I had only ever experienced sleep paralysis once before. It was in my final year at university, and I was spending a lot of time with my boyfriend. He had graduated the year before, and had moved in with me, intending to find a job. All he’d managed to find so far was on the Christmas post. It entailed him setting out at dawn, leaving me with the luxury of a lie-in.
Since Alan had been living there, I’d been bunking off lectures and my professor, who was also my tutor, had called me into his office and told me in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t pull my socks up and start attending, I was likely to fail my degree. I was aware I needed to take myself in hand but after Alan had left for work, I settled back into the comfort of my bed and went back to sleep.
At the time I was in a house-share with three other finalists. We were all language students who had just come back from our years abroad in Germany, Holland, and Italy, where we had been at liberty to do as much or as little studying as we liked. It was 1969 and universities abroad were in the throes of student rebellion. Most of them had closed their departments, cancelled all lectures and seminars, leaving us to study on our own. As a result, we’d got into bad ways. At least I had.
I heard the bedroom door creak, and someone walked into my room. At first, I thought it was Margaret. She was doing a joint degree and had spent six months in Holland before coming to Germany where we had struck up a friendship. We both figured that since there was little else to do at the university, we might as well take advantage of our unexpected freedom. I’d visited the Black Forest, Austria, and Hungary. At Easter, rather than coming home, I’d ventured as far as Italy, to visit Keith and Wendy who were studying in Naples. That was when we’d come up with the plan of sharing a house in our final year.
When she was in Holland, Margaret had met a guy and was hoping to go back there when she graduated. Of late she’d adopted a maternal attitude towards me and was trying to help get me back into lectures. It must be her who was coming in to wake me up. I tried to open my mouth to speak but I couldn’t get a word out. And I couldn’t open my eyes either or move my body. I was paralyzed. Whoever it was walked around to the side of the bed, leaned over, and gently touched me on the neck, without saying a word. I still couldn’t move. Then I heard the person retrace their steps, walk out, and close the door behind them.
I immediately leapt out of bed, rushed out of the bedroom, and ran down the stairs. There was no sign of anyone about. I went to check on Margaret but when I opened her bedroom door, I found her fast asleep. Even if she had been a sleepwalker, which she assured me she wasn’t, she wouldn’t have had time to get back into bed. Margaret denied all knowledge and I was inclined to believe her, yet I felt sure someone had been in my room. Since I was already up, I thought I might as well go to my lecture.
For ages I couldn’t get the experience out of my mind. I found it hard to sleep for fear of it happening again. Alan, who was a psychology graduate, tried to reassure me. He told me about a phenomenon called sleep paralysis, whereby a person is awake, but they are unable to move or see. And he quoted some theory from evolutionary biology, which says that humans have evolved to look for false positives. When confronted with the unknown, we think there must be something there rather than nothing. It’s a result of having lived amongst wild animals when we were hunter gatherers.
The memory of my experience faded over time. I never missed a lecture from then on and thankfully passed my degree. It was a few years later when I suffered from sleep paralysis again. I had split up with Alan by then and was living on my own. Margaret had gone to live in Holland after she’d finished her degree. She’d married Pieter, the man she’d met as a student and had invited me to visit them in their new home. It was my first time in Holland. I met up with Margaret in the pancake house where she was working. It was situated beside one of the tree-lined canals that run through Utrecht. I met her there and we went back to the house she shared with Pieter.
They were living in a rickety old house in the mediaeval part of town. Margaret showed me where I would be staying. She took me up the stairs to the attic. The house had wooden floors and no carpets, and the stairs creaked. The first evening Margaret had prepared a small dinner party and had invited Abel, a male friend to join us. He could speak English which was fortunate since I had no knowledge of Dutch. I had a feeling that Margaret might be trying to match make. Abel was a studious type but there was something shifty about him. I didn’t think we had anything in common. But Margaret had the next day all planned out. We were all going on a rowing trip on one of the reclaimed lakes. She and Pieter often spent their weekends there. I welcomed the opportunity to see a bit more of the Dutch countryside but worried about spending it with Abel.
The lake was a fair distance from Utrecht. Since we were to set off early in the morning, it made sense for Abel to stay the night. Margaret and Pieter often had guests to stay and there was plenty of room. I’d had a long journey by boat and train, and after an evening of food and drink, I was more than ready to turn in early. I fell asleep almost immediately.
In the middle of the night, I heard the stairs creaking. The attic door opened, and someone came into my room, walked over to my bed, leaned over, and touched my neck. I lay there frozen, just like last time. No sooner had they left the room than I was able to open my eyes.
‘I am in an unfamiliar house,’ I rationalized, ‘in a foreign country. Margaret and I haven’t seen each other in years. Being under the same roof as her must have triggered something in my brain. It was just another false positive, as Alan would say. My brain was playing tricks with me again. There had been no one there. I dismissed any fears I had and promptly fell asleep.
Next morning we were going to set off for the lake straight after breakfast. Margaret had made up a picnic basket full of lovely Dutch cheeses and local beers. I had slept well and was looking forward to the day.
‘Where’s Abel?’ I asked. ‘I thought he was coming with us.’
Margaret looked at me sheepishly.
‘I’m afraid we’ve had to put him off,’ she said. ‘I caught him snooping around in your bedroom last night while you were asleep. I heard him going up the stairs. When I went up to check, he was going through your belongings. I kicked him out. We won’t be seeing him again. You were sleeping so soundly; I didn’t want to wake you.
About the author
Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poetry, memoir and family history. Her stories are on Cafelit. Her collection 'Keepsake and Other Stories,' published by Bridge House, 2018, is available on Amazon. 'Witches, Quakers and Nonconformists,' 2022, is sold at the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford. 'Butterflies and Other Stories' is out now.
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