The sitting-boy in my bedroom
In his column this week, Gerard Smith recalls a bit of a ghostly encounter...
I’ll never forget the moment I saw him. I was home alone: Winter, night time. The range radiated a fierce heat having recently been refuelled with a cocktail of coal and briquette. Despite the heat, a sense of foreboding chilled me to the bone. The curtains were open revealing the inky-blackness of the November night outside. Then there came a smoky mist, which seemed to carry a shape. My skin prickled as the mist cleared, revealing a boy of my age, floating outside the window. His face was deathly pale and his eyes glowed in the dark. He tip-tapped at the window, and said with a sinister grin, “Let me in!”
That was it – I jumped up, dived at the television, switched it off, and slumped down shivering in a cold sweat. That scene was from the TV adaption of Stephen King’s novel Salem’s Lot, it terrified me. In fact, I know many of my generation who are still traumatised by the ‘floating vampire kid’ scene in the now iconic series that first aired in 1979.
The above is spooky fiction, but I have my own spooky fact that first happened not long after I watched Salem’s Lot. It was Sunday night and sleep eluded me. Dad’s gentle snoring rattled the night; I yearned for the luxury of his deep-sleep. I began counting sheep.
I stopped when my door opened. I lifted my head and whispered, “Mam, is it you?” When there came no reply, I drew the blankets up around my chin. Knowing my parents were in their bedroom was cold comfort; I shivered and began sweating.
I turned onto my back, stretched out my legs and jolted – someone was in my bedroom. I lay on my back, embalmed by bedsheets. Then rationale swept over me, I threw back the blankets and a shock of cold air hit me as I darted for the door. I closed it, put the lock into its latch, and dived back into bed – secure once more.
I furled into the foetal position hoping for hibernation. But no, Sunday night pre-school-anxiety kept me awake. And something else kept me alert, a presence.
Something lurked, I sensed someone. And with this sense came a feeling, a thing I’d never felt in my bedroom before: fear. It crept up on me, a tingle in my toes travelled up my legs, sparked in my stomach, and shot to my heart igniting fearful beats that boomed. I buried my head in my chest and clasped my hands over my ears, but this increased the incessant: boom, boom, boom, of my beating heart.
The reason in me spoke, ‘Stop being stupid.’ I eased a little, turned onto my back and unfurled my legs, stretching them to the end of the bed. And with this the fear exploded rendering me inert – someone was sitting on my bed.
I no longer sensed a presence, I physically felt it. A weight pulled the blankets tight around my legs, trapping me. I couldn’t move, nor talk. I wanted to shout out, but couldn’t. My hand instinctively made it to the crucifix around my neck, hoping its touch would give me clarity and comfort. When it sat at my shoulders, I was soaked in sweat and silent prayer. These visitations occurred once a month, always on a Sunday before school.
Work and London-life consumed me; I forgot about my nocturnal visitor. Until my dear sister Maria, brought him back to me. She was visiting Cavan and I phoned home, “How’s Mam and Dad?” I asked. “They’re good.” She paused, then said, “I’m staying in your room; don’t think I’m stupid, but last night something sat on the bed, I’ve not slept all night.” My blood ran cold. Shamefully, I didn’t share my experience, wanting to protect her and not scare here further.
Years later I did share my experience with her, and in turn we told Dad. He too had the visits, and with his knowing pragmatism told us it was Mam’s brother Patsy, who died of tuberculosis in my bedroom. I’ve written about this before, but what prompted this column was my finding a photo of Patsy.
Did uncle Patsy’s spirit visit me? Maybe, or maybe my mind made it up? But when I look at the shy boy smiling sweetly while on the cusp of death in the Cavan Sanatorium; I’m hit with a wave of melancholy, and I want to believe he did. Yet, I feel sad that Patsy the ‘sitting-boy’ from Cavan scared me so. But it wasn’t his fault, I blame the ‘floating-boy’ from Salem’s Lot for that.
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