Chapter Three

I screamed until my throat went raw, until spots danced in front of my eyes and sweat poured in torrents down my face. I screamed until my door was thrown open and the lights sparked on and Juliette and my mother appeared in front of me, shouting.

“Parker!” Mom barked, standing stiffly by the side of my bed. “Parker Sage Elway, stop that right now!”

I couldn't stop. I didn't, until my mother's hand shot out and clamped itself over my mouth. Abruptly, my delirious shriek cut off into silence. I stared at my mother, wide-eyed, panting into the cool flesh of her palm. Her touch reminded me of the figure, its icy dark fingertips caressing my cheek, and I had to fight the urge to recoil.

“Juliette,” my mother said briskly, “what happened?”

My friend was perched at the edge of my bed, the end of the comforter bunched beneath her chin. I might have laughed at the way her makeup was smeared on one side, except that we were both shaking too much for anything to be funny.

“I-I don't know,” Juliette uttered helplessly. “I just woke up and she was howling and I didn't know what to do! I-I'm sorry!”

Through glazed eyes, I watched my mother's sharp face clench, her nose scrunching slightly. Even now, having been roused from sleep, her demeanor was tight and severe. She drew her hand from my mouth very slowly; every move she ever made was deliberate, precise. Her gaze flickered over to me, and she pressed the heels of her hands into her hips.

“Are you done?” she demanded. I nodded emptily. “Then tell me what happened.”

I looked my mother in the eye, some of my confidence returning as I straightened up. Even still, I felt the ghost of frosty fingers against my face.

“There was something in my room,” I said, my voice as still as I could make it. “It was right there, right in front of the television.” I pointed, remembering the inky shadow. “It was this big, black figure, and I couldn't see a face or anything, but it was there. I swear, it was there. I would have screamed or called for help, but I—I couldn't move.”

I fisted my hands around the comforter, my bony hands being swallowed by the plush fabric. My hair fell across my eyes, and I knew I looked like a mess. God knows I felt like one.

Juliette, a few feet away, was staring me down with blue-eyed incredulity, her expression conveying complete disbelief.

“Parker Sage,” she began gently, “don't you think I would have seen if there was someone in the room? You must have just been dreaming.”

I turned on her sharply, glaring, and spat, “I was not dreaming.”

My mother didn't even look at Juliette. Her eyes were on me, unblinking, as she calmly stated, “Juliette, maybe you should leave.”

“But Ms. Elway!” Juliette protested immediately. “It's nearly four o'clock in the morning, I can't—”

“Juliette,” my mother repeated, more forceful this time, “maybe you should leave.”

Mom was looking at me, and I was looking at her, but I distinctly heard Juliette gulp down a huge swallow. She knew better than to argue with my mother. No one argued with my mother.

“I'll let you out,” Mom stated, calm and stiff. She rose, her firm stare bringing Juliette to her feet as well. My friend grabbed her sweater, raking a hand through her hair. She still looked confused and groggy, but she shuffled over and squeezed me in a one-armed hug, murmuring something about picking up her stuff later.

My mom was waiting by my bedroom door, and she watched me as Juliette made her way out, casting me one more smile before disappearing into the hall. A moment later, I was alone.

I tried to make some kind of sense of what I'd seen—of the paralysis, the dark figure, and the way it simply disappeared. It'd felt so real that this time, it was hard to believe that it was actually just a dream. That was the only way I could think of that could logically explain my experience. Except that I'd been awake; I'd been conscious. And as far as I knew, dreams only happened when you were asleep.

My mother came back a minute later, as I was staring blankly at my reflection in my dresser mirror. She had her hands on her hips, an imposing presence even in her floral print pajamas. We looked at each other for a moment, fierce mother to tired daughter, before she spoke.

“Have you seen things like this before?”

“What?”

“That dream. Has it happened to you before?” I found myself slightly taken aback by her voice; it was like a knife, accusatory and piercing.

Gears whirred in my head, clicking suspiciously. “Who told you it was a dream?”

She blinked. “What else would it be?” she asked, seemingly unfazed. “If it had been real, that figure would be here. Now answer my question, Parker.”

I narrowed my eyes. There was something wrong here; my mother was not the type of person to go apeshit over a meager nightmare. She'd freak the hell out over pretty much everything else—but nothing as insubstantial as that.

“Parker Sage Elway,” she ground out. “Have you ever had a dream like that before?”

I was too tired to braid the truth into a lie. “Once,” I admitted. “Yesterday.”

Something flashed in my mother's eye at that—if I didn't know better, I'd have said it was worry. But she didn't get worried. She didn't get anything except angry. And regardless, she composed herself in a heartbeat, pressing her lips together and giving me a curt nod.

“I'm calling the doctor,” she declared. “You'll see him tomorrow.”

Incredulous, I leapt to my feet. My mother was standing in the same spot the shadow stood, right before it disappeared. For a brief second, the memory of the figure merged with her image, creating a grotesque creature.

I shook my head to clear it.

“Are you kidding me, Mom?” I cried. “You said it yourself; it was just a freaking dream!”

Her hand on the door, my mother rolled back her shoulders and lifted her chin into the air. She regarded me with haughty eyes and said, “I know what I said, Parker. But dreams are powerful things, and the last thing we'd want is for them to begin affecting your reality.”

◙════════════◙

“It's like I've turned to stone. I can't feel my body, and I can't move. And then there's this—this sensation, like there's something sitting on my chest, crushing me. And there was a shadow, a tall, human-looking figure, just standing there staring at me while I lay there, helpless. I couldn't see a face, but I knew it had eyes. I could feel its eyes. And it was—it was terrifying.”

Shivering, I focused my gaze on the pale denim fabric of my jeans. My legs hung off the edge of the check-up table, swinging slightly, so that every now and then my beaten-up red Chucks came into view. We were in the hospital—my mother and I—because her insistence had landed us an appointment within hours of the episode. Incidentally, the nurse who had answered the phone at four in morning sounded less than pleased to be speaking with us.

Sitting there on the table, I was beginning to wish that the nurse had simply hung up the phone when my mother told her, quite rudely, that we would be seeing Dr. Pham that day thank you very much, and make sure that he had space for us on his list. Hospitals, in my opinion, were sickly, hollow places, so white and sanitary that they sucked the life out of everyone inside. And everywhere, it smelled like antiseptic, cold and metallic and stinging, mixed with the scrubbed scent of old flesh. Normally, I tried to hold my breath while in the hospital; but with the sensation of suffocation still strong in my chest, every gulp of air felt indescribably precious.

“Well, Parker,” said Dr. Pham, once I'd finished my description and he'd typed it into his notes, “I believe I know what's wrong with you.” He turned to me, a patronizingly kind smile on his young face. “It appears that you have sleep paralysis.”

My mother, in her seat beside the counter, shifted jerkily.

With a learned air, Dr. Pham rose and slid his rolling stool aside, walking over to a poster on his wall. The title read “The Sleep Cycle”, and featured a picture of sleeping woman with the stages of sleep outlined above her.

“These are the five stages of sleep,” the doctor intoned, sweeping an arm across the image. “During the first four, your body is just beginning to relax, slowing your breathing and preparing your body for sleep. In the fifth stage, dreaming occurs, along with a phenomenon known as rapid eye movement, or REM. You breathe quickly, your muscles go slack, and your brainwaves speed up.”

I eyed Dr. Pham carefully, thinking that he was being unnecessarily grandiose in his explanation. He had so much confidence, with his pristine white coat and slicked black hair, that I slumped into my oversized Queen shirt for lack of purpose.

“It's during REM that sleep paralysis occurs,” Dr. Pham continued. “Sleep paralysis, by definition, is a transition state between wakefulness and rest characterized by complete muscle atonia, or muscle weakness. Coincidentally, REM can be identified by the same atonic state, because the paralysis prevents dreamers from moving erratically during their dreams. The true cause of sleep paralysis is unknown, but it's plausible that the condition is just an interruption of REM sleep. Your body is still frozen, but you're conscious. It's like having one foot in and one foot out of sleep. Does that make sense, Parker?”

Honestly, I'd been half tuned out during his explanation, but I rocketed back into reality just in time to give an overenthusiastic nod. “Yeah, totally,” I chirped.

“Do you have any questions?”

I racked through my memory, trying to recall enough of his speech to formulate a proper query. “Just one,” I said eventually. “That shadow I saw—the humanoid figure—what was that? If this can all be accounted for by disrupted rapid eye movement, then where does that fit in?”

Dr. Pham chuckled. “Goodness me, I nearly forgot about that,” he said. “It's very common for people with sleep paralysis to experience hallucinations during their episodes, and though it's not clear exactly why that is, a good speculation is that a hyper vigilant state is created in the brain when your body realizes that it's in a vulnerable position. An emergency response is activated and intensified by the helplessness you are feeling, causing the brain to perceive everything it sees as a threat. It creates hallucinations that are very real and very vivid; almost like a parallel between the dream world and reality. Because you are panicking, these shades and shadows take on a menacing presence.”

Chewing on my bottom lip, I nodded as Dr. Pham returned to his seat. He fixed me with a reassuring stare and added, “Bottom line is, this condition is nothing to worry about. It happens to half the population at least once, and as scary as it may feel, it won't have any lasting effects. Okay?”

“Okay,” I echoed.

From my right, my mother made an disbelieving sound, her penciled eyebrow arching up into the line of her hair. “That's it?” she demanded. “That's all you're going to say? No treatments, no suggestions, nothing to fix it?”

Dr. Pham blinked at her, his face registering confusion and surprise. “Well, there really isn't much we can do, Ms. Elway. Unless the condition intensifies or begins to disrupt Parker's everyday routine, I can't prescribe the drugs that would be suggested for more severe cases. And as there doesn't appear to be any genetic history of narcolepsy or any other sleep disorders in her medical record, we can infer that this is just a one time deal, probably caused by stress or lack of sleep. All that I can recommend is to make sure you get the prescribed amount of sleep for your age group and continue your life as normally as possible. If anything becomes particularly troubling, just schedule another appointment and we'll see what can be done. For now, we'll just watch it. All right?”

“Sure,” I replied, speaking before my mother could, “thanks, Dr. Pham.”

The man smiled warmly. “Anytime. You folks have a nice day, now. I'll see you later.”

As Dr. Pham left the room, I caught sight of Mom's pinched expression. And although she returned his goodbye, I could tell that she was not happy at all.

◙════════════◙

“Sleep paralysis, huh?”

Logan peered over at me, his face half buried in a thick wool scarf and his freckled nose glowing a wind-bitten red. I could read the worry in his green eyes, boring into mine with concerned intensity.

“Yeah.” I shrugged, tugging at Zipper's leash as she sped up in front of me. “Apparently, it's no big deal, just a sleep condition. My mom was flipping out, though, which was weird. I didn't expect her to care.”

“She's your mom, Parker,” Logan reminded me. “Of course she cares.”

I wrinkled my nose. “You only say that because she actually likes you.”

My best friend shook his head, his umber curls flying, but said nothing. For a while, we walked in silence, the only sounds around us being the jingle of Zipper's dog tags and the faint whistle of the wind. Logan walked with his hands buried in the pockets of his dark blue jeans, staring down at his feet. It was crisp outside, and the smell of spice and harvest made it clear that autumn was well on its way. Red and gold and orange leaves tumbled down around us from the trees lining the sidewalks.

Walking the dog was one of the few occasions for which my mother allowed me to leave the house, and I'd managed to coax Logan into accompanying me. Call me crazy, but I didn't want to be alone. Along the way, I'd explained to him the doctor's diagnosis, though I'd neglected to fully reiterate the dream.

“Parker,” Logan said after a moment, “why do you think your nightmares started? I mean, I've been thinking about it a lot, and it seems like they started so suddenly that I just wondered, you know?”

I managed a small smile. Logan had that habit, of asking a question and then completely diverting you from it by gushing out a bunch of extra words.

“I don't know what started them,” I admitted, remembering that first night. I'd woken up drenched in sweat after dreaming that I was falling through an endless darkness. “I just know that they're getting worse.”

I saw that vague disquiet flicker over his features, and he moved closer to me protectively. His jaw was set, the way it always was when there was any possibility that I'd be put in harm's way.

“But I'm fine, Logan,” I insisted. “They're just dreams; they can't hurt me.”

He sighed. “I know, I know. I just worry about you sometimes.”

I leaned into him, my head only reaching his shoulder, as we paused to let Zipper leave evidence of her presence on a nearby tree. On the other side of the street, a thin young woman with a stroller waved to us. Stella. We waved back.

“Well, you shouldn't,” I chastened. “Hasn't eleven years of friendship taught you that I can take care of myself?”

“Sure it has.” He quirked an eyebrow. “I guess I just have a natural hero complex.”

He attempted a Superman pose, but his foot caught on a crack in the pavement and he went stumbling forward, sprawling into someone's front lawn. Zipper sniffed at him, her white tail wagging furiously.

“Yeah,” I said dryly, as Logan picked himself up off the ground. “My hero.”

Logan's ears turned red, and he scratched absently at the back of his neck, a sheepish, lopsided grin on his face.

“Thanks, though,” I said genuinely, elbowing him in the side. “You know you're the best.”

“How can I forget when you're always reminding me?” he mumbled, but I could tell he was pleased.

We had reached my street by then, Webster Avenue, and stopped in front of my house, the fifth one on the left. I'd always loved my house; it was a deep blue Victorian, regal but simple, with slanted roofs and a paneled exterior. My balcony jutted out gracefully from the second floor, its carved white railing matching the cute picket fence and ivory rosebushes in our front yard.

At the archway leading to my front walk, Logan pulled me into a half hug that was as awkwardly comforting as he was. “You wanna come in?” I asked. “You know my mom won't mind.”

“Nah”—he shook his head—“I should be getting home. I don't know how my dad is tonight, but...I don't want to risk it.”

I frowned at the shadow that passed over his face and quickly squeezed his hand. Leave it to me, of course, to inadvertently bring up Jack Dearborn, otherwise known as Logan's least favorite subject and the bane of his existence.

“I'm sorry,” I murmured, meaning it. “And I love you, you know. Drive safe.”

That was a joke between us; Logan always drove his car to my house, but he only lived two streets away.

“I love you too,” he replied, hugging me again. Zipper's leash tugged at my wrist as I wrapped my arms around him; she was eager to go inside. “Bye, Parker.”

He drew back, and I was just about to go inside when a flashing shadow to my right made me whirl around. I felt an especially cold gust of wind, making my blood chill.

“Parker?” Logan said in confusion, already halfway to his car. “You okay?”

I nodded slowly, shaking my hands to get the blood flowing. I really needed to stop being so jumpy; it wasn't like me at all.

“Fine,” I called after him, ignoring the lingering feeling of a presence somewhere behind me. “It was nothing.”

◙════════════◙

Later, in my room, I sat on my bed with my back against the wall, staring at my surroundings but not really registering anything. Like any other teenage girl, my bedroom was my sanctuary, and its décor basically consisted of my personality barfed out into reality.

I was a big classic movie buff, and had posters of all my favorite old films, from Singin' in the Rain to The Birds. Records from all my favorite rock bands had their places on my wall, courtesy of the local Goodwill. They'd never be played, since I was pretty sure my mother had something against good music, but that didn't make them any less attractive against my faded gray-green wallpaper. My favorite part of my set-up, though, was the set of three bare bulbs that hung in a triangle at the center of my room. They were so much more striking than covered lights; not to mention that they made my mother grimace every time she so much as glanced at them.

Frowning slightly, I examined my reflection in the faraway dresser mirror; my kohl-rimmed eyes, my crimson lips. People often told me that I didn't look like my mother, and I think that was my point. If you took off all my makeup, peeled away the band-tees and the combat boots and the skinny jeans, you'd be left with a plain teenage girl who actual bore a distinct resemblance to her mom.

Everyone knew Iris Elway. Everyone knew that she was prudish and obsessive and just generally intimidating; that's what they whispered about behind their hands at the grocery store, because it's a small town and small towns like to gossip. I guess I just didn't want to walk around with a sign on my back proclaiming, “Parker Elway, offspring of the town psycho. Approach with caution.” So I dressed like a hipster and acted like a cool kid, and eventually I forgot whether or not that's who I actually was. Sometimes, looking at Juliette's elegance and Logan's innocence, I thought not. But I could never be sure.

The thing about sitting in one place for a long time is that it really makes you think. And after sitting on my bed like a statue for about two hours, my thoughts had managed to make their way back to the subject of the nightmares.

The time for sleep was fast approaching; I'd already eaten dinner and changed into my pajamas, and it was nearing eleven P.M. I knew I had to go to bed soon, because the next day was Sunday and that meant an early, 7 A.M. mass, but I couldn't bring myself to close my eyes. Even though I knew what my nightmares were now, and understood what I was dealing with, I still shook at the prospect of another night of terror. It wasn't even guaranteed that I'd experience an episode—in fact, the chances were slim to none. But that sliver, that slight chance, scared me more than ever.

Sometime in the past sixty minutes, rain had begun to fall, and now I could hear it pattering against my roof in a steady rhythm. It streamed down my windows (I had two; one to the right of my bed and one a few feet away from the balcony door) in tiny rivulets, masking my view of the darkness outside.

And that was perfectly fine with me; I was in no mood to deal with darkness.

Sighing, I slipped out of bed and shuffled across the carpet to my bookshelf, in hopes that reading would help distract my mind. I scanned the titles, nearly all of them old mysteries, before selecting my favorite Nancy Drew book from when I was younger: number ten, Password to Larkspur Lane. I could have recited its plot in excruciating detail to anyone who cared, but I figured the familiarity would have some kind of calming effect.

As I drew the volume off of my shelf, it snagged on something, sending a tiny cardboard box fluttering silently to the ground. Confused, I retrieved it; the top fell off, and something metallic and glinting slithered out into my palm. I examined it through narrowed eyes for a moment, before realization hit and I understood what I was looking at.

Five years ago, when I was eleven, Logan, Juliette, and I had gone up to the attic of my house, because we'd gotten some idea into our heads that the attic was the place where cool kids went to play. While digging through the forgotten treasures boxed in the dusty storage space, I'd stumbled upon a necklace wedged between two floorboards in a most cliché fashion.

Excited by my find, I'd immediately gone to show my mother—and she'd looked at me as if I'd just brought in a jar of snails and dumped them onto the kitchen counter. She ordered me to get rid of the necklace, but gave no reason why. I had been feeling particularly rebellious that day, so I decided to keep it, shoved into a box at the back of my bookshelf. I hadn't looked at it in ages.

Now, as the tarnished gold chain slipped delicately through my fingertips, I found myself inexplicably drawn to the piece of jewelry. I stared into the pendant, a tiny mirror with an ornate gold frame, seeing my eye reflected back at me. And for some reason, something deep in my gut told me to put the necklace on.

After setting the book aside, I closed the clasp around my neck, liking the way it hung at the center of my collarbone. I looked at my reflection, my face bare now, and swept my hair back over my shoulder. The necklace, a tiny piece, glinted in the bare bulb light.

“Maybe you'll keep away the nightmares,” I said to it in a joking whisper. Zipper, at the foot of my bed, perked up her ears. Shaking my head at myself, I grabbed my book and sidled back to bed. Rain poured down outside in a melancholy melody.

And that night, when I slept, I did not dream at all.

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A/N: OMG so we're doing a speech unit in English and the current assignment is a research speech

so i'm doing mine on sleep paralysis

and i was telling my friend about what it is and she was all "omg it'd be so cool if someone wrote a book about that myths of that."

and i was like "I DID."

i felt really cool even though i'm not xD