The Threshold of Pine Hollow

I’ve dealt with sleep paralysis off and on since college, and while I know it’s a medical thing, I can’t shake the feeling that sometimes it’s a doorway. That fear crystallized during the months I spent at the old mill house in Pine Hollow.

My partner, Derek, worked for a timber company that had him stationed at a remote logging site four hours from our home. He and three other crew members rented a dilapidated building that had once been the foreman’s quarters. The place was all dark wood and creaking stairs, with a wrap-around porch that seemed to sag under its own weight. The interior smelled of sawdust and damp, and the windows were so old they’d turned a hazy purple in the sunlight.

The others took the upstairs bedrooms, but Derek chose the small room off the kitchen, claiming it was convenient. I suspect he wanted to be away from the others, and the room had a door that opened directly onto the back yard, which gave him a sense of escape. When I visited, I slept in that room with him, despite the fact that it had no windows, only a high, narrow slit near the ceiling that let in a sliver of gray light.

During the day, the house was tolerable. The crew would leave early, and I’d have the place to myself. I’d read on the porch, listening to the sap hiss in the trees, or bake bread in the ancient oven. But as dusk fell, the house seemed to contract, as if it were holding its breath. The walls would tick as they cooled, and the floorboards would groan even when nothing moved.

The first incident happened on my third visit. I’d gone to bed early, exhausted from the drive. Derek was still up, playing cards with the guys. I fell into a deep sleep, but at some point, I woke with a start. I couldn’t move. My eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, but my limbs felt weighted down, as if I were pinned by an invisible force. My chest was heavy, and I could hear a low, rhythmic sound, like something breathing right next to my ear.

I tried to call out, but my throat was paralyzed. I could only breathe in shallow gasps. Then I saw it: a figure at the foot of the bed. It was tall and thin, almost spider-like, with long arms that hung past its knees. It had no face, just a smooth, pale oval where a face should be. It stood perfectly still, watching me. And then it moved, slowly, deliberately, to the side of the bed, and leaned over me. I felt a cold, damp breath on my cheek, and then a voice, like the rustling of dry leaves, whispered, “You’re in my chair.”

I snapped awake, drenched in sweat, heart pounding. Derek was beside me, snoring lightly. The room was dark, and the only sound was the wind outside. I told myself it was a typical sleep paralysis hallucination. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of that breath, and the words echoed in my mind.

Over the following weeks, the episodes grew more frequent. Each time, the figure was closer. The second time, it was at the edge of the bed. The third, it was sitting in the room’s only chair, an old rocking chair that I had pulled up to the window slit. It sat there, rocking gently, its faceless head tilted as if it were studying me. I could hear the creak of the rockers on the wooden floor, a sound so real that when I finally broke free, I rushed to the chair and placed my hand on the seat. It was ice cold.

I began to research the history of the house. The owner, an elderly woman named Mrs. Gable, lived in town and was reluctant to share details, but I managed to coax out a story. The house had been built in the 1920s by a logging baron named Chester Webb. He had a daughter, Elsie, who was said to be “touched” – likely autistic or mentally ill. She was kept in a room that had no windows, to hide her from visitors. The room had a single, high slit to let in air. She was found dead in that room in 1934, clutching a child’s chair, the one that now sat by the window. The official cause was neglect.

Derek thought I was letting my imagination run wild, but I couldn’t ignore the pattern. The figure always appeared when I was alone, and always after I had been reading or thinking in that chair. I decided to move the chair out of the room and into the hallway. The night I did, I had the most terrifying episode yet.

I woke to find the figure standing directly over me, its featureless face inches from mine. I could feel a cold, bony hand pressing on my chest, pushing the air out of my lungs. It spoke again, but this time, its voice was in my head: “You took my chair.” A wave of rage washed over me, so intense it felt like a physical force. I tried to scream, but only a croak escaped. The figure began to press harder, and I felt like I was dying. My vision started to darken at the edges.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the pressure lifted. The figure vanished. I gasped for air, tears streaming down my face. I stumbled out of bed and ran into the hallway, where the chair still stood. I grabbed it and, in a fit of desperation, threw it out the back door into the yard. It landed with a thud, and I stood there shaking, half-naked in the cold night air.

The next morning, I told Derek I couldn’t stay any longer. I made him drive me home that day, and I never went back. He left the crew a few weeks later, and we moved to a new town. For a while, I thought I’d left it behind.

But last night, as I lay in bed in our new place, I felt the familiar pressure on my chest. I opened my eyes, and there it was, standing in the corner, silhouetted against the moonlight. It was holding something. A chair. My old rocking chair from the mill house. It set it down beside the bed, and I heard its voice, soft as a lullaby: “I found my chair. Now, I’ll have yours.”

I don’t know how it followed me, or why it chose me, but I know it’s not a hallucination. It’s real. And now, I’m afraid to fall asleep, because every night, it’s learning to take my place.