Cliff Barlow

I have had sleep paralysis since I was an early teen. It is such a terrifying experience! Words can’t do it justice. Anybody that has suffered from it can attest to this.

A woman named Molly Wilde, stuffed an infant into an oven after she couldn’t handle the colicky baby’s cries anymore. The boy was discovered when a neighbor drunkenly knocked on the door to inquire about the smell of the amazing roast wafting from next door.

“Find them buried in the backyard. Immortality awaits us.”

“Um… Okay… Why is it chained up?”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Of course you don’t. You wanted a miracle and you got it.”

I could see a figure standing near the window. He was facing me. I stared back for a moment, and not knowing what else to do, I eventually waved. There was no response. No movement. Nothing.

When I was a teen, I was really into sports. Growing up in Wisconsin, the Green Bay Packers were like a second religion to me with Brett Favre as my lord and savior.

“I think I’m going to call the cops. I’m really starting to freak out.”

As I entered the kitchen, I stopped in my tracks. Something was amiss.

I was sitting in my bed at 2:00 AM, morose and contemplating my station in life, when, big surprise, the shouting started.

“I was perfect. I was a gentleman to you, to all women.”

“Are you in pain?” Yes.

“Listen man. I get paid Tuesday,” I lied. “You give me that bag, and I’ll pay you double.”

“Are these two lovely children yours?” I asked. “Something like that,” he replied.

“Meet me at our special place. Don’t be late.” #creepy

I slowly inched my way toward the closed closet door. I opened it. Blackness greeted me. With my free hand I pulled at the string to turn on the closet light.

I was very much looking forward to a week all to myself. My own private vacation.

This shack was ancient and decrepit. It must have been abandoned for at least the better part of a century, maybe even more.