First Encounters

Not Flying Monkeys

When I was little, I’d often wake up in the middle of the night. I’d look around in the darkness, and for a while, I kept seeing eyes outside my bedroom window—glowing eyes. My memory tells me they were red, but what I know for sure is that they glowed. I’d freeze in fright, and when I could muster it up, I’d scream and cry out for my mom and dad. They’d come running down the hall to me, and every time, they’d tell me it was just a dream—that there was nothing there. They’d console me with hugs and kisses and perhaps a sip of water, and then they’d put me back to bed.

Multiple nights a week, this would happen, and my parents couldn’t figure out why. My mom decided to blame my dad for letting me watch The Wizard of Oz—she told everyone those flying monkeys had scared the crap out of me. And sure, they were creepy as hell—but that wasn’t it. This was not flying monkeys. This was different.

Sometimes the eyes were outside the window, and sometimes they were inside. When they were outside, it was especially strange because my room was on the second floor. The eyes outside came with odd noises—a kind of squealing and scratching. I remember once telling my mom that it was a pig with glowing red eyes.

When the eyes were inside the room, they were part of a dark figure—a person-shaped shadow, almost solid black. It just stood there, looking at me. It felt heavy. Icky. I was probably four at the time. I had just begun sharing my room with my baby brother, who was still an infant. My parents must’ve thought I was fussing for attention, but I wasn’t. It was real. It was terrifying. I’d try to hide, but usually, I ended up screaming for my parents or running straight to their room.

This went on for a few months, and then it stopped. But not forever.