To Whom It May Concern:

I know many things about your home. How the light enters your kitchen at sunset. The scent that you encounter when you first walk in the door after a long day at work. The way the floorboards creak in certain spots, no matter how lightly you step. I also know of the lingering feeling of darkness and dread when all is quiet that makes you want to turn on the radio or the television, to drown out the silence. Please don’t be alarmed. I would never invade someone’s privacy, but long ago, your home, was mine.  

Though it's been many years since I inhabited your current residence, it feels like it was just yesterday. Mere moments since I walked your halls, entertained friends and family in your living room, prepared meals in your kitchen, and rested my head where you currently lay yours at the end of each and every day. The question that has been plaguing me as of late and the reason for my correspondence is rooted in my need to know if you have dreams that leave you shaking in the middle of the night. I had many.

My blunt inquiry is due to a constant personal interrogation of my own thoughts and memories of the time I spent at your current address. I keep asking myself if my experiences were genuine or a fabrication of events in a mind that has experienced a break from reality, some form of psychosis?

I hope that my intrusion into your life is not troublesome or viewed as a nuisance; if so, please disregard this message. But if my words have struck a nerve and resonate with your current situation, I hope they potentially offer both parties explanation, amenity, and confirmation that we are not alone in this experience.

You’re sitting in the living room right now, aren’t you? That’s where I imagine you’d sit to read this letter and--if it’s not too much trouble to ask--I think you should sit there now, if you are not. You see, that’s where I first became aware of the presence, in the living room. I was sitting on the sofa, near the edge, where the arm rest was, so I could get good light for reading the Sunday Paper when, out of the corner of my eye, something caught my attention. 

I believed it to be my cat, Sadie, but when I looked up to shoo her, she was on the other side of the room fast asleep. Thinking that it was just a trick of the eye due to a reflection of light, I turned my paper to the Metro section, settled into an article about a new establishment opening, and made the decision to pay it no mind.

But it happened again…a quick, feline movement in the shadows. Again, I looked. Again, nothing was there. Sadie looked at me dubiously from across the room, where she remained perched, licking her paw, eyes narrowed. 

I decided to take a different approach and not look directly, to trick the trick of light by looking out from my peripheral vision. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Sadie, who was now languidly licking the pink pads of her other paw. And I could see them! 

A man and a woman, late in age and slightly deformed, gaping mouths and sunken eyes. Sadie stopped licking. Sprang to her feet, as if out of the periphery of her vision she could see them, too. They moved toward me in a way, I must tell you, could not be mistaken for friendly. In fact, their glare was so downright hostile, that Sadie scampered away and I was left alone with them, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. 

Slowly, they crept towards me, the haggard man with a blunt object, maybe a pipe or a short stick, and the decrepit woman with a kitchen knife, that seemed to be old and rusty, clearly not mine. I tried to remain calm. To think of something normal. Real. I thought about the newspaper and the establishment that would be opening up downtown. 

I tried to remember the name of the business as they lurched toward me, becoming clearer as they grew nearer. But my focus could not be drawn away from this menacing duo, and I dare say I very nearly forgot what a newspaper even was as I waited for them to encroach my space, to overtake me. I backed my way up against the wall, until the last possible moment when they raised their objects with contempt to strike me. Quickly, I glanced up from the paper, and they were no longer there.

Frightened, yet curious, I continued this exercise twice over. Try it now with me, if you don’t believe. All you need do is sit there in the living room--our living room--and let your eyes go sort of lazy. For me, the malevolent couple seemed to be on a loop. Each episode started from the exact same spot and repeated the same movements. Inquisitive as to what these apparitional beings might be capable of, I finally let them land a blow.

When I gathered my senses, I was in the bedroom laying on my bed. Dear reader, I think you should retire, too. I’ll wait for you to take the steps. Here, I’ll count, one, two, three, four, five, are you there yet? Six, seven. Okay, then. The sky was dark, and it appeared that I had lost many hours, potentially the entire day to my experiment. Maybe it was just a dream, and I had been slumbering the whole time. I had been feeling sluggish the day before, perhaps a cold or a fever had come over me. Maybe I fell ill and made my way into the bedroom to rest, yet I had no recollection of doing so.

It being past my usual bedtime, I did the only reasonable thing I could think to do, I settled in for the night. I laid down and closed my eyes and attempted to recall the day. Coffee, breakfast, Sadie, and the sunday paper. In addition to the story in the Metro section about the establishment that was finally opening, there was a story about an older couple that had passed away and a headline about a robbery that occurred when a family was at home. It was easy to convince myself that my mind had conjured a dream of similar circumstances.

With my mind finally, at ease from the events of the day, I began to drift to sleep. The bed can be a most cozy place, especially when you let yourself sleep in the very center. Have you ever laid down in the very center of your bed? Try it now. Prop a pillow behind you and hug another tight in front of you. It’s a nice, safe feeling. Only on that night I was feeling drowsy and warm and cradled when suddenly the old wood floors creaked. Most likely, Sadie returning from finishing her bowl of milk, I told myself. Yet, you guessed it, when I opened my eyes, Sadie was already fast asleep at the foot of the bed.

"These old buildings are constantly settling," I said to myself. Then the closet door slowly creaked open. "There must be a draft." I muttered to myself. I got up, though, just as you are doing now, and I switched on the light and slowly glanced in the closet. I looked at my shoes on the floor--which were free of feet, and at my clothes lined up in a neat row. The jumble of sweaters and towels on the uppermost shelves. All was as it should be. 

Then, like you, quite satisfied that nothing was out of place, I switched the light off, walked back over to my bed, and laid in the darkness for a while, questioning my sanity and the stability of the structure that I called my home while I listened to the wind rustle outside the bedroom window. That's when I felt something move on the bed, only I was laying really quite still. Was Sadie shifting her weight or maybe she had leapt up for a midnight prowl?

Sadie, though, was still deep in slumber, curled into herself at the foot of the bed and she didn't respond to the pressing of the quilt and the movement amongst the sheets. It was as though something was sliding towards me. It moved past my feet. Lightly touched my legs and darted once it reached my waist. I gasped and jumped out of bed and flipped on the light. I yanked the sheets off the bed to Sadie's dissatisfaction, yet nothing was there.

Startled by the incident, I made my way to the bathroom. It must've been a fever dream, I thought. I turned on the faucet slowly and let the cool water drip onto my wrists. I find it relaxes me. Does it relax you, too? If you find my story about your home up unto this point disconcerting won’t you try it as well. Walk into your bathroom. Turn the cold water on to a drizzle, let it run over your wrists. It’s quite calming. Wouldn’t you agree? 

So that’s what I did that night, yet . . .  I felt like I was being watched from the bathtub. The shower curtain closed--just as I’d imagine yours is now. And don’t you get the sense, when your mind gets away from you, that that shower curtain could conceal anyone, anything? That it--they--could be lying in wait? I quickly threw the curtain back, but all I saw was a bar of soap, shampoo, and conditioner—nothing out of the ordinary. Feel free to check yours too, if you’d like. All clear? Good.

The faucet was still running cold water, so I placed my hands in the stream and looked directly at my reflection. Have you ever stared into your own reflection. I mean really stared? Do it, now, it is surprisingly unnerving how you can seem so familiar and strange to yourself all at once. And that’s what happened that night. I was looking deep into my eyes with a questioning gaze that seemed to be saying, "What's wrong with you?" or "maybe you need a roommate. Someone to keep you company."

Only, my reflection in the mirror was smiling. My fingers found their way to my face and confirmed what my brain already knew--although my reflection was smiling, I was not. I jumped back, and my image followed suit. Blinking my eyes, I dared not make eye contact again, but yet I felt compelled. I shut off the water and glanced once more. Everything seemed to be in its place. I raised an eyebrow. My reflection did the same. I waved. It motioned back to me. This fever must be playing tricks on me, I thought.

I gave the mirror one more hard look, and I felt mesmerized. Now my eyes had always been a hazel. My mom reminded me of it often because she said they were my grandmother's eyes. But as I looked at them that night, they were much darker and seemed to be changing into a shade of gray, charcoal that appeared to burn black. 

It is an uncomfortable thing to feel like you don’t know yourself, that you can’t trust what you know. So, I slowly pushed the light switch down and decided to make my way to the kitchen. Kitchens, even more so than the center of your bed provide a feeling of safety. Warmth. 

I decided to turn the kettle on to make a cup of tea. Cool water is great for the bathroom, but in the kitchen, it’s a cup of tea that will comfort. Do you still have the faucet with the asterisk shaped knobs? Turn one on, fill your kettle, have a cup of tea with me. You’ll want it for this next part. 

Maybe I should've called the doctor, but I didn’t dare wake him that hour of the night for a trick of the mind. I'm sure it was just a fever. Nothing, a cup of tea, an aspirin, and a good night's rest wouldn't remedy.

The hot water filled the brim of my cup as the tea bag began to steep. I had already swallowed the first aspirin when Sadie came running as I dragged the kitchen chair across the floor to sit down. This was a routine we'd practiced for years every morning as I sipped my freshly brewed coffee. She was disappointed that it was a false alarm, and that her bowl would be empty for a few more hours.

I caught myself staring out the kitchen window into the abyss of the night. Cars drove by. The soft squeal of their breaks shook me from my daze. The refrigerator hummed while I began sipping my tea. The hum was therapeutic. If you close your eyes, the hum of the refrigerator--which perhaps is the same from when I sat in that kitchen--could sound like a thousand crickets rubbing their legs together. 

The icemaker shook, and crystal cubes rattled in the tray. I focused on the low rumble. It comforted me. Soothed my nerves. Spoke to me in the way house noises do. Only the house noises began to sound a little high pitched around the edges. The hum of the refrigerator began to sound less like crickets rubbing their legs together in a field, and more like two people whispering to each other. In fact, I was sure that it was two people whispering to each other and I closed my eyes and focused on the sounds that I was now sure were words. 

I began to sound out syllables. Enunciations. A monotonous phrase.

"Close your eyes. It won’t hurt.”

Over and over, I listened to their words. Mouthed them quietly to myself. Words that I still softly hear whispering to me all these years later. Words that I mumble in my sleep and catch myself saying at intersections while I wait for permission to proceed. Can you hear them now? Are you saying them?

If you've read this far, this is the objective of my letter. The night I just recounted for you was one of many evenings that delivered otherworldly encounters that have never left me. Am I alone in this experience, or do you share this nightmare with me? Sure you have a different sofa atop which perches a different domesticated animal, and though you are reading a different paper with different establishments opening still it shares the news of the evil acts that men commit. 

You probably drink a different flavor of tea from a different cup, sleep in a different bed, and though our reflections are different, has it shone back differently to you in the same mirror?

I wish you no ill will, and though our shared experience certainly would not bring you great comfort, your acknowledgment would, unfortunately, grant me pleasure that has undoubtedly caused you pain. But is there not a small comfort in knowing that you are not alone? So, maybe it is I who have brought you comfort? My mind is going in circles and there is nothing to make it stop but for you to answer, to tell me what it is you see or don’t see out of the corners of your eyes.

Please respond with haste. Please say yea or nay. Please confirm or deny this unnatural phenomenon. I must know if it is true or if I've carried a burden of declining mental health all of these years. Please, if you can, remove all doubt.

Sincerely Yours,