The Weight on the Bed

When I was a child, my grandmother warned me about the night visitor. I never paid her stories any mind until the summer I turned thirteen. One evening, I awoke suddenly to a deep stillness. My body was frozen, held down by an invisible force.

My eyes darted around the room, searching the darkness. The silver light of a full moon streamed through the window, painting my floor in pale stripes. I tried to shout for my mother, but my voice was gone. I tried to lift my arms, but they were pinned to my sides.

Fear tightened my chest. I remembered the old words my grandmother taught me, a simple rhyme from her own childhood. I repeated them over and over in my mind, a silent plea for help. Slowly, the heavy pressure on my chest began to fade.

As soon as I could move, I sprang from the bed and switched on the lamp. My heart was beating fast. The clock on my wall showed it was nearly four in the morning. The whole ordeal had lasted only a few minutes, but it felt like an hour.