What is your favorite part of the day? For me it’s sleep. Not for the chance to rest, but because I get to dream. My dreams have always been vivid and I can remember them more often than not, which is more often than not a good thing. Dreams of some random, sometimes fantastic, things that happen creating an interesting story to tell my friends that they never want to listen to. Upon waking I look back on the parts of those stories I can remember and if I have time, I write it down. But one day it was different. I had a nightmare. A long, drawn out nightmare. It was like a movie that I was both a part of and watching at the same time. To make things worse, it had a sequel. Another strange thing to mention is that on those unusual nights that nightmares impose themselves in my dreams, I eventually realize that it is a nightmare and can wake up. Ending the overwhelming feelings of fear and anxiety. But that night, I stood my ground and chose not to wake up. Not to run. I faced it.

I was a kid, maybe 12, on a sort of goonies-like adventure in a mountain cave. Some friends and I were exploring the woods behind the neighborhood I grew up in. The woods became a forest, and the forest was deep in the mountains. We found a cave opening and went inside. As we went, there were traps and some sort of beasts. Maybe ogres or trolls.  I do not remember too much from this part aside from a weird perspective that was like seeing through the entire mountain from the outside looking in. The focus would shift from our position in the tunnels and the next trap as we were approaching it. Somehow, we all managed to get through the ordeal alive and made it to the last room. Inside we found some hidden treasure. Conveniently enough there were 5 burlap sacks. One for each of us, and we took what we could. With my share I bought my mom an old house (which is what I told her I would do when I was little after I grew up and became rich) in the random town of I don’t know where.

        It was a big white house with wood siding and a tin roof. I think it might have been Victorian. Regardless of the architecture, it was really old and the paint was chipping everywhere. There was a porch off the front of the house facing the street that wrapped halfway around one side of the house. Bushes grew on either side of the front walk going up to the porch. A black cast iron fence marked the edge of the property and surrounded the old white house, sidewalk running along the street. The outside of the house needed some love, but inside was surprisingly clean with 6x6 black and white checkered floor tiles from the front door straight back to the kitchen. The rest of the house was old dark hardwood.

         Since I was 12 in the dream I lived there too. I still thought the same way I do now, but was in a younger body, playing with the toys I had at that age. Kinetics or kinex or something like that. Pretty much next gen Legos with moving parts. Weird things started to happen not long after moving into this old house. Shadows moving out of the corner of my eyes, curtains and the strings dangling from ceiling fans moving, weird sounds. All things I would tell myself just fall under the "it’s just an old house" explanation. But while I was building a Farris wheel with the kinex I would turn my back for a moment and when I came back to it I would be steps ahead, new pieces added and belts attached. The first time it happened I thought to myself "I don’t think I started doing drugs yet."  After it happened 2 more time it gave me chills and I stopped.

           One night I went down to the kitchen to make a sandwich. I was building a work of art. We had fancy cheeses and expensive breads. It was dark out and the street was right out front. I refused to acknowledge the shadows that moved across the floor. Dismissing them as being created from the headlights of cars passing by on the street. I was trying so hard to keep the fear out even though it was growing stronger. I just focused on the masterpiece coming together in front of me.

          I was putting everything away when I noticed a shadow moving slower than before. While I turned to the fridge, I noticed there was no sound coming from the street. Dead silent. My body shook from the chills I got and I almost dropped the cheese. I turned back and looked at the path the shadow was moving in and followed it with my eyes to the dining room. In the dining room there was a door that led to a staircase going upstairs and further to the attic. That door was currently halfway open, and slowly continuing to drift open giving a small creak as it came to rest completely ajar.

              Doubt was growing that maybe this is not normal, that it is not just an old house. But I continue to tell myself it must be. If it is not the house, I don’t think I could handle it. Still fighting the fear.

              At this point I am realizing that this is a dream. But I do not want to give in to the fear. I don’t lucid dream often and am trying to hold on.

             I turn back to the fridge and put the last thing away (Dijon mustard).  I think to myself that if it is not the old house then maybe it could be my mom going upstairs. That I was too wrapped up in this delicious looking sandwich that I did not see her and when she went up the stairs the door didn't shut all the way, so it was able to inch back open. So I yell up to her and ask if she was just downstairs and if she wants to come back for a sandwich. She replies that she was in bed and that she has not been downstairs in hours. Fear increases.

         My eyes cannot help but glance back over to the door as I turn for the divine creation I had been waiting for. The door is no longer open. It is starting to shut. It slowly moves back until the latch is about to hit the strike plate. About an inch away it slams shut like someone was tired of waiting for it to close or just to scare the shit out of me. And it did. My stomach dropped. My heart sped up and I could feel my heart start to beat faster, harder. I broke out in goosebumps. The back of my neck was on fire and my fingertips and feet felt like they were being stabbed with needles all over. No more explaining all this away. Fear wins.

              All the odd things I experienced ran through my mind at once. Everything starts to fall in place, leading me towards one conclusion. My rational brain shuts down. This fucking house is haunted, and we need to leave NOW!

            I turn and run for the main staircase to get upstairs to my mom’s room. On the way I yell up to her that there is something in the house and we need to get out now, but I just here her yell back “it is just an old house and your imagination. Stop making so much noise, it’s too late for all that!” I shut up and focus on just getting to her room, there is no point in arguing with her. The important thing is to get up there as quick as I can and drag her out if need be. Explanations can wait until we are safe outside.

As I approach the staircase, the foyer seems to have changed. The space has opened up as if I was running through the great room in a mansion. It seemed like the room expanded 100 feet in either direction, the ceiling jumped 50 feet higher. A giant oriental rug lay over the checkered tile that before was the only thing we walked on. The staircase was in the center and rose to the second floor in an unreasonable number of dark walnut wooden treads. My eyes follow the white painted risers to find the top. It seemed so far away. Was this house always this big?

Being in a dream, I am extremely uncoordinated and trip up many of the stairs. I tried using the handrail to pull myself up and counter the problems I was having with my feet, but I continued to fumble my way up until I reached the top. Still holding the handrail, I use it to swing left and head to mom’s door, which down at the end of the open hall. A strong handrail with hand pickets twisting down to the floor on one side, overlooking the massive great room below. A wall lined with old, expensive looking portraits in detailed frames and dimly lit wall sconces on the other. I had never seen these before or the people in them. Where did the family photos go? About two or three steps down this hallway there are about 8 stairs going down that I do not see, and I slip down them all on my heels. I can’t help but think to myself, “damn dude, you really suck at stairs.” It saved some time though and I just keep going. Following the path around a final corner and to the door.

          I get to her room and knock on the door and tell her to grab what she can on the way to the door and that we need to leave. I do not hear anything, so I start banging on the door. The door opens slowly, and mom is standing there in a red bath robe with a blank look on her face. I reach to grab her arm and pull her out the room and to the stairs. As I do her head drops a bit and unnatural grin cracks across her face. "Mommy's not here", she says.

          I try to take my arm back, but I am too slow. Her thin, bony fingers grab my wrist with an unnatural strength and do not let go. I pull and twist, but she only holds on tighter.

         "Mommy's not here! Mommy's not here!" She repeats. Her voice gets higher, like she is mocking me. "Mommy's not here! Mommy's not here!" A deep voice begins to overtake hers, but I can still hear them both when she speaks.

         Panic washes over me. I am trying to throw my whole body back, pulling and jerking with all I have hoping I will put at least another inch between me and whatever that thing is pretending to be my mom. I am stuck in its monstrous grip. While struggling to free myself, my feet come out from under me, and I fall back on my butt. My arm is still in her possession held up in the air. I do my best to scramble backwards. But she moves with me, inch by inch. With every step her face moves closer to mine. With every step she bends over a little more. "Mommy's not here!" repeated over and over. My back hits the pickets of the handrail and I have nowhere else to go.

Wind started howling through the house like there was a hurricane running through the place. As her face moves closer to mine, it starts twisting into something else. Skin starts to turn violet, bones in the cheeks and chin change. But the change in her eyes is what scared me the most. Her normally winter blue eyes began to glow a toxic yellow and green. Those eyes pierced right through me. Paralyzing me. I could see the pleasure this thing got from my fear in them. As she got closer, they got brighter. The smile got bigger. The voices that came from her got louder.

         I thought to myself that that was it, I am going to die here. And that sandwich... I never got to eat even a bite of it. What could it have tasted like? What if it was the best sandwich I ever made? It was the not knowing that was the worst. It looked so good, and I will never know if it tasted as good as it looked. I should have brought it up with me to try and eat on the way. The last thing I saw were those glowing yellow green eyes inches from mine. The last thing I felt was an oddly calm yet still frightening acceptance of certain death. No life flashing before my eyes. No begging for my life. Just the feeling that this is it.

I woke up and felt immediate relief. A streetlight shone through my curtainless window lighting up the room. My small room in a townhouse. I could hear the familiar sound of the a/c unit running outside. My heart was still racing but I knew I was out of that dream. Out of that house. All would be good in a few minutes. I got up to pee and get some water to clear my head a little and get the image of those eyes out of my head. It was nice to feel the carpet under my feet instead of the cold hardwood in the dream. I returned after the business was done and went back to sleep, hoping for a better dream.

I fall back asleep quickly. Then I see those eyes staring at me. Bright yellow and green swirling around black pupils. "Mommy's not here!" repeating over and over. I am right where I was before I woke up. Still in the grasp of what was my mom and the fear that thing aroused in me. I look into those eyes and I am taken somewhere else.

A house is being built. I can see the progress like pictures in a slideshow. An empty plot. The framing of the first floor going. Then the second floor, with workers on scaffolding around it and others on the inside. The roof trusses going up and the tin roof after. The men on the scaffolding installing the siding. Furniture and paintings being carried inside. The man who built the house was a painter. An immigrant coming to the U.S. back in what I assume was the late 1800’s in some small town. The people in the town did not want the man there. He was different and they were afraid of what would happen if he stayed. What other strange people he might bring. The things the stranger might do. The people of the town told him to leave but he refused to let them run him out. He would try to assure them that he meant no harm with his words, but they did not want to hear it. He tried to offer them paintings and portraits, but the people would throw them on the ground or destroy them in front of him. Kids threw rocks at him when he walked the streets. Men spat at or on him. Women would not look at him. But he stayed and the longer he was there, the angrier the people would become.

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         One night a group of men, around 6 or 8, got together and decided to go directly to the painter’s house to try and "persuade" him to leave. They knocked on his door and the second he opened the door they attacked him, dragging him through the dining room, up the stairs to the attic. There they beat him. The men told him he had two weeks to get his belongings together and get out. But the painter, beaten and bloodied, stood his ground and refused to retreat. He said that he would never leave. The towns men replied, "we'll see about that". To show the severity of their threat, one of the towns men cut off the painter’s right hand. The painter lay curled up on the floor of the attic holding his wrist with his remaining hand, squeezing, and screaming. The men looked down at the bloody mess they created and turned to leave. The man that took the painter’s hand yelled back, “2 weeks.” without stopping or turning back as he went down the stairs. The men left the house and went back to their homes.

          The painter survived the visit, or at least for a time. He was in pain physically, covered in bruises, open wounds on his face, and of course the stump where his hand once was. The pain he suffered from losing his hand was greater than any he had endured before in his life. His career, his love, and his life were taken from him as well. He just sat in his house, staring at the now tied up limb, covered in rags stained red with his blood. He was defeated. The former painter did not eat. He did not sleep. He took his life a few days later. He stuck a knife in his heart in the attic, bleeding out of floor. He had brought his favorite paintings up with him. While he lay there, coughing and choking on his blood, surrounded by his work, he smiled. “I’m…still…here…” in those final moments he realized that he stayed true to his word and never left his house.

         In the two weeks that passed, no one in the town saw the dead painter. Of course, they did not know the man took his own life. Some thought he was just hiding from them. Others thought he may have run away in the night, scared that they might try to harm him again on his way out of town, leaving everything behind. People in the town talked amongst themselves, rumors spread. After the promised two weeks had ended, they formed a mob.

Pitch forks, torches, rope, and hatred brought with them. They arrived at his house yelling and screaming for him to come out. If he would not come out, they would come in. The mob waited but saw no sign of him. The original group of men that gave him the warning went in first, their voices carrying through the house and out to the mob. “where are you?” “get out here and get out of town”. After a few minutes, and many more threats coming from the me in the house, the mob heard yells filled with hostility turn to screams of fear. Then silence. None of the men inside made another sound, none of them came back out. Another group went in, but it went the same way. Hostility, fear, silence. Fear and terror infected the mob outside the house as well. Women and children screamed as the ran back to their homes. Some women just fainted, and the men had to carry them back. Others just stood there yelling inside. Eventually the mob had scattered, fearing the devil was in that house and left it abandoned. Still unaware that the man they were trying to expel from their town was no longer living, the town thought to let the man starve and die in there alone. That if anyone saw him outside, they would get him then.

The house stayed empty and abandoned for a long time. Stories about the history of the house and its original owner scared most from even stepping foot on the property. But there are always those who do not believe in ghost stories. Those that scoff at urban legends passed down from those who remember. A family moved in many years later hoping to fix up the house. That hope died along with them shortly after. As time passed families came and went. Most packed up and left not too long after settling in. Objects moving on their own and mysterious sounds and voices scared them off.  Some did not even pack, they just abandoned the place. The ones that refused to believe the legends of the town and did not flee from the strange happenings inside the walls of this house lost their lives. Suicides, murder, disappearances. The stubborn ones eventually left the house empty as well. Eventually another family moved in. My new family.

        I was now a 5-year-old boy. I had a new mommy and daddy, and a baby sister just starting to crawl. The house was different. Modernized. It is fair to assume this is after my first dream with my real mom. New exterior siding and a new layout on the first floor. Same bones. It was long before the weird stuff started happening, the same as before. My toys would move on their own. I could see shadow people out of the corner of my eye, but they would be gone when I tried to look at them. Doors would open and shut by themselves. The walls would whisper if I listened hard enough, but I could not tell what they said. I tried to tell my parents that I was scared. I did not like the house and that it was trying to talk to me. The shadows moved and disappeared when the lights were on. My new daddy just took his glasses and cleaned them, he does this when he is thinking, and told me, “monsters and ghosts aren’t real, so they can’t hurt you. Sometimes our eyes and ears play tricks on us. You have to be brave for your little sister and show her that you aren’t scared of anything.” I trusted him and his words and laughed a little cause he looks funny without his glasses.

        Even though my dad told me ghosts were not real and my ears like to play tricks on me to scare me, I heard things at night and the whispers got a little louder. I hated bedtime; I was afraid of the dark. New mommy would leave the light in the hallway on and crack the door so light would come in enough for me to see the room good. My bed was across the room in the corner. One night I woke up. When I opened my eyes, it was bright, and I thought it was morning. But the window was still dark. The door to my room was wide open, allowing the light from the hallway to illuminate my room. I looked at the open door. Blinked. And when my eyes opened there was a man standing in the doorway. He was purple and blue all over and his eyes were glowing yellow green. An unnaturally large grin spread across his face. Nothing but a stump where his hand should be.

         Fear washes over me and I squeeze my eyes shut as hard as I could and jump back so my back is against the wall. He does not look like a shadow, he looks real! Mommy said the things in the dark will go away if I close my eyes and count to 10, but it’s the light is on and its bright. I count anyways and when I open my eyes again the man is gone. I feel a little better. I can breathe again, but I feel something strange behind my back. I reach around and feel something cold. I pull it out from behind me, but it doesn't register right away. When it does fear takes over once again and my screams echo through the house. I am holding a severed hand. It is cold and stiff, dark blue. From behind the open door in my room I see something dark move just slightly. Glowing eyes slowly peek out from its edge, one at first. Then the other. Its smile seems bigger than before. The arm with a stub at the end is raised to its mouth like it is trying to cover the sinister grin, but there is no hand to cover it. It is that man’s hand!! I produce a second wave of even higher, more desperate screams for my parents to come save me.

          My mom runs in and turns on the light to my room. She tells me everything is alright but again, it takes a second to register that she is even there. I am still staring at the door, and the man is gone. I look down and the hand is gone too. When the wails settle into sobs, she asks “What is wrong?”. I tell her about the stubby man, his glowing eyes and wicked wide grin, and the hand that was in my bed. That the stubby man is trying to get me!

         Next thing I know, we are all downstairs and new mom is in the kitchen making lunch. Dad is playing with the baby. I am playing with my toy cars on the floor, crashing them together making explosion sounds. I am completely absorbed in my demolition derby for who knows how long, and I hear mommy yelling at daddy because he lost my baby sister. She keeps yelling at him, “Where she is?!?! how can you lose a baby that can’t even walk yet? What the hell were you doing?” he tries to answer her, but she won’t let him talk and yells over him. That he is irresponsible and cannot do something as simple as keep an eye on a child. Without looking up, or putting down the cars, I tell them both, “Stop yelling, baby is on the couch, but it’s not our baby.”

       Mommy approaches the back of the couch and looks over it. The girl is sitting there like I said, just staring forward. Mommy apologizes to daddy for yelling at him. She starts talking to the baby telling her that its dangerous for babies to wonder off and she scared mommy. The baby giggles. As mommy reaches for my sister, her head slowly spins 180 degrees to face our mom and says, "baby's not here!" And starts laughing. Our mom is frozen with fear and daddy jumps up exclaiming that his baby girl is learning to talk and how cool that is. But when he sees the twisted neck, he stiffens up right next to mommy. They both stare speechless at the giggling baby with her head facing the wrong way.

          “I told you that’s not our baby” I tell them, still not lifting my head from my toys. As I speak, the lights start to flicker, and an eerie cool wind begins to blow inside. Every time the lights flicker, me and the baby disappear and reappear in different parts of the room. My perspective also changes from me being the boy to me being the parents. First, I am the boy, the lights flash and I am the mom. Flash. I am the dad. Flash. Mom. Flash. Dad. Flash. Boy. I keep jumping bodies with each pulse of light. Meanwhile the wind is picking up, and the children are flitting around the room. As they travel around, their eyes start glowing. Dull at first but getting brighter all the time. Strong gusts of wind begin to knock over lamps, pictures, and other loose things in the room. Papers are flying, a vase falls and shatters on the floor next to the couch’s side table. The kids are both laughing saying "we're not here" over and over, getting louder and louder. The voices are starting to become louder than the wind, almost as if the voices are in the parents’ heads. It seems as though the grins on their faces are growing. Dead lips spreading wider than they should. They continue to blip around the room: dad has boy, baby on couch; dad has baby, boy on couch; boy on stairs, baby on bookshelf; all around the room. The lights flicker, the wind howls, and I am jumping from mom’s body to dads to moms to dads and finally get stuck in new mommy. I am screaming hysterically, only to have what is left of my voice be drowned out by the storm running through my house and the voices yelling and laughing in my head. My children are possessed. The house is being turned upside down along with my world.

          I notice something in the middle of the room. A dark figure with the same creepy glowing eyes. same unnaturally large smile. The lights flicker and he gets closer. They flicker, closer again. He gets closer with almost each flash of light, the whole time saying "I'm not here! I'm not here!" Until he is about an arm’s reach away. Then I feel a sharp pain in my thumb. I look down. My baby girl is in my arms with my thumb in her mouth. The possessed baby looks up, blood running from her mouth with a wicked smile stretching ear to ear. She is eating my thumb! “No no no no nooo noooooooooo” I groan. It was like everything was taken from me in that moment. So much despair. That moment felt like an eternity. All I could do was stand there, drowning in the impending inescapable doom. Knowing death was close, waiting for it to come. Hoping for it really. “Please just let me die and end this. I have nothing left.” The baby looks into my eyes in this almost infinite moment. Those eyes look straight inside me. Like she is taking everything, watching me sink slowly into the nothing left inside me. Baby licks her thin dead lips. I mutter one last “noooo” before, my head booms with a deep hellish voice. "I'm here!" My baby springs towards our face. Arms stretched out; jaws open wide. Mouth filled with jagged rows of tiny pointy teeth. Those yellow green eyes are the last things I see again as I wake up.

                A normal evening. The normal phone calls. Ate at the normal time. The normal routine. Then this nightmare, out of nowhere. I stood my ground and continued the terrifying adventure to the end. I saw and felt the whole story. Even after waking, I could feel my heart racing. I could feel pain in the tip of my left thumb. The same thumb that the baby girl was chewing on. It was 3 or 4 am and I could not bring myself to try and sleep again. I didn’t dare to in fear that these two dreams would become a trilogy. At first, I was afraid to look around the room, the painter may be hiding in the shadows of my room. Glowing eyes shining eerily in between the bi-fold closet doors. After a few minutes, reality started coming back and I got up to use the restroom, turning on every light as I went. Keeping my eyes focused on where I am going, no wandering. I thought loudly to myself and tried not to let my mind wander, blocking out any noises I may have heard along the way. My “New Daddy’s” words playing back in my head. “Sometimes our eyes and ears play tricks on us”. Real or imaginary, his words helped me in both lives. Returning to my room, the fear or anxiety had left me a bit, but I still refused to sleep again. I got out my notebook and wrote down the memories of the scariest nightmare I can remember.