The End of the Light in the Tunnel

They always say it's a bad idea to Google medical symptoms. They say you should seek the advice of a real doctor. But after the past few nights, what doctor would believe you?

There is a place between wakefulness and sleep that most visit only briefly each night. It can be a place of great ideas, total clarity, intense peace and boundless imagination. It can also be a place of horrific hallucinations, bottomless anxiety and paralyzing fear. Thankfully, most people only visit this place once in a night.

But not you.

You return to this place over and over again throughout the night. It's not quite a dream. It's not quite reality. But it's opened a doorway to somewhere beyond your cozy bedroom. And there are things stepping through that doorway. Strange things.

You assume it's all in your head at first. You assume that waking up at 3 a.m. to the sound of your bedroom's doorknob twisting is just the remnant of a dream.

You assume lots of things. All of them are wrong.

Because doors aren't supposed to open on their own, not even in a house as old as this one. And there's no reason that the shadow of a person should be cast against the open door. Just like there's no reason that you shouldn't be able to move.

You can only watch the shadow as it watches you, its form darker than the night surrounding it. It lasts only as long as it takes for you to retreat back into the ignorance of sleep. Maybe it's better not to know what comes into your room at night.

You search online for answers about "shadow people" visiting bedrooms at night. It only makes it worse. You learn how shadow people are bad omens. Some say they come from other dimensions. Some say they are demonic. Some say the worst ones wear hats.

Hats!?

You say none of that sounds true. But a part of you knows it is. Because they keep visiting. Night after night.

You meet a friend for coffee and explain what's happening. You go over how you live alone in your house, and that there's no good reason for these things to happen.

"You're probably dreaming or upset. Is there anything you want to talk about?" your friend says.

But this is the thing you're upset about. This is the thing you want to talk about.

So you change the conversation to the weather. And you Google "sleep paralysis" when you get home. And you learn that this is somewhat normal. And you wait. Maybe things will get better.

Or maybe they won't.

The sound of the door opening continues waking you at night, but that's not what terrifies you anymore. What does is the feeling of the sheets being ripped off the bed, exposing your paralyzed body. You look for a source, but find only the shadow featured against the open door staring back at you.

It's trying to tell you something. You can hear it if you'll only listen.

But you don't want to listen. You don't want to know.

In a moment, the paralysis relents, and you pull the sheets back onto the bed, praying you'll find sleep again soon. You squeeze your eyes shut until you convince yourself that you really are asleep, only to be woken again by the feeling of the sheets falling to the floor.

Night after night.

Night after night.

Night after night.

Until whatever it is spreads to the ceiling. It happens the same way. You wake from sleep in the middle of the night to see what you swear are insects and spiders crawling across the ceiling. They start small. There are maybe two or three following the grooves of the ceiling.