The Rosary in My Teeth

I never believed in ghosts, not really. Growing up in the dusty outskirts of Bakersfield, the only spirits I knew came from a bottle of cheap whiskey my uncle kept under the sink. But when I moved into that narrow, sun-scorched house on Arbor Lane, something changed. It started with small things: misplaced keys, a cold draft in the hallway, the feeling of being watched from the empty attic. My grandmother, a devout woman, pressed a rosary into my palm before she passed. ‘Wear this, Marco,’ she’d said, her voice a dry rustle. ‘It will keep the bad things at bay.’ I wore it obediently, and for a month, the unease faded. I almost felt normal again.

Then came the night of the dream. I was lying in bed, in that half-awake state where your limbs feel like lead. My bedroom was dark, the only light a pale strip from the window. I couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink. A weight pressed on my chest, and I saw a shadowy figure lean over me. Its face was a blur, but its hands were long and cold. It reached for the rosary around my neck, and I felt the beads slide against my skin. Then it lifted the crucifix and forced it between my lips, pushing until the metal bit into my teeth. I wanted to scream, but my jaw was locked. The taste of cold iron flooded my mouth. I woke with a gasp, my heart pounding, and the rosary was still on my chest, unbroken. I told myself it was just a nightmare, but the phantom ache in my gums lingered for days.

The dreams didn’t stop. They shifted, becoming more vivid, more intimate. I found myself in a strange, sunlit room with no windows. A woman was there, her body warm and soft, but her face was always turned away. We made love with a desperate urgency, and when I woke, I felt a confusing mix of satisfaction and dread. I didn’t tell anyone. How could I? They’d think I was losing my mind. But the dreams felt too real, too deliberate. As if something was using me, wearing my desire like a mask.

Yesterday, the house was silent. I was upstairs, sorting through old boxes, when the music started. It blared from the living room, a tinny pop song I hadn’t heard in years: ‘As Long As You Love Me’ by Justin Bieber. I froze. The radio was broken, I’d tried to use it a week ago and it was dead. I walked to the top of the stairs, and the volume seemed to swell. The chorus repeated, over and over, like a scratched record. I shouted down, ‘Who’s there?’ But no one answered. The song played three times in full, then abruptly stopped mid-verse. A dead silence followed, thick and suffocating.

I crept down the stairs, my hand trembling on the railing. The living room was empty, the radio on the side table was unplugged. The air was cold, so cold I could see my breath. That’s when I felt it again: the pressure on my chest, the taste of metal. I glanced at the mirror above the fireplace, and my reflection seemed to lag, a second behind my movements. In the glass, my mouth was open, and something dark moved within. I turned and ran, grabbing my coat and the rosary, and I haven’t been back since. I’m writing this from a motel on the other side of town, but the fear clings to me like static. I can still hear the faint echo of that song, playing in my head, and I know, deep down, that whatever was in that house isn’t done with me. It’s waiting, patient, and it wants more than just a dream.