The Weight on My Chest

The first morning I woke up without Barnaby, I knew before I opened my eyes. The familiar warmth that usually curled against my hip was gone, and the bed felt too vast, too cold. I found him at the foot of the mattress, a small grey mound of fur, his little body stiff and still. He had been my companion for fourteen years, since I was six, and now I was fifteen. I remember staring at him, his eyes closed as if he were merely sleeping, and I felt a hollow ache open inside me. I didn’t cry then; I just sat there, watching the morning light filter through the blinds and stripe his fur with pale bars.

My mother found us like that, and she held me while I finally sobbed into her shoulder. She whispered that he was in a better place, that he was free of pain. But I didn’t want him in a better place; I wanted him here, on my bed, kneading my chest with his paws. That night, as I climbed into bed, the absence was unbearable. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, and I felt a familiar dip in the mattress, near my feet. Then a soft, weightless pressure settled on my chest, exactly where Barnaby used to sleep. It was barely there, like a breath of air, but I knew it was him. I closed my eyes and, for the first time since his death, I felt a glimmer of peace.

I didn’t tell my mother. I was afraid she would think I was imagining it, or worse, that she would try to make it stop. So I kept it a secret, our nighttime visits. Every night, he would come to me, and I would feel that gentle weight, that phantom presence. It wasn’t the same as real warmth; it was more like the memory of warmth. But it was something, and I clung to it. I would talk to him in my mind, telling him about my day, my worries, my hopes. I would ask him to stay with me, to keep guarding me like he always had.

One night, about a week after he died, I woke up in the middle of the night. The room was dark, and I was alone. I felt the familiar absence, and I knew he wasn’t there. I called out softly, ‘Barnaby?’ A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I felt a pressure on my chest, but it was heavier than before, almost suffocating. I tried to sit up, but I couldn’t move. I felt a cold, sharp sensation, like a needle prick, on my neck. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I felt a terrible presence, a malevolent gaze, as if something was watching me from the corner of the room. I managed to turn my head, and I saw a shape, darker than the darkness, huddled near my desk. It had no discernible form, just a shifting mass of blackness. It began to move towards me, and I felt a freezing cold hand on my throat. I thought I was dying.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the pressure vanished, and the shape dissolved into nothing. I gasped for air, my heart hammering. I was drenched in sweat, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something awful was still in the room with me. The next morning, I felt a sharp pain in my neck. When I touched it, my fingers came away with a drop of blood. There was a tiny puncture wound, like a needle mark. I hid it from my mother, but I was terrified. The following night, the same thing happened, but worse. The weight on my chest was crushing, and I could see the shadow shape clearly now, hovering over me. It had long, thin limbs, and a face that wasn’t a face, just a void. I felt it suck at my neck, and I felt my strength draining away. I was losing blood, and I was growing weaker each time.

I knew I had to tell my mother. I couldn’t face this alone anymore. I found her in the kitchen, making tea. She looked at me with concern, noticing the dark circles under my eyes. ‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’ she asked. I hesitated, then blurted out, ‘Mom, something is in my room. It attacks me at night. It leaves marks on my neck.’ Her face went pale, and she set down her mug. She took a deep breath and said, ‘I was afraid of this. It happened to me when I was your age.’

She told me her own story. When she was thirteen, she had a cat, a black tomcat named Cole. He was her best friend, too. He died suddenly, and she was devastated. A few nights after his death, she started feeling a weight on her chest, and she would see a dark shape in her room. She told her mother, my grandmother, and my grandmother told her that it was a spirit that used the connection to the cat to attach itself to her. It was a soul-eater, a parasitic entity that feeds on life force, and it had been lying dormant in the cat, waiting for a new host. When the cat died, it latched onto the closest human, the one who loved the cat the most.

My mother said she was able to drive it away by burning a sprig of dried rosemary and reciting a charm she had learned from an old book. She showed me the book, a weathered volume with yellowed pages, hidden in a locked box under her bed. It contained instructions on banishing such entities. She told me that the reason she had never told me about her ghost story was that she wanted to protect me, but now I needed to know. She said, ‘You have to do the ritual tonight, or it will get stronger. It will drain you until you fade away.’

That night, I followed the instructions in the book. I lit a candle and burned a sprig of dried rosemary. I chanted the words, which were in an old dialect I could barely pronounce. As I chanted, the room grew cold, and I felt an angry presence. The shadow shape appeared in the corner, larger than before, and it hissed at me, a sound like a thousand whispers. I felt it push against me, trying to make me stop. But I continued, my voice growing louder. I felt a warmth spread through my chest, and I knew it was Barnaby, helping me. The shadow thing screamed, and then it was gone, leaving only the scent of burned herbs.

After that, the attacks stopped. The weight on my chest was gone. I felt a profound emptiness, and I missed Barnaby more than ever. But a few nights later, I felt a light pressure again, the familiar phantom weight. It was soft, like before, and I knew it was Barnaby, but now he was not just a presence; I could hear his purring, a faint vibration in the air. I opened my eyes, and I saw him, a ghostly outline of his grey form, curled on my chest. He looked at me with his emerald eyes, and I reached out a hand, but he was intangible. He blinked, and then he was gone.

I realized that he had saved me, that he had fought off the evil that had tried to consume me. And now, he was at peace. I still feel him sometimes, a soft brush of fur against my ankle, a phantom weight on the bed. But I know he is watching over me, not as a body, but as a guardian. I never told my mother the full truth, that I could see him, because I think she would worry. But I keep his memory alive, and I keep the ritual book close, just in case. And every night, I whisper to him, ‘Thank you, Barnaby. I love you.’ And I feel a gentle warmth around me, like a hug from the other side. I am not afraid anymore. I know that death is not the end, and that love can transcend even that. And I will never forget the weight on my chest, a reminder of both loss and protection.