very blurry edge of my vision. Sometimes I see what I think is a lanky, pale arm full of wrinkles and blue veins, the attached hand always hanging below the visible threshold. Which I’m thankful for. If I were to actually see those hands reaching for me, I might then know the full embrace of madness.

My first visit from the White Crone occurred when I was about eight years old. My mother assured me I’d simply had a nightmare. This was the time before the internet, and in those Before Times, I had no place to go for more information. Fortunately, it only happened maybe once or twice a year. It was an occasional frightening occurrence, not a regular torment. Still, when the internet came around, I recall it being one of the first topics I ever did a deep-dive into.

Sleep Paralysis. AKA, Old Hag Syndrome.

It would be easy to assign supernatural meaning to the fact historically most people personify the intruding presence to be something malicious, and the fact so many report similar creatures. The hag, the demon. But I’m also aware that people from different cultures report seeing other entities. Jinn, incubi, or even aliens have all been described by various people from all around the world.

This suggests, at least to me, a mind grappling for an explanation for a fear it is currently experiencing, rather than the perception of an external force. Meaning, the paralysis comes first, and the struggling mind reaches the conclusion that its body is being overpowered, and the entity responsible is most often a combination of that person’s cultural and personal fears.

I don’t know what my sleep paralysis demon being an old white woman who stands just outside of eyesight says about me personally. Maybe I don’t want to know.

But can she be called a woman, really? She isn’t human. She’s vaguely humanoid in shape, perhaps. I can see her now, in the corner of my eye, and her skin is so milky white it casts an almost ethereal glow, like a mystical elf from an epic fantasy. Under other circumstances, that would suggest purity, maybe. But not from the White Crone.

I see the lanky forearm, pale and crossed with veins and wrinkles alike. The hands hang so low I can’t see them. I feel like they are large, though, with skinny and graceful fingers like white spider legs.

Sleep paralysis is just the body still being asleep while the mind is partially awake. That’s all. It’s not all that mysterious, really, when you get right down to it. But for that minute or two, when the White Crone has you, everything real fades away. The memorized explanations fall flat. Because she knows she’s real, and she doesn’t require that you believe in her too.

Most episodes of paralysis only last a minute or two. I have no idea how long I’ve been in the grip of this one. Time has little meaning in this space between wakefulness and sleep, in this twilight place. I might be ten seconds in, or up to nearly two minutes. No clue.

Sometimes I think I can hear the heavy intake of her breathing, but it’s most likely an anxiety-stretched perception of the sound of the ceiling fan.

Despite having never looked her dead on, I have a sense of her. Oddly formless shape, sloping shoulders. Pale, veined skin all over. Wisps of silvery gray hair sprouting from a mostly bald head. Eyes like two burning exit wounds, and a charred mouth stretched into a tremulous grin.

I don’t know what she wants from me, but whatever it is, it’s not time for it. Not yet. That’s why she keeps coming back, you see. She’s seeing if I’m ready. If I’m ripe. And one day I will be. She will stare down at my face, finally revealing herself, and although I won’t be surprised by what she looks like, I will still likely lose my mind.

Even as I think this, my neck begins to loosen. I turn my head.

The White Crone is gone.

The ability to move trickles back into me. I sit up, heart kicking up and breathing heavy. I think that’s the worst part about my sleep paralysis episodes: how oddly calm my body remains while my brain is freaking out. It’s only after the episode ends and I’m able to move that my heart rate increases, and I begin to physically feel the aftershocks of the panic I’ve been running through internally for an eternity of sixty or more seconds. The dichotomy is unsettling.

I count my breaths, trying to keep myself calm. In for five seconds, out for three.

Thirty years after that first visit from the White Crone, and I still feel like a scared little kid after, wishing I could run into my mother’s room for reassurance. Instead, I head to the bathroom and rinse out my bloody mouth, checking my wounded tongue. A minor bite, nothing to be concerned about.

When I return to bed I lay on my side, since it’s only when I’m on my back that the White Crone comes to visit. I pull the covers up to my chin and try to sleep.