The Man With Spiked Hands
I was six years old, and back living with my mom and brother, after having been in foster care for over a year. We were living in a studio apartment, and a family with loud teenagers lived beside us.
After we'd been there a couple weeks, I began to have dreams that a man was coming out of my closet, crawling through the moonlight and shadows on my floor, and standing over my bed, watching me in silence. I couldn't move during these dreams, but could feel my heart beating madly in my chest and a cold sick feeling in my stomach. I had these dreams on and off for a couple months.
One night I was dreaming that the man, tall and skinny, with long hair and knobbly elbows, went from standing by my bed to crouching on the floor. The light coming in from the bathroom was somewhat dimmed either by a broken bulb or the lack of one, making it harder to see everything clearly. It seemed, to my six year old eyes, that there were spiky hands stroking the carpet as he crawled back across my floor and into my closet.
The great thing about dreams is that you can be anywhere at anytime and so I found myself standing
outside my mom's bedroom, staring at her closed door. I tried to open it, but I couldn't. I tried screaming, but once again nothing came of it and I went back to my room to (as I distinctly
remember thinking) "get my body." I could give you many different reasons as to why this made sense, but I think I'll pass.
Then I woke up and like most little kids, ran into my mom's room crying uncontrollably. To be honest, I was half afraid that something would prevent me from opening her door. I shook her awake, and told her about my dream. She said something, vague and comforting, and sent me back to bed.
Several days later, I came back home from school, and there was some workman and my mom having coffee with a family friend. I asked why the workman was over (I thought maybe our old dryer finally broke and he was there repairing it). Mom told me that she was moving some boxes around, and had discovered a large hole in the back of my closet, and that the workman was patching it.
I started to shake and my mom's friend said "It's OK, they're moving away." I didn't really grasp what she said or what she meant because my brain felt like there were thousands of electrical fizzes in it, I remember thinking it was like my head was filled with TV fuzz. Sometime later, the neighbors beside us moved out and a new family moved in.
After the day the workman came, the dreams stopped. I was ten or eleven before anyone brought it up again.
My mom never spoke of it to me, but our family friend tried to talk
to me about it a few times, and I always refused, saying I knew. I knew everything about the man with spiked hands.
