The Constant State Between

My name is Arjun, and I’m not sure why I’m writing this down. Maybe to convince myself that it really happened, or to warn someone else. It began during my junior year at St. Mary’s Academy, a school that backed onto a vast, undeveloped marsh—a place the locals avoided after dusk. I lived in a cramped apartment above my uncle’s shuttered pharmacy, the top floor of an old building that creaked and groaned even when the wind was still.

It started with sleep paralysis, but not the kind you read about. Most people experience it once or twice. I had it every single night, sometimes multiple times. I’d wake up in the dead of night, unable to move a muscle, my eyes darting around the room. My body felt like a lead slab, my limbs weighted with an invisible force. And every time, I felt a presence—something sitting on my chest, pressing down, making it hard to breathe. But it was more than that. I felt an intelligence, a malevolent curiosity, as if it was studying me.

At first, I fought it. I would strain to move my fingers, to twitch my toe, to break the spell. And I always succeeded after a few agonizing minutes. But as soon as I drifted back to sleep, it would return. It was a cycle: wake, paralyze, fight, break free, fall asleep, paralyze again. It was relentless. Some nights, I’d get only minutes of genuine rest. The exhaustion was crushing.

Then the physical symptoms began. I’d feel a phantom push on my shoulder, as if someone was trying to roll me out of bed. The mattress would tremble, like a low-frequency vibration was running through it. And there were whispers—soft, sibilant sounds that seemed to originate from the corner of the room, just beyond my line of sight. They weren’t words, not exactly, but they carried a weight, a promise of something dreadful.

I tried everything. I changed my sleep position, my diet, my pillow. I prayed. I hung a crucifix on the wall. I even slept with the lights on. Nothing worked. The episodes became more intense. The pressure on my chest grew, and the whispers grew clearer, forming syllables that seemed to spell my name: ‘Arjun… Arjun…’

One night, I decided to stay awake, to fight the sleep itself. I sat in my bed, reading a battered copy of a detective novel, my eyes heavy but my mind resolute. At 2:17 AM, the lights flickered and died. The room was plunged into darkness, and I felt a sudden drop in temperature. The mattress beneath me began to vibrate violently, and the whispers became a cacophony, a chorus of voices all speaking at once, all saying the same thing: ‘We see you.’

I closed my eyes, overwhelmed, and in that moment, I felt myself being lifted off the bed, not by force but by some invisible hand. I was suspended in the air, horizontal, about a foot above the mattress. I could feel the presence all around me, cold and suffocating. And then, as if a switch was flipped, I was dropped back onto the bed, the paralysis lifting instantly. I scrambled to my feet, fleeing the room, but the apartment was eerily still. The whispers had stopped. The lights came back on. But I knew something had changed.

I didn’t sleep that night, or the next. I went to school, but I was a zombie. My friend, a lanky kid named Rohan, noticed my state. He was into weird stuff, local legends, and he shared a story that our school was built on an old burial ground for an indigenous tribe. They believed that some spirits linger, especially around the living, and they can attach themselves to those who are ‘open’—people with certain sensitivities, or those in a weakened state. He gave me a charm: a small cloth bag filled with dried herbs and a wolf’s tooth. He said it would protect me.

That night, I clutched the charm and prayed. I fell asleep almost instantly, and for the first time in weeks, I slept through the night. I woke up refreshed, feeling almost human. But when I looked at my hand, the charm was gone. In its place was a faint, five-fingered bruise, as if something had tried to grab it and missed. I searched my bed, my room, but the charm had vanished. A cold dread seeped into me. The presence, whatever it was, had touched me, and it had taken the charm.

Desperate, I pleaded with my uncle to let me stay at his shop downstairs, thinking a different environment might help. He agreed, and I set up a small cot in the back room, surrounded by dusty shelves of forgotten remedies. That first night, I lay there, listening to the building’s creaks. At 2:17, the same time as before, the temperature plummeted. A foul odor filled the room, like rotting vegetation and sulfur. The cot began to shake, and the whispers returned, but this time they were clear, distinct, and they spoke a single sentence: ‘You cannot escape your bed, for you are already lying in ours.’

I bolted upright, grabbed my flashlight, and shone it around. There, in the corner, I saw a shape—a tall, thin figure with elongated limbs, its head tilted at an impossible angle. It had no face, just a smooth, pale void. It took a step toward me, and the floorboards beneath it creaked. I screamed, but no sound came out. I scrambled backward, tripping over a stool, and when I looked up, it was gone.

The next morning, I called my parents, begging them to let me come home. They were worried, but they lived in a different city, and I had exams coming up. I told them I was sick, that I needed to go to a hospital. They agreed, and I took a bus to the city hospital that afternoon. I explained my symptoms to a doctor, who prescribed a mild sedative and referred me to a sleep specialist. I didn’t tell him about the figure; I didn’t want to sound insane.

That night, in the sterile hospital room, I lay in a narrow bed, watching the fluorescent lights buzz. At 2:17, the lights flickered, and the room grew cold. I clutched the blanket, waiting for the whispers, but they didn’t come. Instead, I felt a hand press down on my chest, gentle but firm. I looked down and saw a faint impression of a hand, as if someone was pushing me into the mattress. And then, in the corner of my eye, I saw the figure again, standing by the window, watching me. It raised a finger to where its mouth would be, as if to shush me, and then it faded.

I spent a week in that hospital. The episodes continued, but they became less intense. The figure appeared less often, and the whispers grew fainter, as if the presence was receding. The doctors diagnosed me with severe sleep deprivation and prescribed a strict sleep regimen. I followed it, and gradually, the paralysis stopped. I was discharged with a clean bill of mental health, though they noted I suffered from mild anxiety.

I returned to the apartment to pack my things, planning to move in with a friend. The room was cold, still. I gathered my belongings, trying not to look at the bed, but when I turned to leave, I saw something on the pillow. It was my charm, torn open, the herbs spilled. And on the wall above the bed, scratched into the plaster, was a message: ‘We will always find you, for you are ours.’

I moved away, changed cities, and managed to build a life. But I never slept in the same bed twice in a row. I always kept a light on, and I never, ever looked at the corner of the room at 2:17 AM. To this day, I still feel a cold draft sometimes, and I hear a faint whisper, just at the edge of my hearing. But I don’t dare turn to see if I’m alone. Because I know that the bed I lie in now, no matter where I go, is just a temporary resting place. And somewhere out there, in the space between sleeping and waking, there’s a bed that’s waiting for me to lie in it for good.