Of course, the laughter stopped when I turned eleven, and the nightmares began.
At first, I didn’t tell my parents. I didn’t think I needed to. After all, they were just nightmares.
But as they got worse, I knew I couldn’t keep it a secret any longer.
The nightmares always started the same. I was standing at the window in my room, looking out into the back yard. Standing in the tall grass at the edge of the field, I’d see a figure. It was indistinct – tall, black, with glowing eyes that seemed to burn in its face. It looked towards me and then walked into the house.
Then, all of a sudden, I’d be at the back door. The thing would walk in, but it wouldn’t see me. Instead, it would begin to walk through the house, starting with the downstairs. I would trail behind, waiting to see what it would do.
I’d watch as it dragged its nails across the walls, leaving little scratches in the paint. It would find its way to my parents’ room – they slept on the first floor – and it would tap tap tap against their door, three times. Then, it would seem to lose interest, and it would move up the stairs.
It would wander through the halls, scratching paint, humming to itself, something in strange minor tones. It would stop at my brother’s door, and sniff at the wood as though trying to scent him. My flesh would crawl as it tapped experimentally on the door, and I wouldn’t relax until it moved away.
Finally, it would come to my door.
It’d scratch, it’d tap, it’d stare. Then, finally, it would open the door and slip inside.
Then, I’d wake up. At first, I’d wake up in a cold sweat, nervous and upset, but mostly okay. As time went on, however, the dreams became more intense. The monster/shadow/whatever it was became agitated. Its scratching began to leave gouges in the walls, it howled as it tapped on the doors. When it came to my room, it started to scream, pounding against my door, beating its body against the wood as though it was trying to kill itself.
That’s when I began to wake up screaming.
