A Dream Has Power To Poison Sleep

As a child, my parents always tucked me in, read me a story, sang "I See the Moon,” and helped me recite my prayers before retiring to bed. I had to have all of my stuffed animals with me lined up one by one, Kimberly the mouse, Murdoch the kitty, King Kong the monkey, and Susie Katie, the bald baby. The shades had to be drawn so the Boogie Man could not see in my room; a night light on so if he did decide to come I could see him and scream for help. My closet was kept closed so he would be able to enter my room from there; and I would not even knowingly let my legs out of the covers. For if they slipped one little bit he would see them and try to eat me.

As the first memories of one’s life are blurred by age, I assume, because I deem that night as my first vivid memory, that these ceremonial bed habits immediately trailed the dream.

I was three years young, my parents and I were living in a two-story log cabin on the outskirts of Grifton, North Carolina. I’m sure it was a normal night much like any other. I ate my usual mayonnaise sandwich for supper, Mom gave me a bath, Dad and I watched the A-Team, and hit the sack. Nothing special had occurred until the wee hours of the morning.

Lying directly in the middle of my bed enclosed by the Dutch Girl quilt my nana had made me. I opened my eyes only to find that the shade for the window facing my right side had drawn up. I remembered how hard they were to pull down so I disregarded it. I prayed to the man in the moon that the Boogie Man would be harassing some other kid that night and ignore my naked window. Slowly I drifted off to sleep. A few moments pass, I opened my eyes yet again to find the same incident had occurred with the window shade that faced my bed. At this point, I was scared stiff. I was thinking to myself, “There is NO WAY that the Boogie Man is going to be able to ignore not one…but, TWO exposed windows peering directly into my room!” He must have heard me. In the next instant, I saw WITH MY OWN EYES, a tall, dark, and bald figure enter my room from the door. He halted at the foot of my bed and turned to face me. Then, with an uncanny gentleness, he elevated my quilt and scratched my legs with his razor-sharp fingernails never making a sound.

I awoke especially early the next morning anxious to tell my mom about the dream. I remember telling every detail with her crouched down clutching my hands as I stared at her red acrylic fingernails. She simply replied, “It was me.” Even at three years old I was smart. I knew that my mommy loved me and she would never do that, after all, he was bald and she had pouffy blonde hair. I made my mom take the quilt off my bed because it “has monsters in it.” Then, I am sure, is when my nightly ceremony was born.

Several years passed. I was in the fourth grade and we had relocated to Carolina Beach. I was still refusing to sleep under the quilt, and I required the same bedroom agenda—minus a few stories. I was talking with my mother around that time about dreams and I told her about my dream. She was shocked that not only had I remembered every detail, right down to the color of her polish, but after five years my story had not changed. Hers had; of course, she did not come into my room that night. When I questioned her about her response she replied, “What are you supposed to tell a three-year-old? I don’t know who came in your room…some strange monster.”

Suspicions were indeed raised. We have dabbled with the idea of maybe me being abducted (that would explain a lot J or it simply being the figment of a young imaginative mind. Either way, I still refuse to sleep under the quilt, all of the windows have to be covered, and I cannot have my legs knowingly exposed. Who knows next time he could be hungry.