Believe it or not, they fly.

It’s hard to get a good night’s sleep when you need it, and even harder if you’re interrupted. “Super frustrating and stressful.”

Not sleeping well has always affected my mood and lowered my tolerance; it turns me into an unbearable person, especially in the mornings—someone who doesn’t even want anyone to talk to me. “I get all mixed up, and I wake up hating the world.”

On top of that, I’ve always been a nonbeliever—someone who doesn’t give credence to what I can’t see or feel. “Believe in witches, goblins, and fairies? Not me—and certainly not in ghosts."

Despite everything I’ve seen and experienced, I admit that I still have my reservations and refuse to change my mind; I’m not someone who gets scared or is easily convinced. “No way—you shouldn’t be afraid of the dead; you should be afraid of the living.”

I remember that as a child I used to enjoy well-told stories. “Who doesn’t, right?” Especially the ones about suspense and horror—and even more so when the storyteller added a special touch of drama. “My Uncle Frank’s specialty.”

The truth is, even though I was a huge fan of those stories, I never actually believed in their existence. No, of course not; quite the opposite, actually: I loved something else—the fear reflected in the other listeners’ faces. “Perhaps it was a reflection of a sadistic streak, even though I was just a kid.” The look on my cousin Martha’s face was indescribable.

Over time, some things changed and others remained the same. Today I can say with certainty, “When they fly, they fly”—I know this from experience, though I admit I still don’t fear those things. A special gift? No, not at all; it’s more like consciously driving a car without brakes or, perhaps, raising alligators. “You’ll understand why.”

It’s been more than fifteen years since this event took place… a story I’ve rarely told.

The night it all began, I remember coming home very tired after a stressful day at work. My partner at the time welcomed me as she always did: with dinner prepared and ready to eat. “Sautéed vegetables with chicken—how could I forget?” After dinner, we chatted for a while, just like any normal couple does; we talked about simple, yet important, things related to our home.

Before going to bed that night, I took a shower and decided not to turn on the TV. “I was dying to get some rest.” I turned the air conditioner up to the maximum and hugged Erika. “We used to sleep like this.” I know it didn’t take long for me to fall asleep, but ironically, that’s when my ordeal began: a sudden power outage cut off electricity throughout the entire house.

“Honey, please wake up,” she called to me.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I replied.

“The power’s out. I think it’s just here. I know you’re tired, but please check it out,” she asked.

“Without meaning to, I got up.” I left the room and, after confirming that the problem was limited to our house, headed to the circuit breaker panel with a flashlight in hand. I noticed that the main breaker had tripped. I checked several wires and, after verifying that there were no signs of a short circuit, I flipped the breaker back on: the power came back on instantly. I went back to the bedroom and lay down again; this time I didn’t hug Erika—I just turned toward the window.

The clock struck 4:00 a.m., and a sound woke me up. At the window, a repetitive “tick, tick” sounded right next to my head; the interval between each repetition was 30 seconds. “What a nuisance,” I thought, unable to fall back asleep. “Who told me to sleep next to the window?” I wondered. At 5:00 a.m., the sound stopped. “Too bad for me—it was already time to get up.”

The next day felt like déjà vu from the day before. A difficult workday, the same stress, and the result: overwhelming exhaustion. Coincidentally, the power went out at the exact same time, but the worst part was that blessed sound. Again, from 4:00 to 5:00 in the morning. “This is getting out of hand,” I said in frustration.

Exactly like that—it happened the same way on the next two days: the same pattern, the same routine, as if I were watching a movie on repeat. “No chance to recharge: my tired body just kept going while my mind was shut off.” Without a doubt, during those days I was hating the world; I didn’t want to talk or have anyone talk to me. “I felt frustrated and furious.”

“You really don’t hear it?” I asked Erika after waking her up on the fifth night.

“No, my love. There’s nothing—I don’t hear anything.”

“No? What do you mean, no? Are you deaf or something? Look, there it is again,” I replied.

“Just go to sleep, my love. Let me sleep—I’m so tired,” she told me.

“I’m not crazy,” I thought, and made a firm decision: “This ends today. I’ve put up with this long enough… whatever you are, you’ll see who’s who.”

As soon as I got up, the first thing I did was look for an old baseball bat I had stashed away, and I immediately headed for the front door. I looked through the peephole before opening it: I didn’t see anything or anyone. “I’m going out anyway,” I thought.

When I opened the door, the scene changed—she was right there, waiting for me. “Anyone would have peed themselves on the spot.” Her terrifying appearance made my skin crawl. “Why deny it?” She was wearing a floor-length white dress, and her hair—darker than the night—covered her face. “It was so long, it almost touched the floor.” Her red eyes burned like flames beneath that dark hair. “Just like in Uncle Frank’s stories.”

She raised her hand and pointed directly at me, signaling that she was coming for me; her long, sharp nails looked very menacing. “Yeah, enough to scare the living daylights out of anyone—but not me; I was too stubborn.”

I gripped the bat tightly and held it with both hands: ready to fight. “The car with no brakes, heading straight for a concrete wall.” Without hesitation, I swung with all my might and struck… That’s all I remember before I passed out and fell to the floor.

—“Crash!”—The sound of the porcelain flowerpot shattering woke Erika.

She found me by the entrance, unconscious, pale, and weak, next to that porcelain flowerpot that lay shattered after that blow. “I know I saw her—she was very real; that’s not something I made up—I don’t suffer from paranoia”… As for that woman in the white dress, after such a powerful swing, it didn’t even occur to her to come back.

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- The original story was written in Spanish, my native language, and translated into English for Dream Steem using DeepL.com (free version).

- Royalty-free image generated with Gemini.

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