transcript

Speaker 1:
[00:00] Hey, before this episode begins, I just want to let everyone know that my film that I've been producing for the last two years, Gale Yellow Brick Road, is now streaming on Chilling. So if you weren't able to go see it in theaters a couple months ago, no worries. Click the link in the description to this video, or just search Chilling in your app store, and you can watch Gale Yellow Brick Road tonight at home. I really hope you enjoy. Please leave an honest rating and review on IMDb and Rotten Tomatoes. Thanks again. Hey, welcome back to the podcast. I really hope you enjoy this episode. If you'd like to hear more stories like these with a different background sound, please check the description to check out my other two podcasts. If you want to get rid of all of the ads, you can subscribe for just $2.99 a month. Last thing, I really appreciate you being here, and I'd really love if you would follow the podcast and come back again soon. Thank you so much. I hope you enjoy. This story happened in South Lake Tahoe, California, about seven years ago. I grew up in Northern California, and since I was a kid, me and my family always visited Tahoe. I was very fortunate and grateful because my grandparents, on my dad's side, owned a cabin there. This will seem random, but it's important to have this context. My parents ended up divorcing when I was about 12 years old. And when this story takes place, I was probably around the age of 14. Anyway, this was one of the first times since the divorce that my mom wanted to visit Tahoe. But she didn't want to stay at the family cabin because it was connected with my dad. She ended up having a stay at the Harvey Hotel and Casino. I thought it would be a fun adventure outside from what I had known up until that point, which was that we would always stay at the cabin whenever we visited Tahoe. It was just me and my mom having some nice mother daughter time for the whole trip. I don't remember much other than this incident. My mom ended up taking me to the local TJ Maxx and we got some new clothes. We drive back to the Harvey Hotel and go back to our room. Now, if I'm remembering correctly, we weren't on the top floor or the bottom floor. I want to say we were on like the 10th floor. I specifically remember no one being in the elevator with us on our way to the room. As we were unloading our new clothes we just bought, I'm standing near the hotel door snap chatting one of my friends. When I hear the door knob start to slightly move. Meanwhile, I have my mom in the back of the room on her bed yapping away like she always does. She's very talkative. I remember zoning out and focusing on the door. I very quietly and carefully looked through the peephole to see a grown man probably in his early thirties with a black hoodie on trying to open our hotel room door. There's always that side of us humans that likes to try and rationalize things into a better light. And I was doing just that, trying to rationalize that maybe he just has the wrong room or something. Even though clearly he did have bad intentions. His demeanor said it all. He kept looking over his shoulders, which sent chills down my spine. The way he was slowly twisting the knob freaked me out too. It was very intentional in the way to not alert anyone inside. I told my mom to be quiet and at first she didn't understand why. Once I gestured to the door looking like I had seen a ghost, she looked in the peephole and saw him. I am not sure what made him stop trying to get into our room, but one moment he was there and the next he was gone. My mom ended up calling the hotel security. They sent out security on our level, but he was long gone by then. Me and my mom reflected on what could have happened, trying to cope with what just went down. The conclusion my mom came up with was that he followed us either from the parking lot of the hotel or within the casino, then to our room. When I think about it, I know it doesn't make much sense because how would he know which floor we were on if he did follow us from the lobby? I swear there was no one in the elevator or even on our floor when we got out of it. I could be wrong with how I remember it, about being alone in the elevator and the floor, but I really don't think so. I hope I am wrong in a way because the alternative is that this man also could have been watching us before this incident even took place. He had to have known it was just me and my mom. I don't think anyone would be stupid enough to try that if my dad or brother were with us. It's scary to think what could have happened if he somehow did get into our room. This story is definitely ingrained into my head, and even after all this took place, me and my mom ended up staying in the same room for that night. I can tell you though, I didn't sleep much that night. A couple years ago, my husband and I took a trip to Yosemite. We stayed outside the park in El Portal. One evening while we were driving back from the valley, I noticed that the headlights caught what appeared to be somebody laying down on the side of the road, both feet pointed towards the street. I told my husband that there was a person laying in the pitch black on the side of the highway. He knows I love my true crime, and was absolutely certain that what I had seen was just trash bags. I was so certain, I just kept saying, No, I saw a body, I know it was a person. We made our way back to the hotel, and as we were about to park, my husband looked over at me and said, You're really sure about this, aren't you? You want to go back? I was desperate, yes. As we drove by again, I saw the feet. I had my husband turn the car back around and yelled at him to stop the car. He rolled down his window and said, Hey, are you okay? No answer. One more time, even louder. Hey, are you okay? Suddenly, the woman dressed in all black, sat up. She was wearing a nice down jacket, black pants, and had her purse and three water bottles. Her makeup was done nicely and she seemed very sweet. I could tell my husband was absolutely shocked. I asked her where she was headed. She said that she was trying to get to the Chevron station up the road, and that her mom was going to meet her there to pick her up. This woman looked to be in her late forties. I knew something weird was going on because where we found her, the Chevron station was still another seven miles away or so. She said in her mind she thought it was only about a mile from her hotel and she could walk it. We offered her a ride and she climbed into the back seat, not before I grabbed a thick scarf to wrap around my neck and pepper spray. As we drove, we tried to ask her questions, just chit chat. I asked why she was laying on the side of the road. She said she had gotten tired of walking and just decided to lay down, ready to give up, whatever that means. It was winter and she had no hat or gloves on. I could tell she was very fragile. Once we arrived at the Chevron station, she thanked us, got out of the car, and sat on a bench in front of the closed Chevron station store. We offered to stay with her until her mom arrived, but she declined and said she would be fine. I reminded her that there was no cell reception in the area, and triple checked that she didn't want us to wait with her. We drove back to our hotel and noticed that there were now two police cars in the parking lot. They had not been there the first time we arrived back from the valley that evening. I told my husband I knew that they had to be there for that woman. I calmly walked over to one of the cars and asked if they were looking for a missing person, a woman. The officer told me that they were and asked if I had seen her. I explained the situation and that I really felt like the woman had something very bad happen to her. He thanked us for picking her up and giving her a ride. He couldn't tell me what had happened, but thought her leaving and going somewhere else was a smart choice. I asked that he go check on her at the Chevron station just to make sure she was okay, and her mom did eventually arrive. I'm realizing that whatever happened was at the same hotel that we were at. That evening, I looked up the local police log and found that a domestic violence dispute had broken out at the hotel. The woman had been beaten very badly, and she was so terrified that she was willing to walk in the dark without a flashlight just to escape. It's my guess that after walking about a half-mile from the hotel, she was in so much pain that she just needed to lay down. I got the feeling like she thought she may actually die there. She couldn't go back to the hotel because she had already escaped and gone to the front desk to call her mom. Her husband knew she had been there and would have come after her. The front office called the police for her while she escaped. It's my understanding that the man who hurt her was her husband and was arrested. I always wondered about her and whether she went back to him. Did her mom ever pick her up? Is she safe? Now my husband listens when I say, There is a body on the side of the road. I live in the UK, and a few years ago I sold up, took early retirement, bought a boat and dropped out to go on an adventure exploring the UK's inland waterways. I don't have a mooring through choice. The whole reason I bought a boat was to get out and explore. And doing this has taken me to some really interesting places I wouldn't have thought of visiting otherwise. I visited some urban and really lively areas like Liverpool, but also spent time out in the sticks away from everything in extremely rural and peaceful spots. It's pretty cool being able to choose your spot dependent on your mood. And if you don't like the area or don't like your neighbors, you can just throw your ropes and move. In the UK, the waterways license enables you to boat without having to take a formal marina berth provided you genuinely keep moving. With most mooring spots being free up to 14 days before you have to move. This is called constant cruising. And if you have a decent craft, well set up for off-grid living, it's an amazing way of life. Many people choose this way if they're not tied by their jobs or on an adventure like me. But there are many living on pretty shady unlicensed boats out on the network because you can't afford anything else. And some with some issues that you would be best to give a wide berth to. I am a lone female boater with just my dog snorkeling spaniel and two cats as crew. So I follow lots of boating forums to keep an ear out for problem areas or people and try to be sensible with my safety and my choice of stopping points. It's been very rare that I've ever had any sort of issues in the years I've been doing this, but occasionally I'll find I've got little choice about where I have to stop or how long for. In the wintertime, I can often come across navigations closed due to flooding or broken infrastructure, like a broken lock stopping me in my tracks. In summer, it's not unheard of for a canal to run out of water and find myself unable to move until the level rises again. As I'm riding this, I'm stranded on a quarter mile stretch of canal with river navigations at either end, closed due to flooding, and I have been stuck here for two months now. My cats like to go out, so I always try to moor away from roads and seek out spots where the cats would have an escape route from any pursuing dog, like a thick hedge or a fenced off area of some kind. So, I chose a spot right up at the end of this canal alongside a derelict industrial area. There's a couple of gaps in the steel fencing a person can get through, and after checking it out to make sure it's reasonably safe, and finding mostly just piles of bricks and unusable but deteriorated roadway left, I've been in there regularly walking the dog, with the cats even trotting behind. Only once have I ever seen anyone else in there, and that was just another lady with her dog. My cats have discovered there's mice in there, and they're having way too much fun to come home as often as they usually do, so it's become a nightly ritual to have to go in with my head torch and dog, and retrieve them before bed. They are both pretty great cats that think they're dogs, so if I go and shout for them, they'll come running and follow me all the way back. The first 7 weeks went without incident, but a few nights ago, I was in there shouting for one of my cats, when I heard what sounded like bricks being bashed together, in very deliberate, even spaced multiples of three. My first thought was someone was hurt, and maybe can't call out, so they were trying to get my attention, so I stopped and listened. Another three bashes came, but this time, it was even closer to me. Okay, someone's moving, and definitely not stuck, so I pick up the pace and think that this is just weird. It's 11 p.m. and below zero with ice everywhere. There's no shelter, just piles of bricks, so why would anyone be in here? My cat comes bounding up at this point, so I just scoop her up and practically run back towards the fence. Another three bashes, the first one really loud and heavily emphasized, and again all very deliberate and evenly spaced, but this time, nearer again. I have moved quite a distance and turned a corner by this point, but the noise has followed and switched sides, like they had cut the corner and almost caught up with me. I get us all through the fence and back on the boat, locking it all down. At first, I don't hear anything, but my cats do, and they keep lifting their heads and alerting to something outside. But then I do hear it. The fence is only about 10 feet from my side of the boat, and I hear a growling coming from the other side. Loud growling. It was a god-awful sound, and I sat there scared witless, wondering what kind of freak would be doing that. And what they were going to do next. If you can imagine a human trying to mimic the sound of a slow-revving motorbike, it kind of sounded like that, and this went on for nearly 10 minutes. I turned all my lights off in case they could see in, and sat awake for hours, too scared to sleep, and constantly watching my crew for any indication that they could hear anything. But there was nothing further, and I eventually fell asleep. Two days later, I was walking down the tow path, and walked past a small rough-looking cruiser, moored about 200 yards away from me. As I passed, I heard a man's voice mimicking me, calling my cat's name, like I had been that night before. I looked over and saw a really scruffy and dirty-looking man. I would say in his 30s, with dark-hooded eyes and god-awful teeth, grinning at me. I have no doubt this was his way of telling me that it had been him that night, and he looked like he was now trying to freak me out even more. So I stopped for a second, and gave him my best, defiant, I am not scared of you, and you would think again, because I am a secret badass stare. I even managed a sly, psycho-esque grin of my own right back at him before walking off. I don't know why I reacted like that. Generally challenging someone who might be unbalanced is a dangerous thing to do, and wouldn't be my usual approach. Apart from the fact he looked mentally ill at best, possessed at worst, anyone who roams around at night growling has some real scary issues. But just there in the moment, I just instinctively felt the need to stare him down and not show fear. And boy do I hope my instincts were right, because I am still stuck here. And despite my bravado, I am in no way a badass. Thankfully haven't seen him since. In fact, in the two months I've been here, that was the only time I have clapped my eyes on him at all, despite walking past the boat every other day. I really hope to keep it that way. And as soon as those navigation lights change to signify the river is open again, me and my furry crew are out of here. And to the possessed looking growling guy, I hope your boat is as clapped out as it looks, so that you can't follow. Two years ago, I took a part-time job that still haunts me to this day. I decided to finally write about my experience, hoping it might help process everything. I was a college student, and like a lot of you, I needed a part-time job to help cover tuition and other expenses. After a long search, I found what seemed like the perfect job. It was a caregiver position, working from 5 p.m. to 9 p.m., taking care of elderly people. The job was pretty straightforward. Make sure they took their meds, had their meals, and just hang out with them for a few hours. I got assigned to take care of this 85-year-old lady. Let's call her Mrs. Eleanor to keep things anonymous. She lived alone in this quaint little house on the edge of town. The place was old but well-kept, with a charming, slightly overgrown garden that probably hadn't seen a gardener in a few years. She had a small poodle named Max, who was always by her side, following her around everywhere she went. From the start, the house felt… off. There were no family pictures anywhere. I mean, you would think at her age, she would have photos of kids, grandkids, maybe an old lover or something. But no, nothing. It was weird. The walls were bare except for a few generic paintings. I asked her about it once, just casually during a conversation, but she brushed it off and changed the subject real fast. She had this look in her eyes, a mix of sadness and something I couldn't quite place. I didn't push it because I didn't want to lose the job, but it definitely made me curious. My daily routine was simple enough. I would get there around 5 p.m., cook dinner, make sure she took her meds, and just keep her company for a few hours. Max, the poodle, was a friendly little guy, always happy to see me, wagging his tail and jumping around despite his age. Mrs. Eleanor, though, was polite but pretty reserved. She didn't talk much about her past or family, which just added to the mystery. Our conversations were always pretty basic, like talking about the weather or what was on the news. Every evening as I cleaned up after dinner, I would hear Mrs. Eleanor singing a lullaby. It was the same soft melodic tune every night, echoing through the quiet house. While the song was gentle, it really creeped me out. It felt so out of place in the otherwise silent house. She sang it every night, like clockwork, and it always made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Sometimes I would find myself pausing my cleaning just to listen. The whole situation was unsettling. The house. The lack of family photos. The nightly lullaby. It all felt like pieces of a puzzle that didn't quite fit together. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was a deeper, darker story behind those melodies. It was like the house held secrets that it wasn't ready to share. And I was just an outsider, peeking in. As the weeks went by, my curiosity grew stronger. Why was she singing this lullaby every night? Who was it for? The routine stayed the same, but the sense of unease kept building. I had been given strict instructions by my employer to not go into Mrs. Eleanor's room. It was one of the non-negotiable rules of the job, probably to respect her privacy and maintain professional boundaries. One evening, while I was cleaning the dishes, I noticed that the door to Mrs. Eleanor's small office was slightly open. She had always kept it closed and had told me it was just a mess she didn't want me to fuss around with. But that evening, the door was invitingly open. Hearing her close the bathroom door upstairs, I decided to take the chance and peek inside the office. The room looked straight out of the 1960s. Blue walls, a small single bed, a wooden desk cluttered with old papers. There was a small closet to the left that caught my eye. The whole setup struck me as odd. This room, which looked like it belonged to a young boy, was in the home of an elderly woman living alone. There were no pictures, no personal belongings, nothing to explain why this room was here. I couldn't explore more because I heard footsteps right above me, making my heart race. Panicking, I quickly closed the door and hurried back to the kitchen. The rest of the evening went by uneventfully. I gave her the necessary pills, made sure she was comfortable, and left for the night. But I couldn't stop thinking about that room. Why would she have a boy's room in her house if she had no children? The thought gnawed at me, creating a whirlwind of questions. The next day, my curiosity got the better of me. I decided to do some research on Mrs. Eleanor. I spent hours online, searching for any information about her. But nothing came up. No social media profiles, no news articles, nothing. Not a single piece of information about her life. It was baffling and left me with more questions than answers. I returned to work after the weekend, determined to find out more. That evening, as usual, I prepared dinner and ensured Mrs. Eleanor took her medication. Then I waited for her to go to the bathroom. The moment I heard the bathroom door close, I quickly made my way to the office. The room was just as I had left it, with that same lingering musty smell hanging in the air. This time I opened the closet. Inside I found small boxes, stacked neatly but covered in a thin layer of dust. My heart pounded as I opened one to find baby clothes, tiny socks, pants, and sweaters all meant for a baby boy. They were neatly folded and seemed well preserved, despite their apparent age. But why would Mrs. Eleanor have these? The discovery left me with more questions than answers. I went back to making dinner, trying to process what I had found. My mind was racing with possibilities, but none of them made any sense. Was it possible she had a child once? If so, where was he now? That night, as usual, Mrs. Eleanor began singing her lullaby. Normally this song would send shivers down my spine, creeping me out every time. But this night was different. Instead of fear, I felt a surge of curiosity that I could not ignore. I went upstairs quietly and with each step up, the lullaby grew louder. The door to her bedroom was almost closed but had a small gap, just enough for me to peek through. She always left a gap, saying it was to let Max come and go as he pleased. I peered through the gap and was shocked by what I saw. There, Mrs. Eleanor was sitting in a rocking chair, gently swaying back and forth. She was holding Max in her arms, cradling him like a baby, and singing softly to him. Next to her was a small wooden cradle, old and worn, as if it hadn't been used in years. She continued her lullaby, her voice soft and melodic, but now it felt more sad than creepy. Her gentle rocking, the way she cradled Max, and the soft melody of the lullaby created an image that was hard to shake. I slowly backed away from the door, not wanting to intrude any further. I went back downstairs, my mind spinning from what I had just seen. This made me think and start connecting all the dots. Was she pretending? Her dog? Was a baby? A baby she never had? I could be wrong, but that would make sense, right? The boy's room, the baby clothes, no pictures, no husband, no children. Just her and her dog, whom she pretended, was her own son. There are many possibilities. Maybe she lost her child during a miscarriage, or the son died somehow. It's heartbreaking to think about, but I had no way of knowing for sure since there was nothing about her online. I even asked my boss about Mrs. Eleanor trying to get some information about her past. My boss didn't know much either, just that Mrs. Eleanor had always been a bit reserved and private. She mentioned that Mrs. Eleanor had experienced some tragic losses and that she was now quite lonely with some health issues typical for her age, but nothing specific. I worked out the rest of the week, but everything felt so creepy and intense. The quiet dinners together, the silence in the house, the haunting lullaby. It all felt like I was living in some kind of ghost story. Each night as I lay in bed, I couldn't stop thinking about what I had seen. The pieces seemed to fit together, but they painted a picture that was too tragic and eerie for me to handle. Even during the day, I found myself distracted, replaying conversations with Mrs. Eleanor in my mind, looking for clues I might have missed. I thought about asking her directly, but quickly dismissed the idea. It felt too intrusive, and honestly, I was scared of what I might uncover. There was a part of me that didn't want to know the full story, because the fragments I had were already too much. I noticed more details that added to the unsettling atmosphere. The way Mrs. Eleanor would sometimes pause mid-sentence, as if lost in a distant memory, or how she would stroke Max's fur with a faraway look in her eyes. The house itself seemed to hold its breath. I made my decision. I sent a text message to my boss saying that I couldn't continue with the job, and that I was quitting immediately. I didn't even say goodbye to Mrs. Eleanor. It felt wrong, and I know it was rude, but I just couldn't bring myself to face her again. I thought of another day in that house, surrounded by haunting memories and unanswered questions, was too much for me to handle. I felt a mix of guilt and relief. Guilt for leaving without a proper goodbye, for abandoning Mrs. Eleanor when she clearly needed someone. But also relief, knowing that I wouldn't have to endure another evening of lullabies and unsettling silences. I knew I was being cowardly, but I just couldn't do it. The experience had taken a toll on me, and I needed to get out. The whole experience was something I couldn't shake off easily. It made me think a lot about the hidden struggles people face, and the ways they cope with their pain. Mrs. Eleanor's story, whatever the full truth was, taught me that sometimes, the past can cast a long shadow over the present. So that's my story. It was a job that I thought would be simple, but it ended up being one of the most emotionally intense experiences of my life. I was around 14 years old when it happened. For context, I was quite introverted and selective about who I get close to me as a teen. I am still that way, even as an adult. I had made a small number of friends despite my reserved stance, two of whom are my dearest friends to this day. I did my best in school and participated in a couple after school clubs, which allowed me to delve further into my interests and hobbies. Though I also spent a decent amount of time on social media. I was well behaved and made a lot of smart choices during my teen years, thankfully due to being raised right by my mother, who did her best to steer me in the right direction. However, here is where I stood out. I was alternative, goth, punk rock, whatever you want to call it, and I have always had an affinity for the morbid, paranormal and darker subjects, which reflected in the way I dressed, the music I would listen to, the books I would read, TV shows and YouTube videos that I would watch. Some people found me in my interests to be weird, or quote unquote, of the devil. One of these main people who would insist on such things was my grandmother, whom we'll call Gale for privacy sake. She would take every opportunity to criticize the music I listened to, my clothes, and me in general. You would think that she was some sort of religious fanatic, doing her due diligence to help bring a heathen grandchild closer to God. But no, Grandma Gale isn't religious by any means. You would barely hear her speak of God or religion, and she has never stepped foot inside of a church for Sunday service. Whereas I believed in God and had a personal relationship with him, despite not being religious or attending church myself. Grandma Gale dabbles in witchcraft. A person who engaged in occult practices, something I never wanted to get into, judging a teen goth for her style interests. Talk about hypocrisy. Anyway, there was always something unsettling about Gale, something that teetered on the edge of downright sinister. On top of being severely judgmental and self-righteous, she isn't the easiest of people to get along with. She has a knack of taunting people with her words, using things people have told her against them, and just being downright rude and unprovoked. But I and a few others have grown accustomed to it, and have learned to work around her mood changes. I can recall a time when I was only four, playing with a couple of Barbie dolls in the kitchen. Mind you, I wasn't making a ton of noise, at least that I can remember, but at one point I must have gotten a little loud unintentionally, because she rushed into the kitchen with this stern, yet calm look on her face, which made me feel uneasy as I looked up at her from the floor, still holding my dolls. In this eerily relaxed tone of voice, she said to me, Darla, not my actual name, if you don't stop making noise, I'm going to send something your way tonight. Your mama won't be able to hear your screams. She won't even be able to save you. It'll fly away with you and take you for punishment. Where? I wanted to ask, but I was too nonplussed to speak. Fear didn't hit me, surprisingly. I was more nonplussed than anything, because nothing along those lines had been said to me before. I stared back, my mouth probably nearly hitting the floor as my four-year-old brain tried to process what she had just said to me. I didn't tell my mom when she came to pick me up, as it must have slipped my mind, and I chalked it up to her wanting to scare me into being quiet. In my late teen years and early twenties, I noticed pentagrams on various reading materials she had. I've witnessed her practicing what I now know to be spells or rituals against those she felt had wronged her, or those she cared deeply about. She would make a list of said people, or have a picture of them, and spit on it, only to bury it underground or light it on fire. She is also known to collect people's hair, and do god only knows what with it. I'm pretty sure my name has been on some of those lists a handful of times, but nothing ever came of it. Of course, I know god looked out for me each time. Now, on to the Sleep Paralysis Experience. During summer vacation, I would always be dropped off at my grandparents' home, as most kids in my community were, while our parents went to work. As per the usual routine, I would get up early with my mom and get ready to be dropped off to either get some extra sleep in, or watch YouTube on my iPad in the morning, while Grandma Gale watched her shows. It was during the first or second week of summer break. On this particular morning, I was extremely tired, mainly due to it being that time of the month for me. It was extremely sunny out, but not too hot. Once I arrived, I shut the door behind me, laid my iPad and overnight bag on top of the dresser, and got into bed. The layout of the guest room was a standard four-walled room. It was small, about eight by ten feet, with a bed next to the window, a small closet in front of it, and a small dresser to the right of it. The curtains were drawn back, allowing sunlight to spill into the room. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I curled up with my hoodie and fell asleep. I'm not sure how long I slept. All I can remember is that I dreamed that a man was chasing me through the woods. He dressed in a raggedy white t-shirt full of holes and tattered jeans. As I was trying to hide behind a tree, he found me and grabbed my wrist, trying to pull me toward him. I must have been tossing and turning in my sleep because once my eyes shot open, I was staring straight up at the ceiling. I tried turning over, but my body wouldn't, rather couldn't, move. I tried to open my mouth and say something, but no words formed. Not even a sound came from my throat. I felt this sudden heaviness in my chest. It was a feeling I had never felt before. It felt as if a thick dark fog was engulfing me, making it difficult to take one slow breath at a time. All I could do was lie still, despite trying to move my legs, arms, and head. I felt pressure applied to my wrists and ankles as if I were being restrained. And then came the blood-curdling scream of a woman. It sounded as if the scream went directly into my ear. Then all I heard next was nothing, just complete still silence. I spotted a dark shadowy figure hovering over me. It was faceless, abnormally tall, smoky with human-proportioned limbs. It lowered its hands to my face, causing me to panic. I began to cry. At least I felt like I wanted to, but no tears fell from my eyes. Just muffled cries. The foreboding figure then placed its hands on my mouth and pulled it open. One hand pulling at my jaw, the other pulling at my upper lip. The pain I felt as those cold, heavy hands forced my mouth open was immense. The terror I felt now stunted my thoughts as I lie there, unable to stop whatever was happening next. That's when I began to pray in my mind. No prayer in particular. It was just me mentally repeating the words, Please, God, help me. Over and over again. Just as it pressed its hand over my nose, the figure disappeared. The heaviness was no longer in the room, and I shot straight up as I gasped for breath. The sounds of the TV blaring from my grandparents' room drowned out my sobs and gasps as I cradled my knees to my chest, trying to catch my breath and gather my thoughts. I could not comprehend what had just happened, but I knew it was very much so real. I understood why it was called sleep paralysis, due to your ability to speak or move being taken away. But there was also a paralyzing fear I felt during the episode. Amplify that fear ten times. I had experienced episodes where I would be unable to move or speak, but there was never a presence that I could see in the room. Only a feeling of intense dread and terror. Something told me to roll up my shirt sleeve and look at my arm that had been grabbed in my dream. Once I pulled back the right sleeve of my shirt, my heart nearly stopped beating in my chest. There was a faint dirt handprint where the man in my dream had grabbed me. At this point, I began to hyperventilate. I called my mom to tell her what happened. She said she would call me back when she went somewhere private. I assumed the panic and terror in my shaky voice was unmistakable. Once she called me back, she listened to me without saying anything until I was finished. I tried my best to articulate what had just happened through sobs and a hushed voice, because I didn't want Grandma Gale to hear me. My mom reassured me that she believed everything I had just told her. She promised to take me to get ice cream after her shift. Then she said, Do you remember the things you told me you saw take place there? Yes, I answered, recalling the lists and burning of the names. Once a door has been opened for such things to occur, all kinds of things can happen. There is definitely an evil presence there. I'm just so sorry this happened to you. She offered to stay on the phone with me as long as I needed, but I knew she had work to do, and promised to call her again if I felt the need to. Needless to say, I didn't go back to sleep. I'm not even sure if I was able to fall asleep that night in my own home. To this day, I haven't had a Sleep Paralysis episode as intense as that one, and I have had a few happen between then and now. The strange part is that 99% of the time, they happened in that room at my grandparents' home. The less intense 1% happened in the comfort of my own home. I believe ghosts, demons, and malevolent spirits exist. There was no other possible logical explanation for how the handprint got on my wrist, but I'm certain a demon was in the room with me that morning, trying to prey on an innocent teen, and God protected me amidst it all. That was 14 years ago, and I'm still a goth, still rock out to my favorite bands. I'm even more fascinated with things people consider morbid, and still enjoy a good horror film and mystery novel. I'm completing my mortuary license. I get to drive a hearse, and dye my hair cool colors. And yes, my mom and I are still very close, and she's very proud of the woman I have become. One thing is for certain, though. There is true evil out there, seen and unseen. Entities that masquerade as humans or spirits that linger waiting for a perfect opportunity to attack or latch on to an unsuspecting host. Something comforting to remember is, as sure as evil exists, so does good. Stay safe and vigilant, everyone. And be careful what you get into. Some curiosities are better off unexplored.