Cliff Barlow

I have had sleep paralysis since I was an early teen. It is such a terrifying experience! Words can’t do it justice. Anybody that has suffered from it can attest to this.

I went to the bar for a drink or two. I had no designs on the night ending up as it has, but as they say, life has a strange, almost fortuitous way of working itself out.

A woman named Molly Wilde, stuffed an infant into an oven after she couldn’t handle the colicky baby’s cries anymore. The boy was discovered when a neighbor drunkenly knocked on the door to inquire about the smell of the amazing roast wafting from next door.

It moved in grotesque angles entering and exiting the thing that was now reaching for me.

“Find them buried in the backyard. Immortality awaits us.”

A year of therapy didn’t change that. I was consumed with the question. What did he see?

“Um… Okay… Why is it chained up?”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Of course you don’t. You wanted a miracle and you got it.”

I could see a figure standing near the window. He was facing me. I stared back for a moment, and not knowing what else to do, I eventually waved. There was no response. No movement. Nothing.

When I was a teen, I was really into sports. Growing up in Wisconsin, the Green Bay Packers were like a second religion to me with Brett Favre as my lord and savior.

“I think I’m going to call the cops. I’m really starting to freak out.”

As I entered the kitchen, I stopped in my tracks. Something was amiss.