When I was a little boy, I told my mother that a statue stood at the foot of my bed while I tried to fall asleep. My mother looked down at me, and I saw something in her eyes— a glimmer— an emotion usually reserved for the eyes of a child and I felt as if I was looking into a mirror. It was the indignity of fear; an unholy truth that all mothers and fathers are not allowed to show in front of their children. But I knew she felt it.
My mother looked down at me; her eyes blinked spasmodically, without courage. “A statue?” She asked, “There’s a statue that sits at the foot of your bed?” She was whispering. And when I still had the mind of a little boy, I believed my mother whispered because she didn’t want to wake my little sister who slept only a few steps down the hall. But I realized while standing here, that my sister had nothing to do with the tone of my mother’s soft-spoken whispers.
“Yes, mommy,” I replied, whispering as well. And I looked over her shoulder where the looming figure seemed to assimilate out of the shadows the moonlight cast through my window. It wasn’t there, not yet. She looked over her shoulder, and I felt her hand throbbing as it remained on my arm.
“It’s just a dream, sweety. You’re just starting to dream. Don’t worry. Some people call them night terrors. They’re not real, Sammy. They’re not real. The next time the statue is there, come and find your father and me. And we will come and make sure that there’s nothing in this room with you, alright?”
My mother kissed me on the cheek and said goodnight— but like clockwork, I heard the stone rumble across the floor of my room towards its post at the foot of my bed. I couldn’t help but look over the blanket and find my statue waiting. It was looking at me. But statues can’t see, right? Even at age seven, I realized the lunacy in what I was witnessing. And I feared deep down that perhaps my brain wasn’t working properly; maybe I was a schizophrenic, a boy that should be sleeping somewhere where the walls were made of foam rather than wood and plaster. And after that first night— the night I told my mother about the statue, and its nightly visits, I tried my best to ignore it.
It’s called sleep paralysis. I told my father that I was having trouble calling for him and my mother when I woke up at night. I told him that I couldn’t move my body, but I was still awake, and he told me that was the correct term for my condition. Sleep paralysis. I didn’t tell my father about the statue that was standing at the foot of my bed. I didn’t mention that the statue’s face appeared to be melting or transforming into something other than the stone that’d been revealed on the first night it slid out of the corner of my room. The top half of its face was skin now— more human than rock. The disease of stone, fading away each night I slept— the statue’s eyes, two pearly white orbs that cut through the darkness like luminescent moons. A pair of stars that weren’t part of any constellation that I’d ever heard of then or heard of since. The most terrifying realization that my nightly visitor was shedding like some mineral coated snake. I began to believe that the slide across my floorboards was turning into more of a slither— and those two white lights were that of a truck, waiting to shine a spotlight over my body so that whatever this creature wanted, it could at least get a better look. And all the while I couldn’t move a muscle— my father told me that he’d read somewhere that the best way to get out of sleep paralysis was to focus on moving something small.
“Start with a toe, Sammy.” He said, wiggling his own and making me giggle. I used to giggle a lot. I wish I was still able to. When we were done laughing, my mother called for us to get some dinner. We sat in silence beside the oohs and ahhs of my baby sister. I hoped my father wouldn’t tell my mother about my disease; I didn’t want her to worry about me. She had enough on her plate with the baby. I’d already worried her enough.
I woke up at the same time as usual. And as you may’ve guessed, I couldn’t move. But I remembered what my father had told me, and I tried to focus all my energy on moving my big toe. It’d worked a few nights before, and I was in the process of mastering regaining control of my body in the direst of circumstances. I focused all my effort on moving that big toe, and when it twitched, I heard what had woken me. It wasn’t the sliding of stone; it was something new. Something unexpected.
She was singing.
Yes, my statue turned out to be a girl. A girl who wasn’t much older than me. She sang to me from the foot of my bed— and I wanted to look into those glowing orbs— I wanted my fear to subside and to fall for her lullaby.
“Yes.” She stopped her singing and called to me like a friend, “You can move, Sammy.” It wasn’t strange that she knew my name— we’d been performing this nighttime dance for almost a year. “It’s all in your head, Sammy. You can move. You’re still made of skin, blood, and bone. You’re young and mobile. It’s brilliant.”
I liked the way she used the word ‘mobile.’ It made me believe she knew a lot for a girl her age. When she was done encouraging me, she kept singing a chant, or a hymn. Eventually my little toe began to move— the others soon followed and next thing I knew I was sitting up in bed and looking into those singing orbs.
“Hey there.” My statue said, like a friend. Her hair was dirty, but I finally noticed that there were curls in it. Her lips chapped and still full, and there were intricate concaved marks and grooves that aligned her large forehead and lower cheekbones. As if her flesh had been reverted from stone to its natural state. “I’m glad I can finally speak to you.” She said, “My name is Liza, but my friends used to call me Lizard … you know, when I still had friends.” She must’ve seen my alarmed face, “I know. I know. It’s a strange name, and this must be a very peculiar experience. It’s nice to finally introduce myself, it’s been too long. I’ve been stuck here for too long … and then you came along. You heard me moving. And now I can speak again.” She smiled, but I couldn’t see her teeth. Or Lizard’s tongue.
I tried my best to decipher the drabble that fell from what looked like scaley lips. It was the stone, or at least that’s what I believed back them. It dried out her features, and she was finally beginning to gain them back. Instead of responding to the new friend I’d made, I slunk out of bed and darted towards my mother and father’s room. I slept between them. They didn’t even bother trying to walk me back to my room. I tried my best to get some rest in the safest place a child’s brain can think of. But Lizard’s glowing orbs remained fresh within my mind. Every time I heard a scrape, or a creek, or a crack, I imagined those orbs getting closer to my parent’s bed.
Fortunately, she didn’t come into my parent’s bedroom that night. But when I woke up the next morning, I realized that my problem wasn’t going to end any time soon. When my parents found a pathway of scratching leading to the foot of my baby sister’s crib, it was revealed that I’d unintentionally served my baby sister up to the statue named Lizard. I knew I couldn’t leave my room ever again … it wouldn’t be right.
During the daytime, I longed to break free but realized that I was trapped inside of a situation that couldn’t be eluded. My mother and father simply wouldn’t listen, and with the new baby, they were too tired to deal with my statue anyway. I cried a lot. And my parents asked me why, but I didn’t say anything. I just kept my head down and waited for night to fall to take my punishment like a good little boy. My father was out, and my mother handed me my sister and asked if I could watch her for a minute while she used the potty. Of course I obliged, and when I did, I looked into my sister’s eyes and saw the universe. She was perfect, I didn’t even mind that the skin atop her head was scabbed, dry as a desert, and flaking over my wrists like pieces of chalky leather. My mother found me picking at it when she came back, “Hey, Sammy.” I looked up, almost embarrassed, but she held a smile so I knew I wouldn’t be in too much trouble. “Don’t pick Elizabeth’s skin.” I smiled.
“Ok, Momma. Sorry.”
Things escalated.
The clock struck seven, but it felt closer to eleven while my sister was being put to bed. I was trapped in a somnolent haze. A dreaded dreamworld I longed to wake from. I listened to my mother and father put her down— they sang to her— but then I heard a scrape coming from behind my bedroom door. I knew it was Lizard getting ready.
My parents came back downstairs, and they must’ve noticed my complexion. Maybe they noticed how fidgety and tremulous my movements were as I colored outside of the lines and brushed my teeth. They knew something was wrong, how could they have not? But I didn’t say anything, and they didn’t ask. Because sometimes when there’s a baby around— it takes away a family’s ability to stay in the moment. I don’t know how it was for you, but it always felt like I was pulling teeth whenever I told my parents about my problems in the months that followed my baby sister being born.
My parents sat on each side of me before kissing me goodnight.
“Honey?” My father finally said with some exigent tone.
“Is everything alright, Sammy?” My mother interjected, but she couldn’t help looking over her shoulder like she was expecting something to be there behind her. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that she’d begun hiding under my bed since it was only her feet that were still covered in the stone. I didn’t have the heart to tell them anything, and they said they loved me, and I told them that I loved them back, for the last time.
I tried hiding under the covers and plugging my ears as I did most nights. But it was no use because I could still feel Lizard’s cold gaze penetrating my bedsheets and blankets. I was having trouble breathing— it was hot in my fort of solitude, and before I could think any more about my options, I threw my blankets away and breathed in the cool air. At least I could move … at least I could still move then.
Lizard wasn’t standing at the foot of my bed. She hovered over me, parallel, and looking down. The milky white moons looked into my own eyes, and then a little bit of her drool fell into my mouth and tasted of dust and sand. I tried to scream, but I’d lost the ability to speak. This was a deeper night terror, a deeper sleep paralysis that I couldn’t quantify at such a young age. I’m not sure if I could do it now. When I placed my hand on my lips, I realized that they’d been sewn shut, but they weren’t sewn. They were smooth and hard like they’d never been open at all. And before I knew it, I was standing at the foot of another’s bed. The bed of a little girl. The bed of a statue.
Liza the Lizard can’t stop shaking because she heard me when I crept outside of her closet and stood at the foot of her bed. She’s around the same age as I was when I was taken, but I think she’s had a rougher life. I hear her parents fighting sometimes while I stand here, looking down at her trembling frame under the blanket. They fight about their son that was taken seven years ago. I wish I could tell them that their son is still alive— that he’s still here. And I wish that they didn’t ignore Liza when she told them about the statue that stood at the foot of her bed. My hair is already beginning to thaw, and I figure I’ll be able to tell them myself soon enough.