A Trade for Sleep

*Trigger Warning: brief mention of SIDS

My sleep paralysis demon is a rubber duck. It is not some unholy spawn with an assortment of appendages and mouths too terrible and numerous to describe; just a rubber bath toy.

The whole ridiculous story began after a drowning scare at the public pool at age 6. For the next year, I refused to get in the tub with as much force and kicking tantrums as I could muster; three hundred and sixty five days of dead skin crusting hard on my ankles and a layer of grime covering my body Pigpen would be proud of. My parents had tried everything, from sponge bathing to hypnotic therapy; nothing seemed to do the trick.

It was a brisk autumn night, five days after my 7th birthday, that my dad said it in an exhausted stupor at the bedside.

“You know Jeremy, soap is what keeps the monsters away.” He scraped his fingers against the corners of his bloodshot eyes. “The monsters like the taste of dirty children,” he continued with a yawn. “I think it’s their favorite food.” It was the smirk (slight as it was in the moment at the corner of his mouth) that I would think back to years later, but not now; my eyes are widened with juvenile innocence.

“Really?” I respond sheepishly.

“Absolutely!, he cries, becoming more animated as he continues. “Do you know the Taylors, three houses down?” I nod, clutching the top of the covers to my chin. “Well, they had another little boy after your friend Bart, who never wanted to get clean. He went to bed one night after playing in mud puddles, and was eaten whole by the monster living under his bed. They still don’t talk about it, to this day.”

My dad would come to regret his half-baked story when, after I have a brief conversation on the playground with Mrs. Taylor two weeks later, she lumbers over to him and slaps his face with more strength than I’d ever seen. The Taylors had lost their youngest to SIDS two years prior, something he was told in confidence by Mr. Taylor sometime before. In his sleeplessness, he had subconsciously remembered a sliver of truth he immediately regretted saying as soon as it left his lips; but with selfish hope in his eyes he gave me an air kiss and closed the door goodnight.

I don’t know when it got there, but I felt pressure on my stomach after rolling to my back in the early morning. I lazily opened my eyes to be greeted by a rubber duck staring straight at me.

It was happening, I thought to myself as I registered what it was. The monsters have come to eat me, and this is how it starts.

Every part of me wanted to scream, to run out of the room for the safety of my parents, but nothing happened. I was frozen, like some sort of evil spell, unable to do anything but blink. For what seemed like hours, I stared up at the duck and believed that at any moment the monsters would finish having a good laugh and would begin to chomp me up with their horrible teeth. The monsters never came.

It was a miracle when morning arrived. Another when the duck disappeared in a blink and the door opened. I could move again, and move I did, straight past my mom, past my dad pouring his morning coffee and jumped into the tub screaming all the while.

“What’s wrong, Jeremy?” my parents called as they ran into the bathroom to find their son furiously scrubbing at his body with a bar of yellow Dial soap. The showerhead rained icicles down but they were unfelt as the skin was painfully attacked: first with soap, then with nails.

I don’t remember what words they said, only the sudden reach of arms and the water shutting off. My parents, who refused to kiss me at night due to “the smell” and who convinced my best friend Kyle to have my class call me “germy Jeremy” (something that stayed with me until fifth grade, mind you) were now embracing me as tightly as I could stand. They must have thought the worst was behind them as they traded a dirty boy for a clean freak. In tears, I explained what happened that night and was met with blank stares. My dad sighed, no doubt realizing he would have to keep the lie going; but to seven year old Jeremy it was a simple breath in a bridged gap.

“I think that will all go away as long as you keep clean.”

The rest of the day went on like a dream despite catching my parents arguing which of them had placed the duck in my room. School was a shadow of its usual taunts and dinner was uneventful.

The duck came back that night.

It began much the same way, with me rolling over onto my back and finding in that state of semi-consciousness being unable to move. The rubber duck is once again sitting inexplicably on my stomach, staring me down with soulless eyes.

The visual is terrifying the second time, but more so it is the lack of mobility that makes me reach for a scream that won’t leave my throat. The desire to move and do and be as a child is the root to everything; the first part of experiencing the world. All I can do in this moment is cry myself to sleep, tears silently streaming down my face. If there are monsters I’m at least clean enough that they won’t eat me tonight.

It would be years until I learned that my father lied about being eaten, biding his time to be sure I would maintain my cleanliness. After being brushed off so many times about the duck, I took matters into my own hands. I poured hundreds of hours into research and discovered “sleep paralysis demons”. When the online advice didn’t pan out, I searched for other reasons this would be happening to me.

The ominous mallard became nothing more than a physical representation of a childhood fear. No matter what happened (including, but not limited to, teleportation, fire-breathing, arachnid legs, being comprised of human flesh, etc.), the scare would lose its novelty over time and I would be stuck motionless in my bed.

By age thirteen, the appearance of the bath toy became sporadic and sleep was amicable for the first time in a long time.

********

Last night, during a bout of peaceful sleep, the duck returned, sitting beside my head.

“I quit,” came a voice, a low thrum of a thing that vibrates your very bones.

The duck sauntered over to the edges of my vision, carrying itself with a hundred centipede-like legs emanating from under its flat belly. The sight and sound was disgusting and insectile, but not scary and not something I hadn’t experienced before. The demon, as I now recognize it from my research, crawled from the headboard and onto my left shoulder, meandering to my chest with a practiced slowness.

“It is over,” the voice says. “There is no longer a use for me.”

I don’t know if it’s the confusion in my eyes or a reading of my mind, but the demon’s tone changes.

“It is my purpose to bring you restless nights in hopes of a blissful, sleep-deprived death. I provide the scare, feed off the excess fear, and wait for your soul to be hellbound.” There is an audible hum of animalistic pleasure and the demon continued.

“The problem lies with your fearlessness,” it says, almost a whine, “and I am starved.”

The toy tips itself over and lies on its side atop my chest.

“By quitting, perhaps I can save face. You’ll be reassigned a sleep demon and I will hopefully find a place in my lord’s army, though I doubt one exists for a fucking bath toy!” The duck stands itself up and speaks again.

“Killing you could solve some of that, but there isn’t a guarantee that you would….descend.” The feeling of a blade’s edge rests against my throat, a shimmer of metal cord glinting from the duck’s now-open beak. The sensation was familiar, from sleepless nights before.

“I will allow you to speak before the end. Perhaps a few final cries will sate my hunger, momentarily. Know that if you scream out for others’ help, you will cease before the words reach them.”

There is a feeling like a knot in my throat coming undone. The gears in my head turn feverishly to find a way out of this. After a moment, I land on a question and whisper it to the dark.

“Wouldn’t killing me look bad on you if I don’t….descend, you said? I mean, why do it if there isn’t a guarantee?” The demon pauses for a moment and considers something. I press my point, hoping I’m on the right track.

“You said it yourself, you need to eat fear, and it’s hard to do that when I’m dead.” The razor edge lessens its grip as the demon replies.

“A point has been made. Continue. What would you have me do instead?” The demon sounds curious, something I never expected.

“Well, is there some other way to scare me? I mean, why keep the duck thing going?” The rubber duck closes its beak and the wire tightens slightly, breaking skin enough for a thin band of crimson to appear.

“You know nothing!” it yells, as if through gritted teeth. “Sleep demons are either born from or assigned at a moment of extreme fear and take a related form! I can no more change my form that force the fear from you!” The creature is seething now, I just know it, and my window of survival is closing fast.

“The only way to change,” it continues, “is through reassignment or deal!”

“Then let’s do that; let’s make a deal! That’s got to be better for both of us than killing me.” The sharp cord disappears and giant arms protrude from either side of the duck. They stretch to the bed above my shoulders and pull the duck closer until it rests inches from my face.

“Do say what you have in mind, Jeremy, but I do not believe I can continue to scare you, no matter what form I take.”

This is it, this is the life or death moment. I am so close, and yet far enough to still be concerned. My mind runs blank and the demon has a point. Ever since that near drowning and the nighttime scares began, I had been gaining confidence jumping headfirst into problems. I made lots of friends, tried out for all sorts of clubs and sports, and even had a few relationships in Danica, Brianne, and Eric (*see Journal numbers 14 and 15 for reference). The only thing I could think of in the moment was the fear of the unknown, but I doubt that’s something that would interest the demon. I rack my brain as much as I can until a stupid question runs at full sprint from my mind to my mouth.

“Does it have to be my fear?”

“What?” the demon calls.

“DOES IT HAVE TO BE MY FEAR?!” I repeat loudly and wait for the next cut of flesh. To my surprise, the duck retreats backward from my face and stands, impossible arms crossed, at my hip.

“Where would it come from, if not you?” The shock is overwhelming, but I do not falter. I make up whatever clever excuse I can.

“….Um….umm….the…uhh….school! Ya, the school! That makes sense, right?! People are half-asleep there all the time!” The logic is shaky, but it’s the best I can do given the circumstances.

The duck does something it has never done. For the first time since it arrived six years ago, the duck smiles. It is a jarring smile, an open bill with human cheekbones and filled with hundreds of predatory teeth.

“I accept. What are your terms?”

For the next hour, the demon and I went back and forth discussing and settling on the limits of the deal. I would much rather be sleeping at this point, but this is better than the alternative. The contact stated, at the end of the hour, that the demon holds “exclusive fear rights” (included because they believed this to be an “untapped market”) to the school in exchange for my undisturbed sleep at home. The demon may alter their form for the sole purpose of extracting fear and cannot cause physical harm or death to anyone through either direct or indirect means. I believed I had the upper hand until they made the following addendum:

“…. The demon may alter their form for the sole purpose of extracting fear, [including Jeremy’s fear of the unknown]…..The demon may do so only if these actions do not break this contract’s previous terms.”

The contract ended with, “Both parties, by signing this document in blood, agree to the nature of their relationship and the terms written above.” I read it all over again sleepily and gave my approval.

“I will release you from your immobility,” said the duck, “that you may sign of your own free will.” The duck teleports from view as I feel my body again, the sensation like a giant muscle falling asleep. Everything had that tingling sensation paired with pinpricks. I turned my head around the room and found the duck atop my desk, illuminated faintly by the lamp, and flanked on either side by a contract and a small brass basin the size of a soap dish. The square metal item is smooth throughout, save for a small indentation at its center.

“Place a finger and sign,” the demon demanded. I reached an index finger to the plate and into the recess. It felt like a cold river stone, made smooth by gallons of running water. There wasn’t a cut or a poke, but blood appeared nevertheless as I sign the contract, then leaves just as quickly. The demon has already signed, but the space below the line that should display a name is blank.

“The deal is struck. All there is left is to give your partner a name.”

“Partner?” I questioned, as the duck began to alter its form. A humanoid shape coalesced from a hyacinth light no brighter that the desk lamp and stood in front of me. Neither distinctly masculine nor feminine, they are striking all the same. Features came into view slowly as the radiating brightness began to blend with the lamplight.

A slender, but athletic frame at my height is revealed, bearing a smooth face with freckles dotting the cheekbones and nose. Chestnut eyes with large flecks of auburn and orange shine mischievously under dark, full lashes. The same dark of the lashes are echoed in the hair, short sides border a wild tumble of waves up top. A quick scan I catch them smile, a show of brilliant white teeth with their tongue curled and resting on a vampiric canine.

“…part…ner…?” I repeated. I could not get myself to say anything more, completely flabbergasted by it all. Where there was once a rubber duck now stands a mesmerizing stranger my own age.

“You agreed to this, remember? Our relationship…?” The demon’s voice has changed, taking on a fitting adolescence that carried a certain magnetic maturity I couldn’t help but notice. “Are you already breaking the deal? If so, I could kill you right now; I did get what I wanted already.” They lean back against my desk and half-sit at its edge, a finger resting on their bottom lip as they shift back and forth.

I step back and raise my hands between us.

“Wait, wait wait! I never said I was breaking our deal! I’m just….a little…..surprised is all.” I bet that they were enjoying my moments of confused fearfulness. I try to change the subject back, saying

“Don’t you have a name?” The demon chuckled slightly and shook their head.

“My name is impossible for you to say, but you’re welcome to try.” They proceed to speak a staggering collection of guttural vowels and biting plosives. The closest I get is something like Argxix before I give up. I offered some names, ones like Chris and Alex and Jack, but nothing seems to stick. They reacted to Jubilee briefly, but it was rejected a second later. I look into the demon’s eyes and try once more to say their name.

“Agr…..xiag…..igxr…..A….Ar….” Then it came to me. “Aren.” Something like a candle’s flame burned in their eyes and they nodded.

“Aren it is.” When they said it, it hovered in the air; it sounded like a new word entirely, like a combination of Aaron and Auren. At that, the space under their signature burned and smoked, until Aren was revealed in a flowing cursive script. Aren paused, looked back at the paper, and twirled an index finger to the air. Jubilee appeared next to Aren on the contract.

“I thought it fitting to have a last name, and…Jubilee was growing on me.” They smile playfully and place one hand over the other at their knee.

“I look forward to school tomorrow, my Jeremy; and all of the unknowns we’ll experience together.” A quick laugh, a bat of the lashes, and Aren snaps with both hands to disappear in a plume of fire and smoke. I slumped to the floor and pain shot out from my knees.

I am, miraculously alive.

Oh, and I guess I’m dating a demon….?