THE HOUR BETWEEN SLEEP

        THE HOUR BETWEEN SLEEP

The first thing I heard was my bedroom door creaking open.

I woke instantly.

Not gradually. Not the way you wake when sunlight slips through the curtains or a dream dissolve and leaves you confused.

I was simply awake.

My eyes opened to darkness.

For several seconds, I didn’t move.

I listened.

The room was completely silent.

Then I heard it again.

Creeeeak.

My bedroom door moved another inch.

I stared at the thin black opening between the door and frame.

I lived alone.

I knew that.

I had checked the locks before going to bed. I always did. Front door. Back door. Windows. I had even checked the little latch on the bathroom window because, after living in an old house, you develop habits.

Everything had been locked.

So why was my bedroom door opening.

I reached for my phone.

The screen illuminated my face.

2:13 am.

I swallowed.

“Hello?”

My voice sounded embarrassingly small.

Nothing answered.

I sat up.

The door had stopped moving.

For a moment, I wondered if I’d imagined it.

Then something whispered from the hallway.

“Arielle.”

I dropped my phone.

It landed on the mattress, still glowing.

I couldn’t breathe.

The voice hadn’t come from inside my room.

It had come from somewhere beyond the door.

Someone had said my name.

I knew that voice.

That was the worst part.

It sounded like me.

Not exactly.

It was my voice as it sounded when I was little-higher, softer, almost breathless.

A voice I hadn’t heard in years.

I climbed out of bed.

Every instinct told me not to.

But fear has a strange way of making you curious.

I walked toward the door.

The floorboards creaked beneath my feet.

I stopped.

The hallway beyond the door was completely dark.

I reached for the light switch.

Before my fingers touched it, the light flickered on by itself.

I screamed.

The hallway was empty.

I stood there, staring.

“Very funny,” I whispered.

I don’t know who I was talking to.

Maybe myself.

Maybe whatever was listening.

I stepped into the hallway.

Nothing.

The house looked exactly as it always did.

The framed photographs on the walls.

The little table beside the stairs.

The coat rack.

The antique mirror my grandmother had given me.

I looked at my reflection.

For one second, everything was normal.

Then my reflection smiled.

I didn’t.

I froze.

My reflection’s smile widened.

Mine remained completely still.

I stumbled backward.

The woman in the mirror tilted her head.

“Arielle,” she whispered.

I slammed my bedroom door and locked it.

Then I pushed my dresser against it.

I sat on the floor, breathing hard.

I told myself I was dreaming.

That had to be it.

A nightmare.

Sleep paralysis.

Anything.

I looked at my phone.

2:17 am.

Four minutes.

Only four minutes had passed.

I called my sister.

It rang once.

Then she answered.

“Hello.”

“Emma?”

Another silence.

Then she said, “Arielle?”

I nearly cried with relief.

“Yes.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“Something’s wrong.”

“What?”

I looked toward my bedroom door.

“Someone is in my house.”

Emma didn’t answer immediately.

Then she whispered, “Don’t open the door.”

I frowned.

“I didn’t.”

“Don’t look at the hallway.”

My stomach tightened.

“Why?”

She breathed shakily into the phone.

“Because that’s how it gets you.”

I stopped breathing.

“What are you talking about?”

“I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

There was a long pause.

Then Emma said, “Mom never told you.”

My heart began pounding.

“Tell me what?”

“When we were kids, you used to wake up at 2:13.”

I stared at the clock.

2:13.

“But that was years ago.”

“I know.”

“What happened?”

Emma began crying.

“Arielle, you didn’t wake up because you couldn’t sleep.”

I felt cold.

“What?”

“You woke up because something was calling you.”

The bedroom suddenly felt much smaller.

“Emma…”

“I heard it too.”

My eyes filled with tears.

“What did you hear?”

She whispered.

“You.”

The phone went dead.

I stared at the screen.

No signal.

My hands began shaking.

Then I heard something under my bed.

Three soft knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I stopped moving.

Another three knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I back toward the wall.

“Who’s there?”

Nothing.

I knew that was a stupid question.

But fear makes you stupid.

Another knock.

This time it came from inside my closet.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I looked at the closet doors.

They were closed.

I remembered something my mother used to say when I was little.

Never answer when you hear knocking after midnight.

I had always thought it was one of those strange rule’s parents invent to frightened children.

Now I understood.

It wasn’t a rule.

It was a warning.

The closet door slowly opened.

An inch.

Then too.

Darkness spilled out.

I wanted to run.

But my legs couldn’t move.

Something inside the closet whispered.

“Arielle.”

My own voice.

Again.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“No.”

The whisper came closer.

“Arielle.”

“No.”

Something scratched against the floor.

“Arielle.”

I covered my ears.

“Sweetheart.”

My eyes opened.

That voice.

I hadn’t heard it in eight years.

My mother had been dead for eight years.

She spoke again from the closet.

“Sweetheart, it’s mommy.”

I began crying.

Every part of me wanted to believe her.

Every part of me wanted to open those doors.

Then I remembered something.

My mother had never called me sweetheart.

Not once.

She always called me “Ari.”

I backed away.

“You’re not my mother.”

The scratching stopped.

Silence.

Then the thing inside the closet laughed.

It wasn’t my voice anymore.

It wasn’t my mother’s.

It was something deep and wet and ancient.

The closet doors slammed shut.

I screamed.

The clock changed.

2:14

Then the lights went out.

I crawled onto the bed and pulled the blankets over my head.

I knew it was childish.

I didn’t care.

I stayed there.

I listened.

The house creaked around me.

Pipes groaned.

Wind rattled the windows.

Then footsteps entered my bedroom.

Slow footsteps.

One.

Two.

Three.

They stopped beside my bed.

I could hear breathing.

Right beside me.

I held my breath.

The mattress sank.

Something sat down.

I felt the blanket move.

A hand pressed gently against my ankle.

I almost screamed.

Then a voice whispered beside my ear.

“Don’t look.”

I froze.

It was my voice.

But this time, it sounded terrified.

“Don’t look at me.”

The hand disappeared.

The mattress rose.

The footsteps moved away.

I heard the bedroom door open.

Then close.

I stayed under the blanket for what felt like hours.

Eventually, sunlight appeared beneath the edge.

I waited.

I didn’t move until I heard birds outside.

Then I pulled the blanket down.

My bedroom was empty.

The closet was closed.

The door was open.

Everything was normal.

I laughed.

A horrible, shaky laugh.

I had survived the night.

I grabbed my phone.

7:06 am.

There were seventeen missed calls from Emma.

I called her back.

She answered immediately.

“Are you alive?’

“Yes.”

She began crying.

“Thank God.”

I sat on the edge of my bed.

“Emma, what happened?”

“Did you look at it?”

“No.”

“Did it touch you?”

I hesitated.

“It touched my ankle.”

She went silent.

“Emma?”

“Oh God!”

“What?”

She whispered, “Then its already inside.”

My blood went cold.

“What does that mean?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she asked, “What time did you wake up?”

“2:13.”

She started sobbing.

“Emma, tell me what’s happening?”

“I can’t.”

“You have to.”

“I should have told you years ago.”

“Told me what.”

She took a trembling breath.

“You’re not supposed to survive the night.”

I stare at the wall.

“What?”

“The first time it came, mom stopped it.”

“What?”

“She made a deal.”

The room seemed to tilt.

“What kind of deal?”

Emma’s voice broke.

“She promised it that when you were thirty, you’d belong to it.”

I couldn’t speak.

I was thirty.

I had turned thirty, two weeks earlier.

The phone slipped from my hand.

It landed on the bed.

Emma’s voice continued faintly.

I didn’t answer.

Because something had appeared in the mirror.

I slowly turned toward it.

My reflection stood there.

Except it wasn’t copying me.

It was standing perfectly still.

Smiling.

Behind my reflection stood a tall thin figure.

Its head nearly touching the ceiling.

Its arms hung at its sides.

Its face was hidden in shadow.

I turned around.

Nothing was there.

I looked at the mirror.

The figure was closer.

My reflection raised one finger to its lips.

Then it whispered.

“Don’t wake up.”

The clock beside my bed changed.

7:13.

The sunlight disappeared.

The room became dark.

I heard the bedroom door creak open.

Creeeeak.

And from the hallway, something whispered my name.

“Arielle.”

I understood then.

It had never been about the middle of the night.

It had never been about being unable to sleep.

It had been about waiting for me to wake up.

Because waking was the trap.

And now, whenever I close my eyes, I hear it standing beside my bed.

Waiting.

Patiently.

Whispering my name.

So, I don’t sleep anymore.

I can’t.

Because the last time I did, I woke up somewhere else.

And there was another Arielle sleeping in my bed.

I watched her from the hallway.

She opened her eyes.

She looked directly at me.

And smiled.

Now she’s trying to wake up.

And I’m trying to figure out which one of us is the real one.

I think I already know.

Because she just whispered something through the bedroom door.

Something only, I could hear.

“Don’t let me out.”

Then the knocking began.

Three knocks.

Every night.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

And last night, for the first time, something knocked back from inside my chest.