Hank
Hank
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Hank didn't believe in ghosts. He didn't believe in U.F.O's, spirits, demons, Angels or anything else from Bigfoot to the Loch Ness Monster. He was staunch advocate that anything that seems paranormal, all those supposed sightings of monsters, aliens, ghosts and cryptids all had perfectly rational explanations: misidentification, over active imaginations, freak weather phenomenon and so on. Everything could be explained away, or so he thought. The one thing he could not explain however, was his sleepwalking. He'd been a sleepwalker for as long as he could remember but could never figure out why. Although, as he got older the frequency of his nocturnal ramblings had lessen greatly but every once in a while, he would go to bed only to wake up standing in a different part of the house.
After a long day at the office, Hank turned into bed around 10:30pm. It was a mild night in late September and the sun had just given way to the moon. After reading for a while, Hank placed his book on the bedside table, switch of his reading lamp and drifted off to sleep. He awoke a few hours later, but not by his alarm clock telling him that it was 6:00am. What awoke him was a strange moaning sound coming from downstairs. He looked at the clock, 2:43am. The moaning continued. Hank got out of bed and walked to the bedroom door. He listened a little harder and mixed in with the moaning seemed to be sound of sobbing. His rational mind raced for an explanation, and he then assured himself that it was either a cat moaning right outside the downstair window or he'd mistakenly left the television on when he came up to bed. Even so, he descended the stairs with trepidation. The sound growing louder as he went. After reaching the bottom he turned to face down the corridor with the kitchen at the end. He had to take a double look. The kitchen was very dimply lit by the moonlight seeping in from the window above the sink. In the darkness, he could see, slumped over the worktop, a figure. He could tell by the way its shoulders were bouncing, that it was what was making the moaning and sobbing sounds and he could faintly hear what sounded like the words 'my house. This is my house'. Hank reached out a shaking hand and switched on the hallway light. As soon as it partially illuminated the kitchen the sound and figure vanished. 'Huh', sighed Hank. He smiled and shook his head. 'Hank, buddy. You're over tired and have been working too hard.
He reached out and switch the light off, but then his breath left him. Back in the dark kitchen was the figure again, but this time it wasn't sobbing or slumped over the worktop. It was standing upright. Although it had its back to him, Hank could just about make out that the figure appeared to be that of a lady, dressed in ragged clothes. Hank shook his head, hoping to expel the image from his sight, but it remained. He switched the light back on and again, the figure vanished. He switched the light off again, and the figure returned, but this time it was facing him with its head slumped forward and it long scraggy black hair draped forwards, and had moved into the hallway, only a few feet from him. He switched the light on. The figure vanished. 'What the fu….' As he again turned the light off the figure reappeared, directly in front of him. It let out a terrifying, unearthly scream and darted forward, clamping it's could bony hands around Hank's throat, pushing backwards against the wall. Hank could do nothing except look into the face of his assailant. It was indeed a lady, a very old lady. Her skin was pale, almost white, wrinkled and weather by the ravages of time. Her eyes were completely black. The face was contorted with rage. Her teeth were gritted, and a thick black liquid was oozing out from between the rotten teeth she had left. Then she spoke, in a guttural, almost groan. 'My house, this is my house. Get out! Get out! This is my house'. As she spoke the black ooze sprayed from her month, some of it landing in Hanks eyes. He could feel a burning sensation around his neck and was starting to feel faint. Mustering all his strength, Hank managed to shove the old crone backwards. He whipped his hand across his eyes to clear them and braced himself for a second assault. But nothing came. As his hand cleared from his eyes, he could see nothing, no evil old lady, no black ooze. Just the quiet, still hallway and the empty kitchen at the end. He switched on the light and stood for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts and understand what had just happened. He dashed down the hallway past the kitchen and into the toilet. He looked in the mirror. No marks around his neck. No black ooze on his face. He returned to the hallway and looked in the kitchen. Again nothing. Hank poured himself a glass of water. After a few moments he managed to compose himself and exhaled deeply, 'It was a dream', he said aloud. 'I was sleepwalking and had a bloody nightmare. Ha!' Hank made his way back up to bed. He left the hallway light on.