The Presence in the Old House

In my youth, we lived in a home that was never quiet. Strange sounds and fleeting shadows were a normal part of life. I was not frightened then, but I remember it as a time of both wonder and dread.

One evening, as I was drifting into sleep, my body became heavy and still. A man’s voice spoke my name clearly. I tried to lift my arms or call out, but I was trapped inside myself. I thought it might be my father, but then a firm hand gripped my shoulders and turned me onto my back. The weight of another person settled on the edge of the bed.

I struggled to form words, my mouth moving slowly. ‘Is… someone there?’ I finally whispered. I began to recite a simple prayer in my mind, over and over. After a time, the pressure lifted and I could move again. The room was empty. From the open window, I heard my father’s distinct cough from the garden, and I knew he had been outside all along.

The man’s presence remained in the house. He soon began to trouble my father, who would often speak sharply to the empty air, telling the unseen man to be gone.