Sleep Paralysis
The first time: pressure across my chest,
a weight that refused to lift.
I woke into darkness knowing
with the certainty that lived in every nerve—
something crouched at my side,
a presence in the peripheral
I could not override.
My eyes were open. Ceiling visible.
The clock at 3 and change.
My body would not answer any signal
sent through its range.
I sent the signal down my arm to rise
and felt it vanish into nothing.
I sent the signal to my throat to scream
and felt only the anguish of silence
where the scream should be.
And in the corner of the room,
a figure made of dread—
visible only when I stopped trying to see it,
relocating the instant I focused,
quit.
Seven minutes.
I lay there in shock,
sweating, heart percussive and too fast,
counting the seconds against the clock.
When I finally sat upright the room
was exactly as it was.
I searched the darkness for reason,
for cause.
The second time the figure had crossed the floor,
closer to the bedside than the corner had been.
I could see the silhouette in resolution—
lines, a man-shaped thing
that breathed in all the wrong rhythms.
Seventeen documented occurrences this year.
The figure advancing in increments that map to fear—
not its fear, but mine.
It tracks my escalating dread.
And every time I am finally released,
it turns its head.