Creepy - Charles Bonnet Syndrome

Episode Date: June 24, 2019

Sometimes, your eyes lie...sometimes...***Credited to Mr. Stuff, with guest narration by Nate Dufort, Danielle Hewitt, and Owen McCuen***Check out Nightmare Cinema at crankedupfilms.com/NightmareCinema***New $5+ patrons at Patreon.com/Creepypod get a limited edition logo lapel pin on top of other rewards!***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin, Puzzle Audio***Title music by Alex Aldea***Artwork by Dakota Miller ***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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and disturbing creepy pastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or not simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents Charles Bonaise Syndrome. Credited to Mr. Stuff. With guest narration,

by Danielle Hewitt, Owen McCune, and Nate Dufour. I suffer with a condition called Charles Bonae Syndrome, or visual release hallucinations if you want to get more technical. It's a condition that's far more common than he might realize. It's estimated that as many as half of people with gradual loss of vision will experience one or more bouts over their lifetime. Yet I'm willing to bet that most of you have never heard of it. The reason for that is because most sufferers are scared to tell anybody what we experience.

I know I was. But I'm getting ahead of myself. My name's Andrew, and I'm 26. Two years ago, I woke up with awful blurred vision. Every single edge and detail clouded as if someone had smeared Vaseline on a camera lens. It never got better. I was scared then. and got over to Dr. Harper's surgery as fast as I could,

suddenly needing to take a cab rather than climb at a car had driven without incident ever since I bought it three years prior. The doctor did some tests, asked me some questions. Have you been much thirsty lately? How often do you urinate? How would you describe your tiredness levels? And then gave me the diagnosis of my life forever. Diabetes.

Type 1 He explained that I'd need to take insulin shots with every meal that eating the wrong foods without monitoring my blood sugar could see me drop into a coma. Or worse, then he got to my eyes. Andrew, your diabetes have resulted in maculipathy. Do you know what that is? I shook my head dumbly, already reeling from the shock of my diagnosis.

And Dr. Harper went on. It's when the diabetes affect the blood vessels at the back of your eye, blocking them and causing them to leak into the macula, the central part of your retina that helps you to perceive color and fine detail. When these blood vessels leak into the macula, it can cause significant damage. With a lump in my throat, I asked, Okay, so how do we make this better? I couldn't see Harper's face properly when he spoke, but his tone of voice was. enough to tell me what I've been dreading.

I'm sorry, Andrew. Perhaps if we caught this a little sooner, the way might have had some treatment options available to us, but I'm afraid the damage has been pretty extensive. We can take steps to arrest the development of the condition, but I'm afraid it's irreversible. I felt as if my world had come crashing down around me. I was just 24, still at my physical peak.

I was active, playing basketball, and cycling a couple times a week. And now my health, my body, and my sight had been taken away from me. The first six months were tough. I broke up with my girlfriend, a sweet girl named Holly, who tried to make it work, but couldn't because I was so damn angry all the time. Alice, my job, because if there's one thing an architect needs, it's his eyes. I haven't fell out with a lot of my friends, making excuses not to meet with them until they stopped asking. In truth, it was jealousy on my part.

Envy that they got to keep on living while everything I had ever hoped for had been snatched away. I became a recluse, never leaving my apartment, barely bothering to wash, shave, or get dressed each day. I was so sure that my life was over. I stopped even trying to live it. I was an asshole. It took me a long time to realize this, but in the end it was a nurse assigned to visit me at home.

A tall no-nonsense experienced woman named Lois who brought this to my attention. You're an asshole. What? I gasped, shocked at her language. So you've got diabetes. Do you know how many people do? She asked. Then before waiting for my answer,

she continued. Do you think they all hide in their apartments refusing to get on with their lives? Losing your vision is a terrible thing, and you do have my sympathy. But Andrew, it's no excuse to give up. But you don't, I argue, trying to defend myself, but she hadn't finished. Understand. One of the bravest men I know was paralyzed from the neck down when he was just a child, and he hasn't given up. You can do so much more with your life. and you have people that want to help you do that. But you can't even be bothered to shave that ugly fucking beard off. Stop being a crybaby and make a fucking difference.

Of course it didn't happen overnight, and I argued with her. I was furious at her blunt insensitivity and told her to leave. I said I'd tell her superiors, but she laughed and told me I wouldn't. You won't because you're a smart guy, and you've got too much pride for that. I'll see you next week. That night I shaved. I opened my curtains and actually looked around. Things were blurry, but when I really looked,

I could see the things scattered around my house. The mess I'd let it be calm. When Lois came back the following week, the place was tidy. I was clean-shaven, dressed, I'd even attempted to comb my hair. She didn't say anything about it. Didn't mention the argument of the week before, but she took me out for coffee down the street. She guided me along the sidewalk to the coffee shop, talking to me, reassuring me.

It was daunting, even though I was less than a block away, but I felt so proud when I got there. We talked, me and Lois. I think I even laughed. She walked me home. Then, when she held me back inside, she said, It's nice to meet you at last, Andrew. That day was a beginning of my new life. I moved to an apartment, a ground floor place,

and joined a group of other young people with visual impairments. I made friends. I got out every day, even if it was just a short walk. But I made a point to see what I could of the world. I bought what I could, but the Sawyers, the old couple that ran the local store, would bring my groceries by once a week. Clark's a gruff old coot, but he refuses to coddle me, and he's told me that he respects me for being like I am,

for maintaining my independence, for not giving up. From a guy like him? That's one of the sweetest things I've ever heard. Things were going so much. well. And then, one year ago, it started. I walked into my living room, a mug of coffee in my hand, and I saw a Victorian funeral carriage stood right there on my rug, complete with two huge, proud horses in full livery, adorned with long black plumes in their bridles. They stood perfectly still, while the driver, a small bearded man in a period costume in a top of the top. And a top of the

pat, fidgeted with the rains and peered at me expectantly. Bizarrely, they were far clear than usual plurry shapes that I could see. I damn near pissed my pants. I dropped the coffee, spilling scalding hot coffee over my bare feet, jumping backwards with a cry of pain and alarm. When I returned my attention to the horses and carriage back in the room, they were gone. In that moment, I wondered if I was going to,

mad. Apparently most of us do, which is understandable. How would you feel if you'd seen that exact same sight in your home? Unless for Jack the Ripper, I imagine many of you do not have a coach and horses just laying around. I certainly didn't. Eventually, after much quiet swearing to myself and more than a little self-delusion. I managed to convince myself that I had not seen what I thought I had, that it was merely a very vivid daydream. This seemed to work, and I got on with living. Even if I entered that same room a little more cautiously in the days it followed.

Finally, I forgot about it. Two weeks later, I saw a giant floating, swirling orange ball in my bathroom. I damn near pissed myself again. I stood staring at it, this bizarre, rotating, levitating globe that was a little larger than a beach ball, hanging in mid-air over my tub, opened mouth for a full ten seconds, before finally screwing my eyelids tightly closed and whispering to myself, This isn't there. This isn't there.

After five seconds, I opened my eyes again. It wasn't there. Have you ever had cause to doubt your own sanity? To wonder whether what you perceive is truly there, or if your mind has betrayed you? Honestly, compared to the loss of my vision, the prospect of losing my wits was so much more terrifying. I had fought against adversity and took pride in the fact that I'm not just a survivor. I'm somebody who is living his own life. How could I do that if I was insane?

I barely slept that night. I remain jumpy for days afterwards. Any sign of movement or any unfamiliar shape puts at my pulse racing what caused me to doubt whether it was truly there. It was the toughest time I'd ever been through. Worse even than that time, I was diagnosed with diabetes. At least when Dr. Harper told me about the diabetes, I had a definitive prognosis. I was given facts by a medical professional.

My affliction was physical. It had a name. And most important, it had a treatment plan. This was something else. My own mind had turned against me. My senses and perception or reality become twisted and unreliable. It's only when you're in that position that you realize just how terrifying it is. Your senses and the way in which your brain interprets them are your only true defenses against danger.

You perceive danger and you avoid it. Preventing your body from becoming harmed. But what happens if you can't trust your perception to alert you to the dangers that are, are truly there. Lois picked up on the problem first, noticing my skittish manner. She asked what was wrong if I needed to talk about anything. But I told her no. I was fine, but I hadn't been sleeping well.

That last part was true. I hadn't been able to sleep a wink. Just the very thought of being institutionalized, spending the rest of my days sedated, blue pajama-clad zombie in a white room with only the echoing cries of my fellow inmates for company terrified me beyond measure. But what was the alternative? Live life as a risk to myself and others? Ultimately, I chose to ignore it.

I reasoned that if I was able to function around other people without them realizing what was going on, that was good enough. A full month passed before the next incident. And I really did think that maybe I'd put this whole mess behind me. With every passing day, my confidence had grown, so that Wednesday morning I'd stepped out into the sunny street felt pretty carefree. Each Wednesday I'd treat myself to a latte down at Joe's, the same coffee shop that I visited with Lois. It was a custom that gave me a great deal of pleasure,

one that had seen me forge friendships with other regulars as well as the staff, including Joe himself. As I made my way down the street, white stick in hand, I glanced about me, taking in the colors and shapes of the world around me. I enjoyed the feel of the sun on my face and the sounds of the birds singing. It was a good day. Then I saw them, a party of pilgrims, six of them, all dressed in settler era attire, sitting cross-legged on the asphalt. They didn't look at me. Instead, they were engaged in a heated yet strangely silent conversation.

I froze staring at them. Still, they argued, gesticulating furiously at one another. However, I couldn't hear their angry voices, despite the fact that, judging by their ill temperament, they must be screaming at one another. Paralyzed by shock, the white stick fell from my numb fingers, clattering onto the sidewalk. I turned to leave, desperate to flee from the haunting sight of the colonists in the road. But I was so panicked in such a hurry that I stepped on my cane. It rolled underfoot, and before I knew it, I pitched over, tumulting to the hard ground below.

I didn't quite break my fallen time, being my cheek hard on the floor and skinning my palms. I heard a cry from a passerby, a friendly, concerned woman who was a woman. rushed to my side. She knelt beside me, helping me up, applying a Kleenex to my throbbing cheek, which she informed it was now bleeding. I tried to tell her that I was okay, that there was nothing to worry about. But this Good Samaritan insisted on driving me to Dr. Harper's office to get my injuries looked at.

Now that I think back to it, I'm pretty sure that she knew my obvious distress was nothing to do with the fall. At the time, I was embarrassed and angry, but not. I realize I were a debt of gratitude. Without her intervention? I don't know how much longer this would have gone on before I cracked up and ended up in an asylum after breaking down through sheer stress. Andrew, why don't you tell me what happened?

Dr. Harper asked, gently dabbing in my cheek with disinfectant. I explained that I just lost my balance, no harm was done. But I think he saw through my feeble protestations to my underlying agitation. He didn't press. He didn't force the matter. He simply asked what might have caused my clumsiness. Then he asked how I'd been as of late. When I'd finished mumbling my way through the most non-committal answer I could muster,

he placed a general reassuring hand on my shoulder. Andrew, why don't you tell me what happened? I burst into tears. I told him how scared I was. how I thought so hard for my independence and how I knew it would be taken from me. He listened patiently, then asked me to tell him why I ever thought that.

I paused then, took a deep breath and thought about it. This was the point in no return. But really, what other option did I have? So with tears running down my cheeks, I told Dr. Harper everything. I told him about the hospital. The horse and carriage, the orange globe, and the pilgrims.

I told him how I've been living each day in fear. I was terrified that I was losing my mind. Dr. Harper sat for a while. And then he said, Andrew, I don't think you're losing your mind. The sense of relief in that moment was so powerful. It overwhelmed me, rendering me speechless. You say that even though you've seen these things,

you've never heard any noise from them? Have you detected any odors or experienced any other physical sensations, such as touching them? I shook my head no, and he patted my shoulder once again. Andrew, have you ever heard of Charles Bonnet syndrome? Charles B... Who? I asked. Confused by this sudden, unexpected turn to conversation.

Okay. Let me explain. Charles Bonae was a Swiss naturalist who was a... born in the 1700s. He discovered a curious condition in his elderly grandfather, who was nearly completely blind due to cataracts. The old man regularly experienced visual hallucinations, including random patterns, and even people and places. Sound familiar? Yes, I replied still confused. Am I suffering dementia? No, Andrew, not at all. Do you know, How do you know how perception works?

In layman's terms, your eyes taken light via the iris and pupil, which is then processed via the retina and translated into electrical signals, which are decoded by the brain, which simply organizes these signals into a recognizable image. With me so far? I nodded. Finally starting to understand. When the retina becomes damaged, such as those that have undergone macular degeneration, signals become warped and jumbled.

The brain still receives them, so it does its job, translating these distorted signals into an image. It kind of fills in the gaps for you. Sometimes it fills these gaps with colors, patterns, creatures, and places that aren't present. And this is called Charles Bonnet syndrome. I nearly wept with relief. So I'm not mad.

I cried. Not at all. This is an entirely physical condition. Your mind is in full working order. If you were suffering any form of mental illness, your delusions wouldn't be limited to just one sense. You'd hear these interlopers, smell them, even feel them. This is a condition solely related to your eyes, not your brain.

As I left Dr. Harper's office, I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Sure, my vision was still an issue. But now I knew it was only a problem with my eyes, not my mind. I knew I could handle this situation. I was ready to face the world again. Since then, I've seen plenty of weird visions. I saw a huge waterfall in the park, complete with a hazy mist and butterflies flitting about it.

I saw a Native American warrior, complete with a huge feather headdress, sitting on a stool at the counter in the coffee shop. I saw an intricate and quite impossible, structure of scaffolding and crisscrossing the entire front of my apartment block. Hell, on the 4th of July last year, I even saw a great swooping green dragon in the sky, twisting and cavortings through the air overhead.

They all looked utterly and completely real. Yet, now I knew there were simply tricks of the eye. They were no longer disturbing. In fact, I actually came to quite enjoy them. Even looking at them as unique and entertaining little shows or works of art that existed purely for my pleasure and nobody else's, I came to welcome them. Then, a month ago, I saw her. It was nighttime. It's always nighttime when I see her.

And I was just getting ready for bed. I walked into the kitchen to get myself a glass of water. and actually cried out an alarm when I spotted the figure in the corner. She was tall, by far the tallest woman I'd ever seen. And even though she stood hunched, she still had at least six inches on me. I was used to seeing characters in dated and bizarre dress. But this was different somehow. It didn't seem like an outfit from any one time, instead of bizarre mishmash items.

She wore a tuxedo jacket, figure out. hugging in black, tailored to the female body shape, over a dirty old ruffled dress shirt. To complete the ensemble, she wore a bright red bowtie. Over her hands, which she held out to either side as if shrugging or maybe feeling for the rain, she wore dirty white gloves. Her fingers were disproportionately long, almost spidery, and occasionally they twitched, as if she longed to grip and squeeze something in them. On her lower half she wore shorts the same crimson as her bowtie over her opaque black nylons.

Her legs were long, lith, attractive, if the truth be told. The legs of a dancer. She also wore red heels, the same hue as her shorts and bow tie. But they sparkled and shimmered, bringing to mind Judy Garland's ruby slippers from the Wizard of Oz. As strange as this ensemble was, I couldn't hear my eyes from her face. Most of it was obscured by a jaunty boulder hat, tipped and tilted to hide her eyes and nose. But beneath the brim of her hat I could see the deathly pale skin of her face and a grin that sent shivers down my spine. It was wide, too wide, with entirely too many teeth.

The smile is meant to be an expression of warmth. It's meant to feel welcoming and benevolent. But the look on this woman's face oozed malice. It felt much like the sort of glee I'd expect from a snake as it corners a rat. However, the thing that startled me most is that she had a third arm sprouting from her back, curled up and over her head like a scorpion's tail. It was longer than any arm should be. and the hand only had three fingers like a claw.

It was pointed straight at me, and as I swore in dismay and stumbled sideways that seemed to track my movement. I stood staring at the creepy figure for a few seconds, trying to get my head around the situation. She just stood there in the corner, grinning back. Finally, I realized that this was just another of my hallucinations and breathed an audible sigh of relief.

One of the tricks have picked up over the months of suffering with Charles Bonaise syndrome is to break the line of vision toward whatever stimulus is causing my brain to interpret the image into the hallucination. Think of it like restarting a faulty computer, or refreshing the system debugs it. To this end, I close my eyes and count to five, then when I reopen them, the hallucination is gone. So, as I stared at the horrifying, malformed figure in my kitchen, I knew that to make the image go away, I simply had to close my eyes. I'll be honest here. When I counted to five, I hesitated a little before opening my eyes.

If I had opened my eyes and she'd still stood there, smiling that wicked smile at me, I think I might have a heart attack. She wasn't, and I breathed another long sigh of relief, fetched my glass of water, and went back to bed. The tall woman haunted my thoughts in the days after I saw her. She was different to the other visions I'd had. Somehow she felt more real. It was this agitation that my buddy Jason picked up on when we met for lunch the following Friday. Jason was one of those same friends I tried to drive away shortly after I'd lost my vision.

Yet, he refused to give up on me, continuing to get in touch week after week. Good friends are hard to come by, but great friends. The ones will be by your side for life. are even rarer. Jason, God bless his kind heart, is one of the latter. You've got to tell me what's going on, dude. He said as we sat down over pizza. What do you mean?

I asked, trying to brush it off. You're so distracted, man. It's like you're looking for something in here all the time. You've eaten like one slice of pizza and the time it's taken me to eat four. So, I repeat, you've got to tell me what's going on. Jason said, waving a slice of pizza. around for emphasis. It's nothing.

I replied, feeling a little stupid. I just had a hallucination a couple nights ago that really got to me. I thought you were cool with those now. He said, putting the pizza slice down. Yeah, I am. I mean, I was, but this is different. I replied, resigned to talking about it. She scared me.

She? Jason asked. His interest clearly peaked. So I did. I described a tall woman and how she'd appeared to me. I explained that unlike any of my other hallucinations, she felt more real, that she was the first to feature such a weird and unsettling mutation. Sure, I'd seen smaller versions of people in the past,

a phenomenon referred to as lilliputian by medical professionals, but the extra appendage and impossibly distorted face or something I'd yet to encounter thus far. I think it was that, combined with the unnerving expectant stance that had disturbed me the most. So? Jason said after it finished.

You say she had great legs. Shut up, you asshole. I laughed, throwing my napkin at him. No, seriously. I get it, man. Jason replied, passing the napkin back to me. If I walked into a room and a giant mutant was waiting for me

to scare the shit out of me too. But you know what caused you to see this. It's like the coachman and that waterfall you saw. It's a condition that you know you have and it's one that you know how to deal with, okay? I know. I know. Thanks, man. You're right.

I did feel better too. So I smiled at him, took a big bite of my pizza and changed the subject, asking him about his psychoax. The conversation he, He was all too happy to dive into. The next time I saw the tall woman, just under a week later, I was brushing my teeth. I was stood at the wash bin, brushing away when I spotted a figure in the mirror.

She was out in the dark hallway, peeking around the door behind me. The same sinister grin I'd seen before stretched her narrow face into a distorted grimace. The dirty bowler hat pushed down over her eyes once again. Each of those three long, spidery hands gripped the doorframe. As crazy as this sounds, it felt like she was trying to avoid being spotted. I cried out, spinning toothpaste foam all over my mirror, my toothbrush clattering into the basin. I spun around, my heart thumping in my chest, my breathing ragged in my throat.

She wasn't there. Of course she wasn't. The doorway was empty. I tiptoed forward hesitantly, trying to look around the doorframe into the hallway without actually sticking my neck out into its shadowy confines. The seconds took by as I drew closer and closer. I couldn't see anything, so finally, with a whisper of self-affirmation, I stepped out of the bathroom. The hallway was empty, as was the rest of my apartment.

I was shaken again. This was the first time I'd seen a hallucination and a reflection. and I wasn't even sure that I'd actually seen it. Now, as I sit here, writing this, knowing what would follow, I think I thought like that to try to protect myself, to shield myself from the truth. I was an idiot. Full fortnight passed without incident.

Sure I saw a flash a collar one day, dancing yellow lightning bolt that zigzag back and forth on the street outside my apartment. but that wasn't exactly the sort of thing I'd come to expect from my condition. It was exciting, otherworldly, but it wasn't scary, not like she was. In retrospect, that fortnight was blissful. It was a reminder of what life could be like, the existence that I had carved out from myself since my diagnosis. Life was good. The night that changed the way I viewed the tall woman,

Last night, I'd been out and had a couple of drinks. I'd met the other guys with visual impairment for dinner, and we'd ended up at a bar afterwards. It wasn't hammered, but we got through plenty of beer between us, and by the time I stepped out into the cool night air, I felt decidedly lightheaded. It took me a while to make it home, laughing and talking to a couple of the other guys from our group as we strolled along.

It had been a great evening. It's probably the last truly good one I'll ever have. I bid the other guy's good night and, fumbling with my key, let myself in. With swinging steps, I strode into my hallway, slamming the door a little too loudly behind me. I took off my jacket, hung it on the hook by the door, and hit the light switch. She was waiting at the end of the hallway. All three hands held aloft into claws, reaching for me. The same maddening, malevolent grin on her pale face.

I swore again, louder than ever, actually jumping back a step recoiling from the impossibly tall and terrifying figure laying in my own home. The tall woman didn't move. She just stood there, staring and smiling at me. I stared back, but I sure has held it and smiled. Jesus Christ, I muttered under my breath. You know how you can feel like that? little paranoid after a few beers, that feeling of non-specific post-alcohol dread.

Imagine that combined with the giant grinning mutant woman suddenly appearing in your home. Suffice it to say? It was very, very, very, very uncool. I don't need this. I sighed and closed my eyes. One, my eyes, her face was just a foot from my own grinning wider than ever. She dashed the went through the hallway and was now stood so close that her long, grasping arms were on either side of me. Her fingers twitching and clawing at the air around my face. I could see her chest heaving as if she were actually laughing silently in my attempts to dismiss her.

As if the thought that I could ever be free of her was amusing. I screamed a full-bodied shriekater and actually dropped to my knees covering my head as as if to fend up an expectant blow. It never came. Finally, I lowered my hands, gasping for breath, shaking. The hallway was empty. The tall woman nowhere to be seen. I stayed there on my knees for a moment, gasping for breath.

Then I was on my feet, and I turned and ran out of the apartment, out of the building, and into the street. I stood there, shivering, terrified beyond reason, without a clue as to what I'd do next. Finally, I pulled my phone from my pocket and I made a phone call. Jason, I need you to come here. I said sobbing. Jason didn't ask why. Didn't complain. Instead, he simply replied, I'm on my way.

Less than 20 minutes later, his car pulled up outside and he dashed over to the steps outside my building where I was sitting, shivering. He threw his jacket around my shoulders and asked what happened. His voice filled with concern. She's in there. The tall woman. She's back. Okay, okay. He said gently helping me to my feet.

Come on, man. Let's go in there and check it out. I wish I could say I was brave when I went inside, but I'd be lying. I cowered behind Jason. One hand on his shoulders we made our way through my home. Of course we didn't find a thing. We're talking a giant mutant woman in a pokey little one-bed apartment. Where the hell was she going to hide?

Finally, after we checked every single room twice, I had to admit that she was gone. I'm so sorry, man. I apologized, feeling genuinely stupid. I got scared and... I'm sorry, man. Hey, forget about it, buddy. So I'm here now. Where do you keep your booze?

Half a bottle of bourbon later, we were both feeling pretty talkative. she's you know just kind of different you know i tried to explain i get it i get it it's like you saw something bad and you feel bad and that's bad he didn't get it no she's different you know i've never had a repeat hallucination before and they've never been scary, you know? She's not like the others. Dude. Jason said, taking another sip of bourbon.

You've got like Charlie Bonney syndrome and you know that makes you see shit, so... He waved his hands in the air like a magician who just performed a trick. I know, I know. I replied. No, listen, Andy. You know it makes you see shit. It's just your eyes, yeah? You didn't hear anything.

You didn't feel anything. And this is how that stuff goes. It's your eyes. And I know it's scary, man, but you've been through like, like hell and high water in your life so far. You're tough. One of the toughest, bravest guys I know. And you can handle some creepy hallucination bitch. I couldn't help it.

She is a very creepy hallucination bitch, though, dude. He laughed too. We both took a drink. You know, that could help. He finally said, his voice thoughtful. What? Drinking? No.

Well, yes, it does. You giggled. I mean, like demystifying her. You should give her a name. Something's stupid, so she's not scary. I've got to say that as much as I like, creepy hallucination, bitch. That's a bit of a mouthful. Yeah, I get that.

Suddenly something he'd say came back to me. How about Helen? I suggested. Helen Highwater. Awesome. He said and raised his glass. Here's to Helen, buddy. To Helen.

I smiled and drained my glass. Jason spent the night on my sofa, mainly because he'd had too much to drink to even think about getting behind the wheel of a vehicle. But honestly, I think the reason he drank. so much so as he'd have an excuse to stay and keep an eye on me. I'm glad he did. Knowing that he was there made me feel safer and I was able to get some sleep. It gave me a sense of security to know that if the strange vision I'd just christened Helen was to appear again, I'd be able to call on him for support.

This morning, we both needed support. It feels like a mule kicked me in the head. He groaned while I made my way into the living room. Yep. I replied, my own head thumping. Joe's? Joe's. He replied firmly and staggered to his feet.

As we drank strong black coffee and ate muffins, we didn't talk much. Finally, Jason broke to silence. So you feel cool now? He said, his mouth's still full of blueberry muffin. I nodded. Yeah, I think so. And not still freaked out about, you know who? Helen.

I replied, the smile. No. I really don't think I am. I reckon I can handle some creepy hallucination, bitch. Good. He laughed, giving me a hearty pat on the back. That's cool, man. I bet you can.

Now as I sit here cowering in my bathroom, too scared to go out into my apartment. I know we were. both wrong about everything. Remember how earlier I told you that the thought of being institutionalized, that the very thought of losing my grasp on reality was the most terrifying thing I could imagine? Now I'd welcome that, because the alternative is far, far worse. After breakfast, I said goodbye to Jason, he climbed into his car and drove away. The day passed without incident.

And when Lois stopped by this afternoon, she even commented on how upbeat I seemed. You got a lady in your life? She asked casually. I laughed at that. I wondered what she'd think if she knew the truth. Yeah. Something like that. Good for you.

She sniffed. Make sure you treat her right. That tickled me even more and I had to bite my lip. Sure. I'll do my best. Tonight, still little wiped after the exertions of the previous evening, I decided to turn in early. I brushed my teeth, washed my hands in face, and got changed. Finally, I fetched a glass of water and walked into my bedroom.

I climbed into bed and instantly felt so, so relaxed. Within mere seconds, I was ready for sleep. That sudden overwhelming drowsiness that comes when we spent a whole day keeping sleep at bay. I decided that resistance was futile and sad off to switch off the light. I nearly didn't see her. But as I reached for the switch, I clad a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. My heart leapt into my throat as I turned to the foot of my bed. The tall woman was crouching there.

Her grinning face staring at me from just beyond my feet. So many teeth. Her long, slender fingers spread out over my blankets. twitching slightly as she gripped the end of the bed, slowly, excruciatingly so. Her third misshapen arm came into view over her shoulder, joining her other two hands on my bedding. I froze utterly petrified. I was at a crossroads here, arriving at a pivotal moment that had been coming for some time. She watched me, grinning, as if she was waiting to see what I do.

Cruel amusement flickering across her pale face. But this time I'd had enough. You don't scare me anymore. I said, my voice filled with defiance and anger. I'm not letting you do this to me. I reached across to the light switch. Good night, Helen. I said triumphantly, then flicked it.

Plunging the room into darkness, I laid there. A sense of tremendous. This pride searching through me, and I grinned to myself in my warm, comfortable bat, overjoyed at the emotional victory of overcoming my own fear, and then it happened. The thing that led me here, something that turned my blood to ice water, my bowels to jelly. Good night, Andrew. Her rasping voice hissed from the darkness. more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest

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