August 12, 2020

The Restless. Ending

It’s been a while since I started this story, closer to when I first began the blog. For those who are interested in seeing the posts in order, I recommend checking out Part 1 and Part 2 first.

Where I left off, having returned to my bedroom, there was little chance of me getting proper sleep. Exhausted from fear, still shaking, my underdeveloped mind couldn’t think of any option outside of hiding beneath my sheets in hopes everything would be alright; eventually waking to morning.

Until that day I never really payed attention to what happened around the house. Possible weird occurrences, odd placement or movement of items. Previously, I had wandered around ignorantly blissful of many instances around me, free from fear or paranoia. Not to say I became incredibly paranoid after what happened, but it did make me take things I couldn’t understand a little more seriously.

Over time I started recognizing a lot of weird patterns around the house. For example, my mother always liked doors open. It’s a little thing, but when we’d return home from the store or picking up something to eat, she would often open the doors around the house. This by itself isn’t an odd act. However, what’s strange is how the doors would be open when we left, yet always closed upon our return.

Even if we were to leave for a considerably short amount time and no one entered the house in our absence, the doors which were previously open now sat closed. Additionally, my father, an aggressive person to say the least, had a small office in the middle of the living room. One with a working heater, a few short strides from the fireplace, and yet always freezing cold to enter.

Of course to a child all this could have easily been chalked up to imagination. Hearing noises, making patterns. People will often see what they wish to, or believe what’s convenient. It wasn’t until my older sister approached me about the footsteps she would hear climbing our stairs, the situation became concrete.

Being validated in my fears felt both terrifying and uplifting. Later, I would learn my older brother (who lived in the basement of the house where the footsteps originated from), also heard the sounds. Something I’m sure was even more terrifying due to his isolation.

Fortunately, only one other major incident took place while living in our old home, involving a doll I still see in my nightmares.

My sister received a very nice, old porcelain doll as a gift. With long black locks and bright eyes. She would place it upon her desk, overlooking the rest of the room. On a particularly restless night I asked to sleep in the same bed as her, hoping it would help calm me down.

Some context, this was before the incident in Part 1 of the story, and the leading reason I didn’t seek refuge in her room.

The doll looked weird, like a person but not. Worse, is how its eyes would almost follow you around. The first and only night I slept in her room with the doll, I awoke multiple times with a very heavy feeling. Each time my gaze would happen to fall on the crooked figure, now looking in my direction with its head and arms positioned oddly.

Falling in and out of sleep, every time I woke not only would I be met with the same feeling, but the doll’s position shifted. Everything from its eyes to its hands would change whenever my gaze fell anew.

Were my eyes playing tricks on me? A very possible situation. Who’s to say the feeling I received and the changes in its appearance weren’t my imagination running wild. Even at a young age I tried to tell myself it was all in my head, to calm my panicked breath as it stared at me through the dim moonlight seeping past curtains and glass.

If not for the events that followed, I may have found some solace in my rationalization…

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