forearms

Napping this afternoon on the couch, I dream…

…we’re sitting at the dining room table, my wife and I.

I hear someone call “Tom” from the back hallway. I turn to see something there, down at the bottom of the steps — small and pale, almost like a child.

“Don’t look!” my wife says just as it rushes up towards me…

…awaken with a gasp, lying on the couch with my arms across on my chest.

I cannot open my eyes. I cannot breathe. I cannot move.

Something is holding it’s hands on my forearms, pressing me down.

My breath hisses out between my bared teeth. Little gasps push out of me. I can hear myself whimpering as I struggle to rise, to open my eyes, to speak the name of my God.

Panic. I can feel my body shaking with the effort to move, those hands holding me down . . . something over me, drawing the breath out of me in long, hissing strands.

Finally I manage one word: “Ssssssssasssssstop.”

Immediately, the pressure on my arms lightens and I sit up and open my eyes.

Alone in the room.

Even now, writing this, my shoulders and forearms ache as though I’d been carrying a great weight.

And I can still hear that hissing whimper in my ears. It sounds a little bit like laughter.