Ever since I was a kid, this weird thing kept happening to me.
It started happening when I was twelve, around the same time I started reading horror books. I always loved a book that could make my skin crawl, one that was so scary it gave me a rush of adrenaline after every sentence that I read. It got hard to kick the addiction. I started reading the books everywhere I went. I couldn’t even put down Stephen King’s Pet Sematary (my favourite at the time) at my own 14th birthday party.
The problem was that the horror from the books bled into my real life.
The dreams started happening as soon as I dove into my first horror novel. The novel was about a ghost that haunted a family of four and wanted revenge for moving into its old house. Soon enough, the ghost would appear in my dreams. The dreams were so vivid that I felt like I could touch what was around me and the ghost could attack me at any time.
But I hadn’t had any dreams in a while.
With my parents off on their annual trip to visit my grandparents in Vermont, I had all the time I wanted to catch up on some spooky reading back at home. Staying home alone this year was a present for my 16th birthday. Living in Minnesota, it gets pretty cold. This fall’s transition into winter had been the coldest I’d ever experienced. It was getting dark outside so I turned the fireplace on. To keep myself warm, I brewed a cup of earl grey tea and decided to have a night just for myself. My favourite thing to do on cold winter nights is, of course, to read.
I knew it was a bad idea, but I decided to curl up next to the window with my favourite thriller novel. I was just getting to the part where the killer was down the hall from the main character who was hiding in a closet. The hairs on my neck stood up as I read each line. The villain in this story had the freakiest description: a tall, lanky man with no face who tends to walk in robot motion.
A noise to my left started ringing through my ears. I was startled to realize that I had dropped my book and my mug of tea. My parents would be so upset if they found out that I stained their brand new carpet during my first time alone in the house. As I got up to clean, I heard a voice whispering my name. I turned around but no one was there. I kept walking to grab some paper towels, when I heard it again. This time I froze.
“Who’s there?”
No response.
It was probably just my mind playing tricks on me. I mean, I was just reading one of the freakiest novels I’d read thus far.
“Annie, turn around.”
I swiftly jumped to face the other direction. The back door of my house was wide open and a figure was lurking in the doorframe. With the lights off I couldn’t see who it was but I didn’t care. I started sprinting up the stairs to my room. I closed my door and locked it behind me.
That’s when I realized; it was the man from my novel.
No, this can’t be happening.
How could he be here, in my house? This wasn’t a dream. It just couldn’t be.
I felt a sudden shove on my shoulder and the next second I found myself laying back on the couch, opening my eyes, where I was reading in front of the fire, my book and mug both still on the floor. It was dark in my house, the only light was coming from the fire itself.
“Did you have a good sleep?”
“Yes mom, I just dozed off and then I—”
Wait, my mom is in Vermont. I feel breath on the back of my neck and I begin to slowly turn my head around. It was the man from the novel standing right in front me.
“Hey Annie, want to play a game?”