When she was a child and saw people who sat in her room, she used to call her mum. She was painfully shy and avoided strangers as much as she could. It was torture when strange ladies admired her hair, came up to her and touched it. Naturally, she objected to having people in her bedroom that she did not know. Her mother came and told her that she he just had a nightmare and should go back to sleep, but the thing was that she had never had a nightmare before this happened, because she had not yet gone to sleep.
She was astonished that her mother could not see the men who were sitting on the small chairs at the table in her room. Why was she the only one seeing them? She could only hear that the men were talking, but she was not able to make out any words, so she did not know if they were talking about her. Within a few years she had stopped seeing strange people in her bedroom, and at more or less that precise moment in time she became unhappy. Almost depressed. She stopped being herself; she did not know how any more. Every once in a while she gave those people in her room a thought but no more than that.
Many, many years later, when she was already an adult, she had a dream. It was not a nightmare this time either, but a dream almost like other dreams. There was a woman with her in the flat – it felt like her grandmother but she could not see her – and this woman was teaching her something. They were watching people on the landing.
”But how do I know which ones are alive and which ones are dead?” I asked the lady.
”The dead ones are somewhat translucent”, the woman who seemed like her grandmother replied.
And she thought about those translucent people she had had in her bedroom many years ago and could not stop wondering what they had wanted and what had happened if her mother had not been so adamant that no one was there.
Inspired by The Daily Post: Nightmare