NightTerra: What do you mean?
Paylee22: When we go to bed … How about we stay logged on, in case either of us needs to chat?
NightTerra: I actually love that idea.
Paylee22: Great! Let’s exit this chat. I’ll send you a link for a private room, where we can “sleep.” Lol.
NightTerra: Ok. Sounds good.
NightTerra: xo
Paylee22: xoxo
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NightTerra has left the chat room.
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THEN
6
Unable to sleep after the sorority party, I rolled over in bed and stared at the wall, remembering a time when I was seven or eight and my father used me as a makeshift barbell. With one hand wrapped around my ankle and the other holding my shoulder tightly, he lifted me high above his head—again and again, up and down—as I squealed, and laughed, and begged for more.
Sometimes, I imagine he’s in my room, watching over me as I sleep. I imagined it that night as I cuddled one of my mother’s old sweaters (one she’d left in her car on the night of the fire). Once I’d nodded off, I pictured my father—in my dream—standing by the window wearing his favorite sweatpants, the blue ones with the torn back pocket.
Eventually, as I slept there soundly, I felt him grow closer, his fingers gliding over the wounds on my forearms, the ones from sliding onto the pavement in front of the convenience store.
Terra, he whispered into my ear, inside my brain. It’s time to get up.
It’s weird: sleep. Sometimes you can get caught in that murky place between wakefulness and slumber. Sleep paralysis: a state of restful unrest (if that makes any sense). You feel as though you’re on the verge of waking up, but the claws of slumber hold you in place, keeping you from gaining full consciousness. I asked a therapist about it once—about why it was always happening. She said it’s typically caused by anxiety and fatigue, not to mention the meds I’d been taking for said anxiety and fatigue.
In that moment, lying in bed, after the party, my brain told me to get up, to do as my father had said. But sleep wouldn’t let me, and so I remained snuggled up, somewhat comforted by his voice.
Terra …
I felt his weight then—on the mattress—as though he’d sat down beside me. I felt more of his patting too—over my shoulder and down my arm as he tried to rouse me to full consciousness.
Now, his voice insisted. You need to wake up.
I remember the sensation of smiling, still caught in that cloudy place. Who would ever want to wake from it? There, in dreamland, I had my father back—could hear him, feel him, and smell him too: the scent of the black licorice he used to snack; Sunday afternoons, on the sunporch, we’d sit side by side, reading books and nibbling licorice sticks and pretzel rods.
In my dream, I wanted to talk to him so unbelievably much. I think I moaned from the effort. In my mind, I told him I was sorry for not opening my bedroom door on the night of the fire.
Get up, he persisted. It isn’t time for you.
Time? For what?
I tried to wake up. At one point, I could’ve sworn I’d sat up in bed, that I’d been able to see the room around me—my blue checked covers, my maple dresser, my bulletin board full of pictures, and my fuzzy green chair … But, in reality, I was still curled up in bed, with my mother’s sweater nestled beneath my cheek.
“Don’t you wake up now, pretty girl,” a male voice said. But it wasn’t my father’s; this voice sounded gruffer, deeper, and had a singsong quality.
Where had my father gone?
Why wasn’t I waking up?
I heard a zipper then—zip, unzip—followed by a clattering noise and the jangling of keys. In my dreamy state, I pictured my dad’s gym bag—the lime-green one. He used to keep a stainless-steel water bottle tucked inside. Was he removing the lid and handling his locker keys?
Something thin and light draped over my face, tickling my skin. I pictured the bedsheet game Mom and I used to play, when I’d lie on the mattress while she made it up. She’d toss the top sheet high in the air and let it float down over me, again and again.
Was Mom here too? Were she and Dad like two sleep angels?
I rolled over, still trying to force myself awake, feeling something gritty against my cheek, like a dishcloth or rag. It wasn’t a bedsheet, wasn’t my mother’s sweater either.
A moment later, I heard it. A loud popping noise jolted me awake. My eyes snapped open. I turned over.
And saw him—his broad chest, his thick arms.
A black ski mask covered his face.
A hot, sweltering heat flashed over my skin.
He hovered by my bed, partially concealed by the dimness of the room. The light in the hallway was still on, as I’d left it.
“Well, hello there, pretty girl.” His breath slithered like silverfish over my skin. “Feel like making a fairy tale?”
I went to sit up, but he kept me pinned in place, one hand over my mouth, the other clamping down on my thigh. He pushed the cloth in deeper, using his finger. I could feel his knuckle against my teeth. I started to bite down, but more fabric filled my mouth, and I gagged.
“Don’t panic,” his voice continued to slither. “If you just relax, everything will feel smooth like butter.”
His eyes were pale blue, like the jogger’s at the park. Was it the same person? Were his fingers just as long? They were covered by thin black gloves. Were there light reflector stripes?
“Do you like fairy tales, Terra?”
Fairy tales? How did he know my name? Why would he ask me that?
“What’s the matter? Has a cat got your tongue?” He stuck out his tongue—straight through the hole in his mask—and waggled it back and forth like a bright red dart.
I reached outward, toward his face, not knowing how this happened
