My Dad has a book of short tales called Stories from the Strand, which I read as a young boy. One story describes a man who survives an attempt to strangle him in his own bed. Upon waking he finds no one, nor any sign that an intruder has entered the house. When the attack is repeated a few nights later, the mystery is solved – he has been strangling himself with his own hand.
I’m mildly concerned I may meet a similar fate, as I’ve had some similar run-ins with my own limbs in the night. Like many people, I sometimes wake up to find my arm is dead from having been slept on. I used to have a good chuckle to myself, flapping the hand around, squeezing the rubbery, lifeless fingers. It is a bit more worrying now though. The other night I turned over in my sleep, and my dead arm flung out of bed. It smashed the coins, pens, glass of water and phone on my bedside table onto the floor. It was only the noise that woke me up – my hand didn’t feel a thing.
One time I did feel it. I woke to find I was holding my arm straight up towards the ceiling, dead fingers curled into a fist.
That’s strange, I thought.
As I watched, my arm began to sway slightly in the air. My efforts to steady it caused it to bend at the elbow, and it fell rapidly towards my face. I made a desperate attempt to dodge out the way, failed, and punched myself in the face.
What awaits me next? I live in fear of my limbs for, when the blood deserts them, the night is theirs and they roam unchecked.
Remember me, dear reader.