CHAPTER ONE
I wake up with a gasp that freezes in my lungs.
My body is strained, nearly paralyzed, a stark contrast to my heart which races erratically inside my chest, as if looking for a way out.
It was the noise that woke me.
That same noise, night after night.
One knock.
Two knocks.
Three knocks.
Like someone’s at my door, even though they never are.
I wait, trying to suck the air deep into my lungs, realizing I couldn’t move even if I tried. There’s nothing else to do but wait and hope my heart calms down and I don’t die from a fucking heart attack.
It’s in your head, I tell myself. You know this. You looked it up.
But after growing up with a sister like Perry Palomino, it’s hard to know what’s in your head and what’s real. I much prefer it when my mind plays tricks on me.
Even so, I lie there in the dark, listening to every sound in my room. Outside a cricket chirps once, twice. A light breeze rustles the trees and I feel the air as it comes through the open window and washes over my body, my limbs that are outside the sheets. It’s been stinking hot in Portland this summer and this breeze is nearly cold. It would be refreshing if I wasn’t so rattled.
Strength slowly returns to my body. I’m able to suck in a breath and let it out carefully, even though it’s far too loud for my liking. I’m still trying to listen, still trying to figure out if the knocks are part of my dream or part of something real.
I’ve had this condition for about as long as I can remember, though it was only recently that I looked it up and discovered it was quite common. It also has a disturbing as hell name: Exploding Head Syndrome. Yup. Ada Palomino’s head might explode on occasion. Hope you’re wearing a poncho.
Apparently though, it’s not that big of a deal and it doesn’t mean your head is just going to spontaneously combust, like that dude in Scanners. Now, I’ve never seen Scanners because it looks like a terrible 80’s movie, but anytime someone’s head explodes, that’s the movie they refer to.
Instead it just means it’s an auditory hallucination, one powerful enough to wake you up. Some people hear cymbals crashing, others hear a bang or gunshot. I hear three loud knocks. I used to think it was someone at my door, so I would get up and answer it, thinking it was Perry. No one was ever there. Sometimes I’d have to go downstairs and check the front door, usually with a steak knife or blunt object in hand, but it was always the same deal.
No one there.
Then this spring, when I slept over at my ex-boyfriend’s cabin in Astoria, I woke up convinced someone was trying to get in the place. My ex, Dillon, was already awake, having gone to the washroom and told me he hadn’t heard a thing.
Finally, I had to look up on the internet what the hell was going on. I discovered it had a name (albeit a pretty shitty one) and that many people suffered from it, usually women and usually when they were overly tired.
I’ve had it a few times since, but sometimes it’s just so real that it’s hard to imagine your brain could come up with something like that. Not to mention that often my body goes rigid, paralyzed, for a few moments after.
Then there was that one time I was pretty sure I felt someone sitting on the end of the bed, only I was on my side and couldn’t look.
The weight lifted, as if someone stood up, and when I was finally able to move, no one was there. I’m going to assume that’s part of the hallucinations as well.
I sigh, relieved that my heart is no longer racing, even though I’m still faced with that overall sense of unease and what the fuck. My throat and mouth feel desert dry, so I slowly get out of bed, grabbing the empty glass on my bedside table, and head to the washroom. The air from outside now feels warm, like it has been all summer.
In the bathroom I flick on the lights and wince, but make a point not to look at myself in the mirror. On nights like this, when I wake up in the middle of the night, either because of my apparent condition or for no reason at all, other than this feeling of dread, I feel the mirror holds the truth. I’m terrified that if I look at my reflection, it might not be me. And if it is me, I might be different.
But who can blame me for thinking the impossible? Because, after all I’ve been through, I know nothing is impossible. And even though on the surface I have a pretty average life for an eighteen-year-old, beneath the surface I’m anything but average.
Luckily, very few people scratch beneath the surface. If they did, they’d either run screaming or have me committed.
Sometimes I think the latter might be preferable.
After I fill a glass with water from the tap, I flick off the lights, my reflection still unseen, and creep past the nightlight in the hall back to my room. My father sleeps at the end of the hall, but ever since mom died he’s been a light sleeper. In fact, I see him popping his sleeping pills every night. When he doesn’t, I can hear him downstairs in his study during all hours.
I inherited my sister’s room since she moved to Seattle. It’s a lot bigger, brighter, and better than my old one, which is now a (much-needed) extension of my closet. The only problem is, it’s hard to forget all the shit that went down in this room. For all of my fifteenth year, Perry’s bedroom was a miniature house of horrors with some very big, very real, scares.
I down some of the water and crawl into bed, the breeze still wafting in. The streetlights provide comfort and a faint orange glow that not only keeps the room from being pitch dark, but reminds me that I live in the suburbs. There are neighbors on either side of the house and neighbors across the street. Our yards are big enough that everyone isn’t up in everyone else’s business (though tell that to Mrs. Hedley down the street), but close enough that I don’t feel all alone.