The Tally of Sleep

My name is Cora, and I’ve always had a strange relationship with sleep. Every house I’ve ever lived in has been a conduit for the inexplicable, but for the past twelve years, my family has called the old Millbrook house home. It’s a sprawling Victorian with creaking floorboards and a basement that feels like a separate, darker world. My bedroom is down there, a converted storage room with a low ceiling and a single window that looks out onto the roots of the oak tree. It’s been my sanctuary, even with its quirks. But about a month ago, the quirks turned into something else.

It started when my stepfather, Robert, decided to renovate the basement bathroom, which is right next to my room. He tore up the linoleum and found layers of old tile, and beneath that, what looked like a small trapdoor. He pried it open, revealing a cramped space filled with old paint cans and a child’s wooden toy. He laughed about it, called it ‘treasure,’ and closed it up, but I felt a cold draft every time I passed it. The renovations brought a constant hum of tools and a smell of old dust and chemicals.

One evening, exhausted from helping Robert haul out debris, I collapsed on the basement couch, a worn-out piece of furniture that creaks under any weight. I was drifting, not quite asleep, when a strange sensation washed over me. My entire body began to tingle, as if I were submerged in carbonated water. I tried to open my eyes, but they were heavy. Then the paralysis hit. It was pure terror, the kind that squeezes your chest. I couldn’t move, couldn’t even turn my head. And then I felt it: a cold, firm grip around my right ankle, pulling me toward the edge of the couch. Panic flooded me. I prayed, begged to wake up, willing my limbs to obey. The pull was relentless, dragging me inch by inch. Just as I was halfway off the couch, the grip vanished, and I jolted upright, gasping. My ankle was still cold to the touch.

I told my mother, but she dismissed it as a stress-induced nightmare. But I knew better. It was real. The second time, it was worse. I was in my bed, lying on my side, facing the door. I had just closed my eyes when the tingling started again. This time, I tried to scream, but no sound came. My body was a statue. The room was dark, but I could make out the faint outline of my dresser. Then, I felt it: a slap on my cheek, sharp and stinging. It was like being hit with a wet glove. I saw nothing, but the force was undeniable. A second slap came, harder, snapping my head to the side. I felt the skin on my face burn. I tried to turn, to fight, but I was frozen. The slaps continued, a rhythm of four, taunting. Then they stopped.

I scrambled awake, my heart pounding, and threw on the light. My room was empty. But my cheek was red, and it hurt when I touched it. I looked around, and there, on the floor near my bed, was a small, round stone. I hadn’t seen it before. I picked it up; it was smooth and cold, like a river stone. I put it on my nightstand, but the next morning, it was gone.

It’s been a month, and the attacks have become more frequent. Every night, I fear falling asleep. I’ve tried everything: staying awake, drinking coffee, even sleeping with the lights on. But exhaustion always wins. The paralysis comes, and with it, the presence. I’ve learned to keep my eyes closed, because when I open them, I see a shape in the corner – a tall, thin figure with too-long arms, standing just out of the light. It doesn’t speak, but I feel it watching.

Three nights ago, I had a dream, if you can call it that. I was in a vast, empty field, and a voice, like the rustling of dead leaves, whispered: “They are counting the days.” I woke up with a jolt, and on my chest was a small, scratched mark, like a tally mark. I’ve been keeping a journal, documenting every incident, trying to find a pattern. The slaps, the pulling, the paralysis – they all seem to escalate. I’m not just afraid anymore; I’m terrified. My own basement, my own room, is no longer safe. I don’t know what it wants, but I’m scared that if I don’t figure it out soon, it will take more than my sleep. Last night, I found another tally mark on my arm, and the trapdoor in the bathroom was open again, its dark gap like a beckoning mouth. I’m afraid to look inside, but even more afraid not to.