The Binding Summer

The summer of 2012 had been brutal, with heat advisories and power outages plaguing the city. My master bedroom’s air conditioner had died, so I moved to the guest room at the back of the house. It was cooler there, thanks to the thick canopy of old elms that blocked the sun. I had taken a couple of allergy pills for my congestion, and after a light dinner of saltines and cheese, I settled into the unfamiliar bed, expecting a restless night. Instead, sleep came within minutes.

When I woke, it was not with the grogginess of a normal sleep. It was with a terrifying clarity that something was wrong. I tried to sit up, to rub my eyes, but my body would not obey. I was pinned flat on my back, as if an invisible weight pressed down on my chest and limbs. Only my eyeballs could move, darting around the dim room. The ceiling fan rotated above me, its blades casting lazy shadows. I could hear my own breathing, but when I tried to speak, only a faint wheeze escaped. Panic clawed at me, but my physical self remained unnervingly still.

My mind raced. Was this sleep paralysis? I had heard of it, but never experienced it. I tried to focus on moving a finger or a toe, but nothing happened. The room seemed to grow darker, the edges of my vision blurring. I strained to look toward the window, where a pale sliver of moonlight filtered through the curtains. And then I saw her.

A woman stood in the corner, half hidden in the gloom. She was tall, thin, with long black hair that hung straight down, obscuring her face. She wore a dress that seemed to absorb light, and she was utterly motionless. My heart hammered. I tried to scream, but my throat was locked. She took a slow, deliberate step forward, and the floorboards creaked under her weight. Then another, and another, until she stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at me. And then she tilted her head, and I could see the faint outline of a smile in the darkness.

The fan above me whirred, but the air around me grew icy. I could see my breath puffing out in small white clouds, despite the summer heat. The woman raised a pale hand and pointed a long, crooked finger at my chest. A wave of cold, like a current, washed over me, and I felt something inside me yield, as if a door had been opened. She spoke, but her voice was not from her lips; it was a rasping whisper in my ear, so close I felt the pressure of it. ‘You have been chosen,’ she said. ‘Many have passed through this room, but you are the first to truly see me. Now, you will stay.’

The meaning of her words sank in like a stone. I desperately tried to thrash, to break free, but my body remained a prison. She smiled wider, and her face seemed to shift, becoming indistinct, like a reflection in rippled water. She began to fade, but as she vanished, she dragged her finger across my chest, leaving a burning trail that I could feel even through my shirt. Then she was gone, and the paralysis did not lift.

I lay there for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling, until the first light of dawn crept through the curtains. Then, as suddenly as it had come, control returned. I gasped, sat up, and fumbled for the light switch. The room was empty, save for my trembling self. But on the inside of my left forearm, I found a mark—a red, raised welt in the shape of a crooked finger, as if someone had branded me with their touch.

I did not tell anyone. I thought perhaps it was a wild nightmare, a side effect of my pills. But the mark did not fade. And now, every night, when I close my eyes, I see the fan, the darkness, and her. And I feel that finger on my chest, pressing, claiming. Last week, I moved back to my own bedroom, but it does not matter. She has already found me. And I think, perhaps, I have been dreaming ever since, and I have not truly woken up at all.

I am writing this in the final hours before the sun goes down. I have taped my eyelids open with strips of medical tape, and I have a knife on my nightstand. I will not let her take me again. But as I peer at the corner of my new bedroom, I see a flicker of darkness in the shadows. And I can already feel the pull of that invisible weight, and the cold whisper in my ear: ‘You are still asleep.’