16 Nov I’ve Started Sleepwalking

Posted at 11:00h in Strange and Unexplained by CreepypastaStories.com 0 Comments

📅 Published on November 16, 2021

“I’ve Started Sleepwalking”

Written by David Feuling
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 7 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 2 votes.

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When I first started sleepwalking, my wife mostly found it funny. She stays up much later than I do in the evenings. Apparently, I’ve started finding my way to her home office just down the hall from our bedroom. If I can even remember these encounters at all, then it’s only ever in hazy snippets. “You flirt with me!” she insisted. I didn’t like to hear this because, to me, it was someone else inside my body. From my perspective, something weird and embarrassing was happening to us both on these nights.

“What do I say?” I asked her.

“It’s just gibberish,” she answered, then laughed. “But your body language is definitely like you’re trying to be really smooth. You’re trying to talk me up.”

“If it happens again,” I insisted, “Please wake me or take me back to bed.”

“Babe, I promise it’s okay,” my wife smiled. “It’s cute, and it’s harmless.” She wouldn’t feel this way for long.

I tried home remedies at first. I maintained good sleep hygiene and abstained from alcohol. Nothing worked, though, and so I became frustrated. It got bad enough that I started using the terrycloth sash from my bathrobe to tie myself to our bed frame. It sounds silly, but it worked – at least for a while.

I’d double-knot the sash around my right ankle. The other end was wrapped securely around the leg of the metal bedpost. If I tried to leave the mattress, I’d have to carefully undo the knots to free myself. That was fine because I’d wake up as my brain struggled to find the knot’s weak spot.

Things became disturbing when my sleepwalking body discovered a new way to get free. I can only remember the end of the event. My wife’s fearful face broke through the reverie, and I felt a sense of deep shame. That’s what woke me up.

She says that I tried to “flirt” with her again, but this time I was carrying scissors in my hand. I’d cornered her in her office, and she could do nothing but pray I decided to leave her alone. I didn’t seem aware I was holding anything. When her fearful expression stirred me awake, we returned to the bedroom, and it became clear what had happened.

“You rolled out of bed and onto the floor,” my wife whispered with some astonishment. “You were still connected by your ankle.” She pointed at the severed robe sash trailing from the bedframe’s leg. “You must have reached into my sewing dresser, searched through it, and found scissors to cut yourself free.” Indeed, around my ankle remained the other knotted half of the robe sash.

My wife and I talked earnestly about our concerns the next day.

“I hate that I do it,” I told her. “Can’t you please just shake me awake as soon as I bother you?”

“You were carrying scissors!” she exclaimed. “Anything might have happened! Haven’t you heard about never trying to wake a sleepwalker? What if you had become violent?”

“I know,” I said. I felt intensely guilty. “I’ve heard that before, too. But look – I woke up randomly last night, and nothing bad happened. It’s the same as when I try to untie my ankle. I never lashed out. I think you should wake me. The dangerous part is when I’m still asleep!”

“I’ll try it,” she finally agreed. “But please make an appointment with a doctor right now.”

“I will,” I nodded. She was right. The home remedies clearly weren’t enough. I made an appointment with a sleep clinic for the soonest possible date. It was two weeks away. We moved all sharp objects out of reach from the bed, and I bought a new piece of fabric to restrain my ankle as we’d done before. I hoped it would be enough until my appointment arrived.

The worst part of sleepwalking is that I genuinely don’t remember anything until my mind starts to awaken. Sometimes this occurs in response to a stimulus, and sometimes it doesn’t happen at all. Each episode usually results in a vague but humiliating memory of my wife either laughing at me or looking very afraid. Sometimes I don’t remember anything at all. My only clue is when someone tells me, or I notice something has changed.

On the night before my sleep clinic appointment, I went to bed and woke up feeling completely normal. There were no new memories. Abruptly, I realized that I’d gone to bed in pajamas but was now wearing only underwear. When I inspected my body, I found several deep bruises on my arms. There was also a bad friction burn on my ankle. Something serious just happened.

It was early on a Sunday morning, so I sat alone and worried while I waited for my wife to wake up naturally. I didn’t want to disturb her rest any more than I already had. I felt an awful sort of trepidation. I badly wanted to ask, “What happened?” but I was also dreadfully afraid to actually know it.

When my wife finally awoke, she seemed very strangely shy. She wasn’t angry, but she also didn’t want to talk to me at all. “Please, honey,” I implored her. “I need to know. Was it worse than usual? How did I get my ankle free from the bed?”

“You don’t remember anything?” she asked tentatively. There was real fear in her eyes now, and I hated myself for giving her that feeling. “Usually, you at least remember how it ends.”

“I’m so sorry.” I felt tears welling in my eyes. “I didn’t even know anything happened until I realized my pajamas were gone.”

“Well, if you really don’t remember, then I don’t want to talk about it at all. Let’s just both forget it entirely.” She wouldn’t budge, and the tension between us lasted all day. “I’m just glad you’re going to the clinic.” That was the only thing my wife would say to me. She’d repeat it whenever I tried to engage her.

It was an overnight stay at the sleep clinic. They prepared a cozy and safely furnished bedroom from which to monitor me. In addition to tracking my vitals, there would also be a video recording for us to review in the morning. Behind a one-way mirror, a sole technician would watch to ensure that I didn’t hurt myself or do anything dangerous.

I awoke the next morning with only one faint, new memory. I remember standing in front of the one-way mirror and tracking the dim shape of a person behind the glass with my eyes. The technician confirmed that I watched him carefully and shifted my gaze whenever he moved. My memory of that only lasted a few seconds, but the video showed there was much more to it.

The footage showed everything. I sat up in my bed around midnight, then worked dutifully at the knot around my ankle. It sometimes takes me about forty-five seconds to untie myself when I’m already awake, but that night I stared and worked blindly at it for more than thirteen minutes. With patient, random tugs at the outside of the knot, I set myself free.

Now standing, I walked directly to the one-way mirror. I got close enough that I was nearly pressing my nose against it. That’s when I began tracking the technician with my eyes as the faint shadow of his body moved behind the tinted glass.

I stood and stared for three and a half hours, then returned to bed. I only spoke at the end. Just before I swayed to turn my back on the technician, I spoke a few lines of gibberish. After that, I started humming loudly. The tune was “Just the Two of Us” – that old song from the eighties. The camera caught my face twisting itself into a very sinister smile as I did so. As I lowered myself back into the bed, I called out loudly. “Just…so…lucky I can’t get you.”

What the fuck? I’ve never threatened anyone in my life. I’m terrible at even pretending to be intimidating when I’m awake. Now I’m staring down strangers and meditating on how they’ve been left alone with me? Why would I say that my forced isolation was “lucky” for the technician? What the hell was I planning?

The doctors wrote me a prescription that really helped, and I honestly thought that was the end of my story. I took one pill at the end of each evening, and they never failed to put me into a deep and uneventful sleep. There were no more weird nights or awkward discoveries in the morning. My wife even started to trust me the way she used to. She’d laugh and grin when we talked again. It was such a relief. We’d had a rough patch, but now it seemed to be behind us.

“Maybe we should crack a few beers, hon,” my wife told me as we sat down to dinner last night. “Or, we could open a bottle of wine?” Her friendly smile made my heart feel safe. “No more sleepwalking means we can enjoy a few drinks together again!” My wife shot me a playful look and grabbed a corkscrew. It was true. I’d missed drinking a bit.

I agreed, and we drank and laughed while eating our meal. It was a lovely evening, but my tolerance for alcohol was low. I’d accidentally gotten myself drunk by the end of the night. Around 10 p.m. I collapsed onto our bed, completely forgetting to take my pill and tie my ankle to the bedframe.

* * * * * *

I awoke this morning with no new memories. The only clues that I’ve been sleepwalking are the things that have changed. My wife isn’t in bed beside me. I search my mind, but find absolutely no clues. Last night was a perfect blackout. Looking down, I see the crimson fingernail scratches all over my arms and chest. I touch my face and find more deep abrasions there, too. My neck is bleeding slightly, and there’s an aching tenderness in my right eye. I must have been struck hard in the face at least once. Someone was struggling to make me let go of them, and that struggle seems to have lasted for a long while before it ended. It’s 7 a.m., and my wife isn’t asleep in the bed next to me.

In the back of my head is a feeling that I can almost taste in my mouth. A sour flood of terror and shame runs a circuit through my whole body. I realize that whatever I did is already done. There’s no stopping it, and no taking it back. That awful sort of trepidation returns. I want to ask, “What happened?” but I’m also dreadfully afraid to actually know. The only words I can think of now are: “Oh my God, what did I do?”

This time though, I think I can guess. I’ve shouted her name several times – loud enough that anyone in the house should be able to hear it. I’m too paralyzed by fear to open the door and leave the bedroom. Every second before the terrible answer becomes one more second of blissful ignorance.

Please God, tell me I’m still dreaming.