Hypnopompic

Oh God, let me sleep. It is… I reach for the nightstand. Get the mobile. Fucking 06:15? Holy shit, I overslept.

Wait. This I know, I think. Did I really check the phone, or was it just me being hypnopompic? Fucking annoying. Waking dreams that dress up as completely ordinary things.

I figured it out years ago in my old house, when every morning at fucking 04:00 the doorbell rang. First I woke up. Thought, WTF, leave me alone. Then I went to sleep again. But it was every goddamned morning. So when the bell started to go, I sometimes opened the bedroom window and looked at the front door. No one was ever there. I was starting to believe someone was just fucking with me and was hiding in the bushes or whatever.

One particular Thursday morning, the bell went again. I jumped out of bed, flew down the stairs, and I swear I was there within 15 seconds.

No one.

WTF.

Something gnawed at me. A whisper deep inside my morning brain. Was it real? Or did I dream the doorbell went? I decided to ask a friend. She told me that I had complained before and therefore at leas it happened before. She also was very worried about my mental health…

So what would I do? Ignore it? Set the alarm clock so I wake before then at least I know it was not real?

I decided to simply ignore it.

Next day, again. The bell went. I pretended I did not hear it and easily fell asleep again.

Then I woke from some strange pressure. A pressure on my sheets. I held them tight as some force pulled them. I yelled no. Pulled them back. Then after a few minutes I just let go. Fuck it. Take them. Let me sleep.

Next morning, I woke up with the sheets around me as if nothing happened. Was this also not real?

I remember it vividly. I felt the blankets pulled away from me. The cold air on my legs. What was this? Was I starting to go crazy? Was there a spirit or something in my house?

I do not believe in ghosts or spirits, so crazy it was.

With my shoulders the height of my knees, I slumped to the doctor. Explained what happened. She was looking at me as if I was crazy. I felt really insane at that moment. She advised a mental health worker, so I made an appointment.

That night, I could not sleep very well. Because of being crazy and such. I noticed I was talking to myself. Apparently, I just let go of trying not to be crazy.

When someone in the room answered, I was questioning reality even further.

Shit. That's strike three. Full-blown mental patient. I already was thinking who I should be killing first, when I saw a man.

The man was sitting on the chair my clothes were on. The man was there, my clothes were nowhere to be seen.

Yes, he told me, you are insane. It started after the cancer treatment. Something in your mind must have reacted heavily to the chemo.

I nodded and thanked him for clearing that up, although deep inside me I knew that already.

The next morning, my chair contained my clothes again. No man was to be seen. Which was normal, as I was insane. I thought they were simple delusions and visions.

After having some good conversations with the man the next night about my relationship with my parents, I asked him why he stole my blankets some nights before. He told me I had to be susceptible first, so he did the doorbell, the blanket stealing, and after that he could talk to me.

Wait.

That sounded sane.

I looked at him. His long beard, white pyjamas, and smiling mouth. I asked him if he was a spirit or ghost.

He bopped his head from left to right. He wasn't corporeal, so perhaps it was the best explanation. But, he told me, you do not believe in spirits.

I affirmed that I did not.

He told me I should seek out help. I told him I actually had an appointment the next day.

The next day my case worker frowned as she read the file.

“Aha,” she said.

“Yes,” I answered. “Completely cuckoo.”

She laughed at me. “No,” she said.

I assured her we agreed to disagree.

“Hypnopompic,” she told me.

“Bless you,” I told her.

She explained that there is a rare condition where your brain needs some time to adjust from REM sleep to the real world. Where I think I am,already awake, but the rest of my brain isn't yet. So I dream and am convinced it is real.

“Are you real?” I asked.

She frowned again.

“Perhaps a bit cuckoo,” she told me, laughing.

I asked her why she was sure.

She explained that I was talking to a strange man in the middle of my bedroom who stole my sheets, and I wasn't scared, afraid, or having any emotional response toward him.

I nodded.

“Or it is a ghost,” she told me.

“I shall call him Casper,” I said.

She laughed and gave me an appointment with a sleep doctor. Apparently, you can measure these kind of things.

I told Casper that night what happened. He was rubbing his long white beard while he listened. He asked me why I would dream about an old man with a white beard.

I told him that I thought it was latent Santa Claus fears.

He affirmed that this was very plausible.

I wondered out loud how I could check if it was hypnopompic or if I was insane afterall. Somewhere deep down, I still couldn't shake the feeling that that might be the case.

“Or,” Casper said, “am I real?”

I blew air out of my cheeks. The possibility was there.

“I still do not believe in ghosts,” I told him.

“Fair enough,” he told me.

At the sleep clinic, I was wired all over my head. Had a very good nap. Without any hallucinations or Casper.

The doctor pointed at a red line on a graph.

“You are hypnopompic,” she said.

“Awesome,” I told her. “And now what?”

I was given instructions to check things twice times in the morning.

“Great,” I told her. “More work.”

That night, I told Casper what happened. He said nothing at all, just looked at me with a face that could burst into laughter at any second.

“I have to ask you two times now?”

Casper nodded.

So I tried to ask him again. Casper frowned and said there were three senses that fooled me.

So I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, Casper shook his head and pursed his lips.

Well shit. I still have my eyes closed, I thought.

I forced my eyes open.

The chair was empty. The room was so much darker.

Well, I guess I am hypnopompic.

The following night, I dreamed up a chess game when Casper arrived. He was pleasantly surprised.

I told him that I could at least try to have fun.

He told me that if he was a figment of my imagination, then either he wins, which means I think I suck at chess, or I win, which means I think I'm pretty good at chess.

I stopped playing chess with Casper, as he is a bit of a spoilsport.

I wondered something. Casper saw it on my face and asked me about it.

I asked him to tell me something about himself.

He said that if he was a figment….

“Yes,” I told him sighing “Yes. Ignore that.”

He told me he used to live in this house long ago, when it was still property of the nearby church. They housed their workers here cheaply. At one point, he finished the job. He was a stonemason and was asked to leave. Casper asked for his wages and made ready to leave. The church told him that living there had been his wages. And, of course, God is happy and such.

I nodded. I knew this house was really old and had been property of the church a couple hundred years ago. I liked my own imagination was stating facts I already knew

Casper continued, he refused to leave.

Then, one morning, he woke up like this.

I nodded and told him I was sorry.

He smiled. Then told me my imagination apparently wants to believe in ghosts.

I…I did not know how to respond. Which was weird.

Something gnawed at me the next morning as soon as I got up. I Googled a bit. Checked the house. It had been property of the church. They did house their workers there. And…

Oh shit.

A photograph of Casper was on an old news pamphlet.

Stonemason found dead in…

My house.

I took a sip of coffee.

Wait. Where did I get coffee?

Dammit.

I blinked. Counted to ten, then really opened my eyes.

I was in my bed.

I laughed at my brain making up a photograpg 300 years ago. I need to get better at this.

Now really awake, I went downstairs. The coffee burned my tongue, so yes. I really was awake.

I was musing that coffee and chocolate would be great if I could somehow use the hypnopompic for that. I wondered if I could dream up the taste of chocolate.

The laptop was sitting in its usual spot in the living room. Its red charging light was flashing ominous somehow.

I stared at it. My stomach squeezed a bit while my tongue went dry.

I wavered when I started the search.

After two minutes, there he was.

Casper.

Or well not Casper, a police report of 1784

Died in the house in some fire, together with a pastor. A stones mason.

Poop. How do I rationalise this?

When night came, for the first time I was afraid to go to bed. Afraid to go to sleep. I do not believe in ghosts, but what the fuck is Casper?

I drank coffee on the couch wondering how long I could stretch this. I chewed on the chocolate piece.

It tasted like. Well not like chocolate.

You fell asleep on the couch. Casper told me.

Dammit

He asked me if I had found out the truth.

I nodded.

“What is the truth?” he asked.

“You apparently died in this house during a fire.”

He nodded.

“Was I alone?” he asked.

My eyes grew big. I shook my head.

“The pastor died too,” I told him.

Casper nodded.

He told me he thought he killed him.

I asked him if he was still here because of the killing.

Casper laughed and told me no one had explained it to him.

I asked him what I should do.

He asked me what I thought.

I think I should move.