It only happens once or twice a year. And every time it gets worse.
I go to bed, like normal, sleep in and wake up in the middle of our hometown main street. No cars. No people. Except my father and our dogs.
He walks 100 meters in front of me and I already know what’s happening. I turn around and maybe 300 meters away from me there it stands. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know why me. I only know that it wants to hurt me. I’ve got no clue why I know that, it’s just a huge feeling of dread completely surrounding me. Fear.
I turn around and try to call out to my Dad, but he won’t hear me, he never does, but I scream anyway. I run to him, he turns into our driveway, the sight to it is blocked off by a house, I can’t see him anymore. I turn around, only 100 meters. It is walking like… I honestly don’t know… a puppet maybe? The legs crossed while walking, like a grotesque catwalk. The arms are up in the air, but like a scarecrow pointing away from the body, dangling in the air. I’m still trying to figure out what his head is. Is it a giant marshmallow or something else?
Anyway, it got two large X’es as eyes but it seems like the color is running down. Its mouth is weird, as if someone cried while drawing it and didn’t see it correctly. Weird lines, one side goes up to the eyes, one stay relatively low. It wears a cargo shirt, like old men do. (Or like my father, who isn’t really that old). Its arms are made of wood, the weird head is connected to the shoulders, not like a mask or something, but it is… it’s ACTUAL HEAD. The pants are regular blue jeans, I never looked at the feet though. But I don’t know, I feel like brown leather shoes or something, honestly I just know it.
I run after my father and turn into the driveway. Dad is nowhere to be seen. I try to get my key, but it takes a while because I am in panic. I run up to the door and see my Dad, the dogs are gone. He has this weird look on his eyes… glassy, like dead. But he is standing, staring with those eyes behind me. I turn around. 20 Meters. I try to unlock the door, look over the shoulder. 5 meters. I unlock the door, run in and try to slam it shut. A wooden hand with strings attached to it goes between. I push the door as hard as I can, the hand pulls away. I run up the stairs, feeling guilty for having left my father with that thing, but it’s only after me anyway. This nightmare, was the edition of June. Two nights before my birthday. And every time it gets worse. When I was ten, it barely got to the driveway. Now, 7 years later, it got a hand between the door. Next time… it will kill me. I won’t always be lucky, I guess.
