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The summer I turned six, we moved into a new house in what was then on the outskirts of Phoenix, Arizona. Besides my parents, I had an older sister, by one year, and one that had just been born. My brother would join us five years later, and as I grew older it was his race-car themed bedroom that became my only refuge in the house.
I would lie in bed at night and listen to the hall clock ticking away, the soft breathing of my oldest sister as she slept in the twin bed next to me. I had suddenly become very frightened of the dark, when we first moved into the house. At my instance, the closet light was left on, its comforting glow broken up by the slats in the door that cast an eerie pattern across my bed.
I really don’t know when I first began to hear it, but I don’t think it was much longer than a few months after we moved in. At first, it rarely happened, but when it did, it frightened me to no end. I could hear it coming down the hallway from the living room to my bedroom. A soft shushing sound as though someone –or something-- was sliding their feet down the carpet in the hallway. It would slide and stop, slide and stop, slide and stop. I was sure it was listening each time it paused, to see if someone noticed it or to see if it could continue on its path toward my room.
At the beginning it didn’t leave the hallway, but over the months it slowly gained enough ground to make it into the doorway to my room. I could feel it there, standing, waiting. For what, I didn’t know. But I hadn’t much courage and would shake with fear under the covers. Once I peeked out from underneath the blanket to see if it was gone and there it was. It was a shapeless thing blacker than the surrounding darkness, and when it moved its edges would lose some of their sharpness. But it was solid, blocking out anything behind it, and so I knew it was real.
I’m sure I must have told my mom or dad, but as parents will, they chalked it up to their kid “being afraid of the dark.” Something every child goes through. But my older sister, she saw it as well, and we’d whisper about it, but our fear kept us from talking about it too much. I think we thought that talking about the monster would make it even more real. As we got older we spoke less and less about it.
I was 11 when my brother was born, and my parents remodeled the house, and added a large master bedroom at the back. I ended up sharing my bedroom with my younger sister now and my older sister and brother both got their own rooms. The thing began to increase its visits to two or three times a month. Slowly and methodically it had made its way uninterrupted and undisturbed from hallway, to my doorway, and now to the foot of my bed. It always waited, patiently watching me. I felt that it wanted me to notice it and to scream or cry. Yet, in my fear, I could only hunker deeper under the covers and pray for it to go away.
It never approached my little sister, and being protective, and not wanting to scare her, I never asked her about it. Sometimes, especially when she was gone overnight somewhere, or if I felt particularly vulnerable, I’d go and snuggle with my little brother in his tiny twin bed. I felt safe there, and I don’t know if it was a true refuge that kept the thing at bay, or just timing, but whenever I slept in his room, I was never, ever bothered by the thing.
Over the years it also grew a bit larger, and I felt, stronger. I read anything I could on the subject, and found out it was probably an ‘entity’. They are intense beings, that may have been quite vicious bloodthirsty people while alive, or they may have never really been human to being with. I read that it fed on my fear or the anger when my parents had one of their numerous fights. It grew particularly strong when my sister and I were teenagers, probably eating up the angst and turmoil of our young lives. I tried hard to be positive. But that didn’t work and so I prayed. Every night, I prayed it would not return and get me.
The summer I was 16 my older sister moved out to go to college and I got her pink and white bedroom to call my own. I loved the idea of finally having my own bedroom, and put up a brightly painted corkboard overflowing with high school pictures and dried flowers from dances. The room was the smallest in the house, having been partitioned off from my parent’s old bedroom. It had just enough space to hold a bed, dresser, and desk. With my head on my pillow, I could reach out and touch the bedroom door and slam it shut -- very handy to get much needed privacy from a little sister.
However, it was not to be the haven I had anticipated. That first night, as I lay awake, I heard it again. I listened to the sound of it moving, a shush and a pause, a shush and pause, as it slowly slid down the hallway. I prayed that it would be confused and not know I was here. Being so close to the door, I was more vulnerable now then ever. I was afraid that if I moved, I’d call attention to myself. I fearfully watched the open doorway, and it moved into view. Blacker than the surrounding darkness it seemed more animated, as though it was happy to see me. I covered my head with the sheet and heard it move to the side of my bed and it stood there and waited. Each breath from it was exhaled with a long and extraordinarily low sound. Time passed, and it stayed there, waiting. I prayed hard, and my heart wanted to burst it was beating so fast. And then I heard a noise from the thing, a clicking sound. And I knew that tonight it was going to hurt me. It was going to jump on me and tear out my throat with it vicious teeth.
A voice in my head was yelling to me to Run! Run! But my fear froze me. I felt the mattress shift as the heavy thing began to climb on it. Every nerve in my body responded and it gave me the courage to move. I threw down the cover and looked at the thing for half a second as I ran out the doorway and screamed at it, “Leave me alone!” I ran down the hall to my parent’s room. I am sure I had seen the gleam of claws.
I cried as I laid down between my parents, my mom stroking my head and softly cooing words of comfort. My dad dutifully checked, and of course, didn’t find a thing. I begged my parents to let me sleep with them, and for three nights I did. I was sure they didn’t know what to do with a 16-year old who was afraid of the monster in her room. My mother, bless her, knew that something was terribly wrong, and though she didn’t actually think anything was in our house, she believed I believed it. She called our local priest who said, no he couldn’t do an exorcism of our house, but he would bless it.
And he did. My mother sent my brother and little sister to my grandparent’s house, and the priest came with his water and his Bible and blessed every room with his magic words. He talked to me about what I saw, but I knew he didn’t believe anything was there anymore than my parents did. I didn’t hold out hope that it would help rid us of the entity.
I was right. The entity did continue to come down the hallway, and sometimes would come into my bedroom. The visits, though, were far less frequent, and the entity seemed somewhat diminished. It never again tried to touch or hurt me. I believe this wasn’t due to the priest’s blessing, but by my own inner strength at finally confronting it. That it understood I would not be a total victim to it any longer. But, I can never really be sure.
I moved out when I turned 18 to live with my old sister and go to college. My younger sister would, years later, recount that she had occasionally heard something, but always thought it was her imagination. My brother never saw or heard a thing. Perhaps it was my fear and my belief in it had made it stronger, and more real, and that’s why it liked to visit me the most.
When I returned home after living overseas for a few years, now as a mother myself, I found out that the house still held its negative energy as it always had. My daughter Alice, who was seven, was finally able to meet my mother for the first time. After lots of kisses and hugs and conversation, my mom told Alice that there was a closet full of toys she could play with in my old pink and white bedroom, which was now an office. She went to the back of the house while my mother and I prepared a lunch. A few minutes later, Alice returned with a toy in hand and said, “I don’t want to play in that room. I don’t like it, it’s scary.”
I understood immediately. I didn’t push her to play there, and got her attention onto something else. I took my mother aside and asked her not say anything, either. Whenever Alice begged to spent the night at grandma’s house, I’d worry about her. And so, for her safety, and my sanity, I’d insist she only sleep in my brother’s old room, the only refuge in the night.
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