The dreams started long before anything happened.
The dreams seemed so real. So real when I would wake up in my bed, heart slamming in my chest, I had to remind myself that it had not happened.
The first dream that truly scared me was in my basement bedroom. In my dream, I stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by my things and familiarity. When all of a sudden, I felt this dread grow like a seed from the pit of my stomach. I could feel myself start to panic, even though I could not see anything out of the normal. My chest felt tight and this sense of doom started filling the room. I found myself staring at the door of my bedroom, and despite not seeing anyone there, it felt like there was someone else in the room. It felt angry, and rage-filled. Full of hatred and disgust.
I felt this voice start drilling into my skull. Loud, and violent. Every word was like a knife slash through the fog.
“I HATE YOU.”
“GET OUT.”
“I WILL KILL YOU.”
I started scanning the air trying to find the voice. But it was like it was coming from the doorway. as if she was standing there screaming, feeling the vibration and strength of the woman’s voice.
I couldn’t see her. I started spinning, trying to see if there was anyone in the room, while the voice got more loud, and more violent. Every word was dripping in pure acid, bubbling over from this invisible force.
“I HATE Y”-
Then I woke up.
From then, that’s when the stranger things began to happen.
A knock on the door late at night, but nobody there to answer it.
A breeze when the windows are shut.
But it was more than that.
The basement became… dark. Not as if the lights wouldn’t turn on, but…heavy. The air seemed smogged with something no one could quite put their finger on. Friends that would come over never seemed quite settled, no matter how many drinks I could offer or snacks I could prepare. I tried to make it more homey- a lit candle on the coffee table, fuzzy blankets for the couch, and photographs on the walls. But nothing worked. The sense of dread was painted on the walls.
My sister stopped going down alone at night. And at first couldn’t really say why.
When we started seeing shadows darting across the basement from the stairs, she began sleeping in my bed with me.
The shadows would scurry around, and duck around objects. Little dark figures running and disappearing into closets and doorways. Sometimes, when looking into a dark room, it seemed as if there was something looking back at you. A figure. A shadow. Something blacker then the darkness around it - just enough you can see an outline of something you wish wasn’t there.
The dreams continued. I woke up one night, frantically being shook awake by my partner at the time.
“It sounded like you were choking.” As he hugged me tight.
I didn’t want to tell him that in my dreams, the woman- this invisible force had him by the throat, choking the life out of him while I couldn’t do anything but scream. That was, until it felt like the darkness in my dream turned its sights to me. Just as I woke up, I could feel this snake like-force begin to wrap around my neck.
I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I was going to be stuck with this darkness forever. Like this smog in the air was beginning to be too much, and I couldn’t breathe.
Until my final dream.
The women wore a short, cream coloured slip, withered and worn. It hung loosely off of her as she stood. There was a large hole ripped in the fabric with dirt staining every stitch. Splattered across her face was long black, knotted matts of hair, entangled and wet, pulling her head down.
Her skin was a grey-blue colour, visibility rotting of the bones of her arms and legs.
She stood there, legs bent unnaturally as if they had been terribly broken, caked with dirt and blood and death.
Then she started screaming at me.
“SARAH, MY NAME IS SARAH.”
Even in my dreams I felt my breath hitch.
“SARAH.”
I felt this pressure in my chest. Sarah.
She screamed again.
“MY NAME IS SARAH.”
Her voice was loud, filled with rage. Sarah.
I could begin to feel myself panic. I wanted to turn away, not look at her. But I couldn’t.
Sarah.
Just as the woman reached out for me, I woke up. I opened my eyes and starred at the ceiling.
Sarah.
I was terrified, I felt my heart slamming in my chest. But I only had one thing on my mind after that. Every time I closed by eyes, the only thing I saw was the name Sarah. I heard it. I felt it. It was like it was tattooed on the inside of my eyelids. Sarah.
Sarah. Sarah. Sarah.
Sarah.
Some time later, I was doing a project for class when it lead me to the archives of the history of our little town. I skimmed through pages upon things I knew, some things I didn’t. Looking for a photograph of an old house on Main Street. Going through the research, I came across an old story which caught my eye.
I scrolled down, reading the article, holding my breath.
That’s when I saw it.
My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach.
I felt hot.
I had goosebumps go over my entire body.
There was a drawing of a women from the story, a respectable man’s daughter who married the town doctor.
In the drawing of the woman, she was wearing a green dress, with a white collar. However it wasn’t the dress that grabbed my attention. I first noticed the long, messy black hair that fell down her back. Her face an expression of distance, cold.
Recognizable.
Her eyes stared back at mine through the screen. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t believe it, until I saw her name below.
Sarah King.
I was looking at the woman from my dreams.
I read the story. I looked at maps. I traced old land registries. And the same drawing of Sarah King kept popping up. The woman from my dreams.
After being fed lie after lie, Sarah King was murdered by her husband, the town doctor in 1858.
In efforts to uncover the result of her death, Sarah was truly laid to rest only after being examined several times, re-burying her each time.
Justice was served when the town Doctor was executed, the County’s one and only recorded execution to this date.
After this, I found myself standing in the basement.
Nervous, I looked around and said out loud,
“Sarah?”
The basement still felt the same, dark, trapped. I started speaking to her.
I told her I knew who she was.
I knew her story.
And I told her,
“I’m sorry for what happened to you.”
…
From then, things changed. Things started to lift.
Light seemed to start to trickle in from invisible cracks in the walls, the fog seemed to dissipate. The basement didn’t seem like a dark place anymore. The candle burning glowed this warm light, and friends sat down with love and laughter. The room began to be filled with relaxation and calm.
I haven’t had a dream about Sarah since. But I know she’s around. But this time, it’s not scary. It’s … familiar. It’s comfortable. I still speak with her, tell her silly things like “Merry Christmas”, while I string up soft Christmas lights or tell her when my boyfriend is coming over, and to not be afraid.
I have never told anyone this story before. I find myself almost protective of Sarah. I tell her everything is okay, that I'm okay. And when I'm not, I tell her that too.
These days, she’s more like a friend. My friend Sarah.