The Paralytic Room

It was 9:01 AM when I finally snapped out of it, but the terror had been building since I first tried to move an hour earlier. I live alone in a converted attic apartment on the fourth floor of a rundown building on Ash Street. The room is small, with sloped ceilings and a single dormer window that lets in the gray morning light. I was lying on my futon, a thin mattress on the floor, covers tangled around my legs. I remember waking up mentally – hunger gnawing at my stomach like a rat – and I wanted to get up to make coffee. But when I tried to move my right leg, nothing happened. Not a twitch. Not a muscle fiber. I tried my left leg, then my arms, my fingers, my toes. All dead. The only thing that worked were my eyes, which could blink and dart around the room. I could see the ceiling, the water stain in the corner shaped like a screaming face, the dust motes dancing in the pale light, and the gray curtain fluttering slightly even though the window was closed. I thought it might be sleep paralysis. I’d had it a few times as a kid, horrible night terrors where a hag sat on my chest, but never this bad. This was total immobility, like being wrapped in wet cement. I tried to call out for help, but my jaw was sealed shut. I tried to scream, but only a faint wheeze escaped through my nose. I felt a presence in the room. I couldn’t see anyone, but I sensed a weight, a pressure, like being watched. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat. I started to panic, thinking about how I’d be found days later, dead of dehydration, my dog (if I had one) eating my face. But I don’t have a dog. I live alone. And I was alone. Then, out of nowhere, I heard a voice. It was calm, almost bored, like a man reading a weather report. The voice said, ‘You’re awake. Good. I was beginning to think you’d never come around. I have a question for you.’ I couldn’t respond. I couldn’t even blink in acknowledgment. The voice continued, ‘You know, you’re the ninth person to occupy this room. But you’re the first to wake up. The others just… faded. They’re here still, in the walls. They’re the ones who kept you pinned down. They’re hungry, you see. They want your life force. I’ve been feeding them yours for the past two hours. A little here, a little there. But now that you’re awake, I can ask you this: do you want to live?’ I tried to shake my head, to scream, to kick, but nothing. Tears welled in my eyes. The voice laughed softly. ‘I’ll take that as a yes. Well, here’s the deal: I’m the landlord. I own this building. I’ve been harvesting the energy of my tenants for years. It keeps me young, keeps my investments growing. You’re in my prime unit. The walls are saturated with their essences. You’re a strong one, though – you fought back. That’s valuable. So, I’m going to let you go, but you must never speak of this. And you must leave. Today. Or I’ll invite you to stay – permanently.’ As he said that, I felt a sudden release. The pressure lifted. I could move again. I scrambled upright, gasping, and looked around the room. There was no one there. The door was closed. The window was still shut. But on the wall, where the stain was, I saw now that it wasn’t a stain. It was a mass of dark, wet-looking shapes – like faces pressed against the plaster from the inside, eyes open, mouths gaping. They were all staring at me. I grabbed my phone, my wallet, and ran out the door, down the stairs, not stopping until I was outside in the pale sunlight. I haven’t looked back. I’m writing this from a diner two blocks away. I’m shaking. I know I should leave town, but I also know that wherever I go, those faces will haunt me. And sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I still see a gray curtain fluttering – even when there’s no window.