The Stillness in the Living Room

I’ve never been one to believe in the supernatural, not fully. But what happened that rainy Tuesday afternoon in our apartment on Mulberry Lane changed everything. My mother, a woman of stubborn logic, had told me a story before about a similar experience, but I’d chalked it up to a dream or a trick of the mind. That was until it happened to me.

It was the middle of the day, the kind of gray, drizzling afternoon that made the city lights bleed into the wet streets. I had just finished a jog around the reservoir with my mom, and we were both exhausted. I collapsed onto her bed, still in my running clothes, and she settled beside me with a magazine. I scrolled through my phone, then decided to watch a movie on the TV. I picked a romantic fantasy about a human and a vampire, a guilty pleasure. I must have dozed off about ten minutes in, the sound of rain against the window lulling me into a shallow sleep.

I woke with a start. A loud bang, like a door slamming shut, echoed through the apartment. I blinked, my heart racing, and looked at the TV. It was black, the screen off. I fumbled for the remote on the nightstand and pressed the power button. The screen flickered to life, resuming the movie. I glanced around the room. Mom was still reading, seemingly undisturbed. I shrugged it off, lay back down, and closed my eyes. I wasn’t asleep, not quite. I could hear the rain, the soft rustle of pages turning, Mom’s steady breathing, and faintly, the murmur of my brother’s video game from down the hall. I was in that hazy twilight between wakefulness and sleep.

Then I heard it again, a violent crash, this time from the living room. It sounded like a picture frame hitting the floor. I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids were lead weights. I tried to lift my head, but it was as if a heavy weight pressed me into the mattress. I tried to call out, but my throat was frozen. Panic surged through me. I couldn’t move a single muscle. I was a prisoner in my own body. I could still hear, though. I heard Mom shift on the bed, then gasp. I heard her whisper, ‘What the hell?’ I felt her get up, the mattress springs sighing. I heard her footsteps retreat toward the living room.

I strained with every ounce of my being to move, to scream, to do anything. Minutes stretched into an eternity. My heart thundered in my ears. I could hear Mom moving around in the next room, but she wasn’t speaking. Then, silence. A deep, profound silence that seemed to swallow even the rain. I realized the rain had stopped. The world was dead still. And in that stillness, I felt a presence. Something was in the room with me. I couldn’t see it, but I felt it, cold and heavy, hovering over me. I tried to breathe, but my chest wouldn’t expand. Black spots danced behind my closed eyes.

Just as I thought I would suffocate, a violent convulsion seized my body. I gasped, eyes flying open. I was drenched in sweat, my limbs shaking. I sat up, gasping for air, and looked around. The room was unchanged, the TV still playing, but Mom was standing in the doorway, her face pale, her hand pressed to her mouth. She stared at me, and in her eyes, I saw the same terror I felt. She walked over slowly, sat on the edge of the bed, and took my hand. She didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then she whispered, ‘It happened to me, too. When I was pregnant with you. Same thing. The bang, the inability to move. I thought I was dying.’

We sat there in silence, the movie still playing, but neither of us watching. The rain started again, a soft patter that grew into a steady drum. I looked at my mother, and I knew she was thinking the same thing: This wasn’t a coincidence. It was a visitation, a warning, or something far more sinister. But from what? And why us? The next day, my brother found a crack in the living room wall, shaped like a hand, and we never figured out how it got there. But I know one thing for certain: that afternoon, I tasted death, and it tasted like the stillness in the living room just before the crash.