The Crimson Sheet

I awoke again in the middle of the night. Much like the more than one-thousand times before. The pillowcase was wet, the sheet was wet, my T-shirt was wet—even my skin and hair were wet. I had suffered from night sweats for a long time, but this night felt different.  

I went to the bathroom and peeled off my T-shirt and threw it in the hamper. I stared in the mirror for a few minutes to collect myself. I ran a hand towel over my head, neck, and arms and returned to bed. I positioned myself on the dry portion of the sheet and pillow where I remained uncovered till morning.

It was another workday, as I went through my morning routine. I grabbed my coffee and proceeded to my office, which was just across the hall from my bedroom.

I usually fired up some classical music to get my juices flowing. However, that morning was different. Before the music played, I heard a light tapping noise. From where I couldn’t tell, but it repeated for about ten minutes.

Tick. Tick. Tick. All within one to two seconds and repeated it again. Almost like someone tapping on a wall with their fingernail. Seemed strange, but I still couldn’t figure out where it was coming from.

The music began playing and I jumped into my work session—never hearing it again.

A week went by with the same sequence of events occurring each day.

I then found myself tapping on my desk when I would hear it. The pattern never seemed to change. It happened both when someone else was home and when I was home alone. I quickly ruled out someone pranking me.

I felt it was coming from the wall of my office, which was an outside facing wall.

I’d reached the point of checking every square inch of my office. Listening for it. Feeling for it. Moving things on my desk. I began to think I was losing it? I even thought to myself that it’s probably nothing.

After nearly three weeks and continued night sweats, I heard it in middle of the night. It sounded as if it was coming from behind the closet door. At first, I was hesitant to check it. I sat on the edge of the bed until it stopped.

The following night I mustered up the courage to check behind the door. I grabbed my flashlight and walked toward the door. I pulled it open and nothing. Nothing was there. I was certain it was coming from there.

It had stopped.

The next morning, I told my wife what I was experiencing, and she told me I was crazy. Not quite what I was hoping for, but she may have been right. That night at dinner she asked a few questions about what I was hearing. She informed me that she hadn’t experienced any of it. To my chagrin, I tried to make my case, but she shot it down.

“Perhaps,” she replied, “someone planted one of those gadgets that make noises.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of those. Somebody once pulled that when I worked in an office building. But I’m hearing it in my office and in the bedroom.”

She came back with, “There could be more than one.”

“Did you do this? Please tell you didn’t do this. I’m begging you.”

“Nope,” as she rolled her eyes.

She snapped back, “Maybe your daughter.”

“You’re both in this together, I knew it.”

“No, I imagine if she did it, she would’ve told me.”

“Yeah, probably.”

That night I awoke again. The clock read two-twelve, which was random because I’d been tracking the times. It was different each night.

However, that night had an added twist. When I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, my T-shirt was soaked with blood. Not entirely, but enough to get my attention. I couldn’t fully grasp what was happening.

I peeled off my T-shirt and threw it in the trash. I had no visible scratches or cuts.

I returned to the bedroom and used my flashlight to check the sheet and pillow. There were no signs of blood. I checked the floor and the hallway. No signs of blood.

I really couldn’t sleep after that and spent the rest of the night in the living room watching a movie, while I pondered what had happened. It was unsettling.

The next night the very same thing happened. Only this time the sheet had blood on it. And there was a small spot of blood on the ceiling. Almost as if the blood had dripped onto the sheet.

I woke up my wife and showed her the sheet. There was no denying something was wrong in the house.

Her initial reaction, “What did you do to yourself?”

“Nothing, I did nothing. Look at the ceiling.”

We both looked up and there was nothing there.

“You’re crazy.”

“I’m beginning to think so, yes.”

The next morning, I went up to the attic and found no evidence of blood. There was nothing. I was afraid to go to bed again. The events were getting worse and it, the noise, the “tick– tick– tick–,” didn’t go away.

Three days later…

I heard it again. The time was twelve-thirty four in the morning.

I got up and checked the sheet and my T-shirt. They were dry. I went to the bathroom and peered into the mirror—there was no sweat and no blood. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been dry through the night.

I went to the living room to collect myself. I just sat alone in silence with a single lamp on. I sat long enough to notice the sunrise and that’s when I decided to go upstairs because it was past time for my wife to get up.

As I entered the bedroom, the bed looked empty, so I flicked on the light. She wasn’t there. My wife wasn’t there. I called out and got no answer. Then I noticed the bloody sheet, on her side. I looked to the ceiling, and the blood spot was there above her side.

In a panic, I raced through each room upstairs. No sign of her. I looked out of the window overlooking the driveway. Her car was there.

Given I couldn’t find her and that I discovered the bloody sheet and ceiling, I called 911.

The police were the first to show up. I did my best to describe what had transpired in the previous six hours, but it raised many questions.

I escorted them to the bedroom. The bloody sheet was still there but the blood on the ceiling was gone. Gone. It then occurred to me that my current situation didn’t bode well.

The police filed a missing person report and took me into custody for more questioning. As they drove me away, another unit had arrived in an unmarked car, which I assumed was an investigation unit.

Three years later…

I was subjected to many psychological evaluations over time, but nothing was ever uncovered about what happened in that house.

Whether it still ticks or has stopped, I still hear it and I can’t make it go away. I check for it every day.

Her body was never found.

Meanwhile, in that house, it persists.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick– Tick– Tick– Tick. Tick. Tick.