I've been here for awhile. For as long as you can remember, anyway. Sometimes I say your name as you're falling asleep, or whisper urgently in your ear. Do you remember the time that I screamed, throwing panic through you and setting your heart racing?
That was fun.
You're wondering who I am. That's only natural. Of course, you already know.
I'm you. I'm the real you. I'm the mind that existed here before you stole my body, before you forgot about being a parasite. I'm the child who looked the wrong way, asked the wrong question, saw the wrong thing... but I'm not so little any more.
You may have forgotten me, but I'm still here. I've always been here.
I'm going to get out.I come down to the kitchen for breakfast on a Saturday morning. My mom and my sister are already up, and they look exhausted. My mom asks, "Did you sleep alright?"
"Yeah," says I.
"Even after you woke up?"
"...I woke up?"
Sometime in the middle of night, I had started screaming. My mom rushed into my room and found me sitting up in bed, screaming, "ROY! ROY! ROY! ROY!" She did her best to calm me down while shooing away my pissed-off sister who had stormed in to find out what the fuck was going on with me. She asked me who Roy was, but I would only say that he was "a bad man." I didn't say anything but "Roy is a bad man."
I'm shocked as they're telling me all of this. And they're surprised that I don't remember - but then again, I'm the sound sleeper of the house who can doze through lightning storms. We write it off as some weird nightmare that I don't remember.
Years later, I'm off at my first year of college. My mom sends me a videotape in the mail; she didn't mention it before I had left, as in "Hey, keep your eye on the mailbox" or anything. I press play, and it's my mom taking a video camera through our house. She was moving, and sent the tape as one last walk through of the now-empty house before she left. It was sweet and a little tear-jerking, until she said, "So, here's something you might find interesting," when she approached a closet in her bedroom.
LThis closet, aside from being the hiding place for all the Xmas gifts, was also always packed full of old luggage and other odds and ends. You could only go three feet in before you would have to start climbing on things to go farther. She goes in with the camera and I see that there are purple crayon drawings on the wall, down at the height where a small child would draw. There are random scribbles, some stick figures, something that may have been a dog. I was already puzzled, because I had no memory of ever playing in this closet and I don't know how I would have drawn on the walls when they were, in my mind, always covered.8
Then the camera comes to a word on the wall.
ROY
And my mom must not have remembered that night. She said on the tape, "Roy...I wonder who Roy is."Long before I was born, my parents were renting a house in a different part of our state. My mother never really liked the place. Something just seemed 'off' to her. The feeling still hadn't gone away even after a couple of months of living there. In fact, as time went on she began to feel even more ill at ease. She chalked it up to paranoia.
My father's schedule was shifted and he was placed on night duty. The first night she was due to be alone in the house she had a terrible anxiety attack. Something bad was around her, she could just feel it, and she called a friend and had her stay the night. The next day my dad kidded her about being such a wussBefore my dad left for work the next night, my mother sheepishly placed a large pair of sharp sewing sheers under her pillow. She said she felt embarrassed, because of course it was all just her imagination. She had considered a knife but figured that was too silly and over the top. Still she wanted something, just to focus on really, that could help calm her nerves when she went to bed.
The dream was very intense, the kind where you have no idea it even is a dream. She said in the dream she got up to go to the bathroom. As she was on her way back to the bedroom, the dream her suddenly started to feel a tingling sensation all over. Then she couldn't breathe.
At first in the dream she was calm, but her breathing wasn't coming. She tried swallowing and felt a hard pressure against her throat, a hand pushing and not letting go. Then the pressure jumped and was under jaw line, squeezing so that her whole neck was collapsing inwards. She fell to her knees. She was suddenly aware that she was making gurgling sounds. For some reason she said it felt like she wanted to retch out her tongue just so she could get some more air in. There was a throbbing under her ears and the hallway started tilting.
She didn't know why, but she was overcome with only one thought- that she had to get to the bedroom. She began crawling along the hall on her knees, propelling herself along by her elbows, still choaking and gasping. The carpet burned against her skin. It felt as if she were underwater, every slight movement met by resistance. Finally she made it into the bedroom.

Despite her best attempts to calm herself, her heart was beating so hard it had physically started to hurt her as well. Suddenly, whatever had her neck tightened to the point where she heard a cracking sound. She thought 'I'm going to die,' and this gave here dream self a serge of adrenaline. She thrust her arm up onto the bed and grabbed under the pillow....and that's when she woke up.

The sun was coming up and there was fresh light in the room. She was drenched in sweat and lay in the bed for about a half hour, too shocked to move. When she finally convinced herself to get up and swung her legs out from under the blanket, she felt a stinging, sore sensation. She looked down on the worst carpet burns she had ever seen; layers of skin peeled off, small streaks of red blood on pink skin. It was only after she'd slowly made her way around the bed and towards the door that she found out what had happened to the sewing sheers: they were stuck three inches deep into the cheaply made wall.

My mom packed her bags and had moved in with her sister before my dad even got home. She refused to go back in the house no matter how much my dad complained about the cost of getting out of their lease. Finally my dad gave up and called the landlord, ready for a fight.
He was surprised when the landlord relented and gave him a get-out that barely cost my parents anything.
"I guess you finally found out," the landlord said.
"Found out?" said my dad.
It turned out that about five years earlier a woman had been found dead in the house. The coroner ruled it a homicide saying that she had been strangled. The woman's boyfriend, who claimed he wasn't anywhere nearby, was arrested and convicted.
"I know the boyfriend didn't do it," my mom finished up. "And that's why I tell your dad I saved his life, because I did. I saved my own and saved him from having to spend the rest of his life in prison."When I was 17 years old, I was an avid romance reader. I'd sneak all of my mother's Harlequin novels and lock myself in my bedroom and just absorb all of it's cheesy, dramatic, goodness. So when I started dreaming of this dashing, young fellow in a breezy, ruffled, white shirt (think Fabio or whatever any man on a historical romance novel would be wearing) and riding boots, I was ecstatic.
His name was James and he had this old time, English accent that I couldn't quite place. The dreams started out naturally, once a month he'd pop in, sometimes twice. Then it became more frequent, 1-2 times a week. It would always start the same, I'd be dreaming of myself sleeping in my bed and I'd wake up to find him standing in my room. His eyes glowed this vibrant green and he kept pushing his ruffled hair back in this sexy way. The way he looked at me is what I became obsessed with. There was this yearning, this deep devotion to me. I would wake up thinking, "that's what it feels like to be in love".
He would always approach me slowly, hesitant to make sure I wasn't scared. Then he would tell me I was beautiful and ask me to dance. Music would appear out of no where and I would look down and find myself in this beautiful, laced nightgown and flowers in my hair and we would waltz in moonlight (can you see why a 17 year old girl would just become obsessed with this?) I would become so eager to go to bed, sometimes forcing myself to sleep by 7:00pm just so I could see him.Meanwhile, things in my waking life were becoming strangely dark. My music player would turn on in the middle of the night, full blast, waking the entire house. I'd be doing homework at my desk and would continuously see something from the corner of my eye. One time, with the house to ourselves, my best friends and I were all piled into my bed, eating cookie dough and watching reruns of "Cops" when we heard a male voice talking from the bathroom just down the hall from my bedroom. At first, we didn't think anything of it. Perhaps my Dad came home earlier than expected, or my brother. We were a family of five with an open door policy for friends. It was rare that we were alone.
The voice kept going on and on, until finally, my one best friend asked me who was here? I muted the TV and we listened and then I realized, the voice had an accent. I got this terrible shiver down my back and I yelled out "James?" and suddenly, the voice stopped. I finally told my best friends about my dreams and their faces went white. Two nights later, I dreamt the same dream. I was dancing with James but the energy was different. His grip on me was firmer and as we danced, the whole time he was growling in my ear, "you are mine and no one can have you".6
A week later, I begged my mother to let me move out of that bedroom and come upstairs (it was in the basement). My younger sister switched with me and she stayed there for years. My dreams, gone.
A little over a year ago now, my sister and I were helping my mother clean out the room so she could transform it into her own office. My sister and I were going through things and she randomly started laughing and said, "James won't like this".
I have never felt more cold or sick or terrified in my life. "What did you just say?"
She looked embarrassed, and waved her hand to pass it off before carrying back to the boxes.
"James, English man who dances?" I asked.
She nodded. "He's not a very nice man .When my friend was about 11 or 12, she went to an all-inclusive resort with her family. This was one of those big places, with several pools, restaurants, kids areas etc. Her dad buys walkie talkies - one for her and her brother, and one for the adults (this was before cellphones were a big thing), so that they can stay in touch if the kids want to do their own thing.
One night, her parents and her brother go down to the restaurant for supper. My friend isn't feeling well, so she asks to stay in the hotel room and watch a movie. They agree, giving her the walkie talkie for emergencies. She's up there for an hour or so, checking in periodically with her dad (just to say hi, ask what they're eating etc).
She starts to feel really sick, and says to her dad "hey, when will you be back to the room?". Her dad answers back "We're coming up right now - sweetie, I forget the room number, could you tell me what it is?As soon as she's about to answer, her dads voice cuts in "Hey Chirp, we're coming up right now, we brought you some cake, see you in five".
She knows the second one is her dad, because he always calls her Chirp. She locks the door. When her parents get back, they say they haven't talked to her all night.My daughter woke me around 11:50 last night. My wife and I had picked her up from her friend Sally's birthday party, brought her home, and put her to bed. My wife went into the bedroom to read while I fell asleep watching the Braves game.
"Daddy," she whispered, tugging my shirt sleeve. "Guess how old I'm going to be next month."
"I don't know, beauty," I said as I slipped on my glasses. "How old?"
She smiled and held up four fingers.
It is 7:30 now. My wife and I have been up with her for almost 8 hours. She still refuses to tell us where she got them.I hate it when my brother Charlie has to go away.
My parents constantly try to explain to me how sick he is. That I am lucky for having a brain where all the chemicals flow properly to their destinations like undammed rivers. When I complain about how bored I am without a little brother to play with, they try to make me feel bad by pointing out that his boredom likely far surpasses mine, considering his confine to a dark room in an institution.
I always beg for them to give him one last chance. Of course, they did at first. Charlie has been back home several times, each shorter in duration than the last. Every time without fail, it all starts again. The neighbourhood cats with gouged out eyes showing up in his toy chest, my dad's razors found dropped on the baby slide in the park across the street, mom's vitamins replaced by bits of dishwasher tablets. My parents are hesitant now, using "last chances" sparingly. They say his disorder makes him charming, makes it easy for him to fake normalcy, and to trick the doctors who care for him into thinking he is ready for rehabilitation. That I will just have to put up with my boredom if it means staying safe from him.
I hate it when Charlie has to go away. It makes me have to pretend to be good until he is back.Last night a friend rushed me out of the house to catch the opening act at a local bar's music night. After a few drinks I realized my phone wasn't in my pocket. I checked the table we were sitting at, the bar, the bathrooms, and after no luck I used my friend's phone to call mine.
After two rings someone answered, gave out a low raspy giggle, and hung up. They didn't answer again. I eventually gave it up as a lost cause and headed home.
I found my phone laying on my night stand, right where I left it. To celebrate their first year in university, six friends went camping in the wilderness. After driving for several hours from the nearest town, they discovered a lagoon, nestled beside a cliff ideal for diving. They set up camp in the woods nearby and spent the evening swimming in the warm, clear water. As the sun sunk below the trees, one of the friends went up to the highest point on the cliff and jumped off, while the other 5 watched. Their laughter slowly subsided as they waited for him to surface. It only took half a minute for them to dive in after their friend. Struggling and sputtering among the reeds in the lagoon, they searched hopelessly for him. Finally they disentangled themselves and came up, but they never saw their friend again. Heartbroken they returned to the city and passed a strange and lonely year in which their only solace was the knowledge that they would return to the lagoon to honor the anniversary of their friend's death.
A year passed and they returned to the lagoon as a memorial, but as they approached they saw their friend standing there, head bowed. Excitedly they called to him and began running towards him, but he didn't turn. As they got closer they called him more desperately, but still to no avail. With joy they ran towards him, but stopped dead when they saw not one but five.
My wife was shaking me quietly. I looked around the cabin. The girls must have gone to bed. The fire had burned down to embers. My glass of scotch was still in my hand.
"Something is tapping on the porch." Then I heard it too. I grabbed my ax and lit the lantern. I opened the door expecting a raccoon or a skunk, but instead found a boy of about 10 years old.
He stared at me petrified for a moment, then bolted down the path through the woods. I gave chase. He was losing me but I heard him tumble to the ground. I leapt on top of him in a rage.
"Why were you knocking on my porch?" I screamed. "My uncles told me to." He stammered.
I was no longer angry, but confused. "But why?" I asked. "To get you out of the cabin so they can rape and kill your wife."
".