"Sleepwalker on the Edge":
I never thought I’d be afraid to go to sleep, but that’s where it all began. It started with little things—odd signs I couldn’t explain. I’d wake up in the morning and find the fridge door ajar, or a half-eaten apple on the counter that I didn’t remember touching. At first, I thought I was just tired. My new job had me working late, and the sleeping pills my doctor prescribed were supposed to help me rest. Maybe they were making me forgetful. I laughed it off, but deep down, something felt wrong.
One night, I woke up, but I wasn’t in my bed. I was in my car, parked on a quiet street two blocks from my house. The keys were in the ignition, and I was sitting in the driver’s seat, still in my pajamas. My heart pounded as I tried to remember how I got there, but my mind was blank. I drove home, my hands trembling, and told my roommate, Lisa, what happened. She frowned, her eyes wide with concern. “You’ve been so stressed,” she said. “Maybe you just need a break.”
But it didn’t stop. A few nights later, I woke up again, this time with the car moving. I was driving 30 miles an hour down a dark, empty road. The streetlights flashed by, and my stomach dropped. I slammed on the brakes, the car screeching to a stop. I looked around, my breath shallow, and realized I was near an old, abandoned factory on the edge of town. How had I driven here? I had no memory of leaving my bed. I turned the car around, my hands shaking so badly I could barely grip the wheel. When I got home, Lisa was awake, pacing. “Where were you?” she asked, her voice sharp. “You scared me!”
I told her everything, my voice cracking. “I was driving, Lisa. Asleep. I don’t know how it happened.” Her face went pale. “You could’ve crashed,” she said. “You could’ve hurt someone. You need to see a doctor.”
The next day, I went to a sleep specialist. Dr. Patel listened as I poured out my story. “It sounds like sleep driving,” he said calmly. “It’s rare, but it can happen, especially with certain medications. The sleeping pills you’re taking might be causing it.” He explained that some drugs, like zolpidem, can trigger sleepwalking or even more complex behaviors, like driving, with no memory afterward. “Stop the pills immediately,” he said. “And lock up your car keys at night. Give them to someone you trust.”
I nodded, feeling a mix of relief and fear. I gave my keys to Lisa and stopped taking the pills. For a week, nothing happened. I started to think it was over. But then, one night, I woke up in a 24-hour diner, sitting at a booth with a plate of pancakes and a coffee I didn’t remember ordering. I was still in my pajamas, and the waitress gave me a strange look as I stumbled out, my heart racing. When I got home, Lisa was frantic. “You were gone for an hour!” she said. “Your car’s still here, so how did you even leave?”
I checked my phone. It was 3 a.m. The diner was miles away—too far to walk in an hour. “I don’t know,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “I don’t know how I got there.”
I went back to Dr. Patel. “If you don’t have your keys, how are you getting out?” he asked, puzzled. He suggested setting up a camera in my house and car to monitor my sleep. That night, I did it, my stomach churning as I went to bed. The next morning, I watched the footage. At 1:45 a.m., I got out of bed, eyes open but blank, like a zombie. I went to the kitchen, opened a drawer, and pulled out a spare set of keys I’d forgotten about. Then I walked out, got in my car, and drove away.
The video showed me driving to the diner, ordering food, eating, and paying—all while asleep. I drove back, parked the car in the exact same spot, and went back to bed. I felt sick watching it. If I could do all that without knowing, what else could I do? What if I hurt someone?
Dr. Patel prescribed a new medication to regulate my sleep and suggested therapy to address any stress or trauma that might be triggering this. But the fear clung to me. Every night, I went to bed wondering where I’d wake up next.
Two nights ago, it got worse. I woke up in my car, the engine off, but I wasn’t on a road. I was on a narrow dirt path, the front wheels of my car inches from the edge of a cliff. Below, I could see the ocean, waves crashing against jagged rocks. The car door was open, and one of my legs was dangling outside, as if I’d been about to step out. My breath caught in my throat. I froze, terrified that any movement might send the car over the edge.
Carefully, I pulled my leg back in and closed the door, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold the wheel. I reversed slowly, dirt crunching under the tires, until I was back on solid ground. When I got home, I collapsed, sobbing. I called Dr. Patel immediately. “This is dangerous,” he said. “You need to stop driving entirely until this is under control. Stay somewhere safe, where you can’t access a car.”
I couldn’t just stop living my life, but I knew he was right. I gave Lisa all my keys, even the spares, and installed an alarm on my bedroom door that would wake me if I tried to leave. Last night was the first night with the new setup. I slept poorly, jumping at every sound, but when I woke up this morning, I was still in my bed. The alarm hadn’t gone off.
For the first time in weeks, I felt a flicker of hope. But as I sit here, I can’t shake the image of that cliff, the car teetering on the edge, my leg half out the door. Somewhere, deep in my mind, there’s a part of me that’s still asleep, waiting to take over. And that scares me more than anything.
"Me Isn’t Me Anymore":
I’ve been a sleepwalker since I was a kid. Back then, it was almost funny—my parents would find me in the kitchen, eating cereal at 3 a.m., or standing in the backyard, staring at the stars. They’d guide me back to bed, and we’d laugh about it in the morning. But now, at 28, living alone in an old house I rented, it’s not funny anymore. It’s terrifying.
It started getting weird a few months ago. I’d wake up in places I didn’t expect—like the living room couch or the front porch. Once, I found myself in the garage, holding a hammer, with no idea why. My hands were shaking as I put it down, wondering what I’d been planning to do. I started locking my bedroom door at night, hoping it would keep me contained. But it didn’t.
One morning, I woke up in the basement. The door was locked from the inside, and the key was still in my bedroom. My heart pounded as I climbed the creaky stairs, trying to figure out how I’d gotten down there. The basement is a place I avoid—damp, dark, with cobwebs in every corner. Why would I go there in my sleep?
I decided to see a doctor. He said sleepwalking is a parasomnia, a sleep disorder where your brain doesn’t fully wake up, but your body moves anyway. He prescribed pills to help me stay asleep, but they didn’t work. If anything, things got worse.
Last week, I woke up to a loud crash. I bolted upright, my pulse racing, and ran downstairs. The front door was wide open, and the glass in the small window beside it was shattered. On the coffee table sat a kitchen knife, its blade glinting in the dim light. My stomach dropped. Did I do this? Was someone else in the house?
I checked every room, but no one was there. I called my neighbor, Tom, who lives across the street. He’s a kind older guy, always checking in on me since I moved in. “Tom, did you hear anything last night?” I asked, my voice shaky.
He paused. “I saw you, you know. Around midnight. You were standing on your porch, holding something shiny. I thought you were awake, but you didn’t answer when I called your name.”
I felt cold. “I was sleepwalking,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s not just that,” he said, his voice low. “You were staring at my house. For a long time. It… it creeped me out.”
I apologized again, promising to fix it. But how could I? I had no control over what I did when I was asleep.
That night, I set up a cheap security camera in my living room, hoping to catch what I was doing. The next morning, I watched the footage. At 1:47 a.m., I walked downstairs, my eyes open but blank. I picked up the knife from the kitchen, held it for a moment, then set it on the coffee table. I walked to the front door, opened it, and stood on the porch, just like Tom said. But then I did something worse. I crossed the street, walked up to Tom’s front door, and tried the handle. It was locked, so I just stood there, staring, for ten minutes before walking back home.
I felt sick. Why was I trying to get into his house? What was I going to do with that knife? I couldn’t tell Tom—he’d think I was dangerous. Maybe I was.
I started chaining my bedroom door shut, using a bike lock I bought online. But two nights ago, I woke up in the attic. The chain was undone, the lock neatly placed on my nightstand. In the attic, I found a box of old photos I’d never seen before—pictures of people I didn’t know, their faces scratched out with a pen. My hands were smudged with ink.
I went back to the doctor, desperate. “This isn’t normal,” I said. “I’m doing things I don’t understand. I’m scared I’ll hurt someone.”
He suggested a sleep study, where they’d monitor me overnight. But it would take weeks to schedule, and I didn’t have weeks. I needed answers now.
Last night, I set up the camera again, this time in my bedroom. I took the pills, chained the door, and went to bed, praying I’d stay put. This morning, I checked the footage. My heart stopped as I watched.
At 2:13 a.m., I sat up in bed, my movements slow and deliberate. I unlocked the chain with the key I keep hidden in my dresser—how did I know where it was? I walked downstairs, grabbed a pen from the kitchen, and went to the basement. The camera didn’t cover down there, but when I checked this morning, I found a new photo on the basement floor. It was of Tom, taken through his window, his face scratched out like the others.
I called Tom, my voice trembling. “Can you come over? I need to show you something.”
When he arrived, I showed him the photo. His face went pale. “That’s from last night,” he said. “I was in my living room. How did you get this?”
“I don’t know,” I said, tears in my eyes. “I was sleepwalking. I’m so sorry.”
He backed away. “You need help,” he said. “This isn’t right. You’re scaring me.”
I’m scaring myself. Tonight, I’m not sleeping. I’ve thrown out the pills, boarded up the basement door, and I’m sitting here with every light on, watching the camera feed on my phone. But I can feel my eyes getting heavy, and I’m terrified of what I’ll do if I close them. Because whatever’s happening, it’s not just sleepwalking anymore. It’s like something inside me is awake when I’m not, and it’s trying to get out.
"I Woke Up 130 Feet in the Air":
I was getting ready for bed like any other Friday night. My parents were downstairs watching TV, and my little brother was already asleep. I brushed my teeth, thinking about my plans to meet friends at the mall tomorrow. After setting my alarm, I climbed into bed, pulled the covers up, and drifted off.
I don’t know how long I was asleep when a cold breeze woke me. My eyes fluttered open, and I saw stars above me. Stars? I should be in my room. Confusion hit me like a wave. I wasn’t in my bed. I was lying on something hard and cold. My hands gripped a metal surface, and as my vision cleared, I looked around. I was high up—way too high. Below me, city lights twinkled, and the faint hum of traffic reached my ears. My heart pounded. Where was I?
I shifted slightly and realized I was on a narrow metal beam. To my sides, there was nothing but air. A sickening drop stretched far below, the ground so distant I could barely make out the shapes of buildings. Panic clawed at my chest. I was on a construction crane, perched on what looked like a counterweight. One wrong move, and I’d fall.
How did I get here? My mind raced, but it was blank. The last thing I remembered was climbing into bed. My breath came in short gasps. This had to be a dream. I pinched my arm, hard. Pain shot through me, but I didn’t wake up. This was real. My hands trembled as I clung to the metal, my fingers digging into the cold surface. The beam was so narrow, maybe a foot wide. If I moved too much, I’d slip.
I wanted to scream for help, but my throat was dry, my voice stuck. My heart thumped so loud I thought it might burst. I glanced down again, and my stomach lurched. The drop was endless—streetlights, cars, rooftops, all tiny specks below. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to stay still.
Then I heard sirens. They were faint at first, growing louder. Flashing lights appeared below—red and blue, cutting through the darkness. Police cars and fire trucks pulled up to the construction site. People were pointing up at me, their voices muffled but urgent. Someone shouted through a megaphone, “Stay calm. We’re coming to get you.”
I managed a weak, “Okay,” but it was barely a whisper. My whole body shook. How long had I been up here? How had I even climbed this thing?
A firefighter appeared at the base of the crane, clipping a harness to himself. He started climbing the ladder, moving carefully but quickly. My eyes stayed glued to him, my only hope. As he got closer, I could see his face—focused, but with a flicker of worry in his eyes.
He reached the top and stepped onto the beam, inching toward me. “Hi there,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “I’m Tom. What’s your name?”
“Emily,” I whispered, my voice shaking as much as my hands.
“Emily, you’re doing great. I need you to stay very still. I’m going to help you, but you have to trust me, okay?”
I nodded, tears stinging my eyes. I was too scared to speak.
He knelt beside me, checking the beam and the counterweight. “First, I’m going to put a harness on you. Then we’ll get down together.”
As he spoke, I felt a vibration in my pocket. My phone? I didn’t even realize I had it with me. Tom noticed too. “Is that your phone?” he asked.
I nodded, barely able to move.
“Maybe it’s your family. Let’s check.” He carefully reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. The screen showed “Mom” calling. My heart leapt—she must be terrified.
Tom answered, keeping his voice calm. “Hello, this is Firefighter Tom. I’m with your daughter, Emily. She’s safe, but she’s on a crane. We’re going to bring her down.”
I could hear my mom’s voice, high-pitched and frantic. “Is she okay? Please, is she okay?”
“She’s okay,” Tom said. “I’m with her now. We’re going to get her down safely.” He paused, listening, then said, “Yes, I’ll let her talk to you.”
He handed me the phone, and my hands shook as I took it. “Mom?”
“Emily!” Her voice broke. “Oh my God, are you okay?”
“I’m scared, Mom,” I said, my voice cracking. “I don’t know how I got here.”
“I know, sweetie. Just listen to the firefighter. He’ll take care of you. We’re right here waiting for you.”
“Okay,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face.
Tom took the phone back and spoke to my mom again. “We’re starting the rescue now. She’s in good hands.” He hung up and focused on me. “Alright, Emily, I’m going to put this harness on you. It might feel tight, but it’s to keep you safe.”
He worked quickly, slipping the harness around me. Every movement made me flinch, terrified I’d slip off the beam. The wind tugged at my hair, and I could feel the crane swaying slightly. My stomach churned. “Please don’t let me fall,” I whispered.
“I won’t,” Tom said firmly. “You’re secured now. We’re connected by this rope. I’ve got you.”
He attached a rope from his harness to mine, double-checking the knots. “Now, we’re going to move back to the ladder. I’ll go first, and you follow my lead. Slow and steady.”
I nodded, but my legs felt like jelly. Tom started inching back along the beam, holding the rope taut. I followed, crawling on my hands and knees, my fingers gripping the metal so hard my knuckles turned white. The beam was slick, and every step felt like a gamble. I didn’t dare look down, but I could feel the emptiness below me.
Halfway across, my foot slipped. I gasped, my body lurching to the side. The rope jerked tight, and Tom’s hand shot out, steadying me. “It’s okay, Emily,” he said, his voice calm but urgent. “I’ve got you. Just keep moving.”
My heart was in my throat, but I forced myself to keep going. Step by agonizing step, we made it to the ladder. Tom helped me onto the hydraulic lift that had been raised to meet us. I clung to the railing, my legs trembling so badly I could barely stand.
As we descended, the ground came into view. My parents were there, their faces pale and drawn. My mom was clutching my dad’s arm, tears streaming down her cheeks. The lift touched down, and my mom ran to me, wrapping me in a hug so tight I could barely breathe. “Oh, Emily, I was so scared,” she sobbed.
“I’m okay, Mom,” I said, though I was still shaking. My dad joined us, his eyes red but relieved.
The paramedics checked me over, wrapping me in a blanket. I was cold but unharmed, just shaken to my core. My dad spoke to the police, explaining that I’d been sleepwalking since I was a kid, but nothing like this had ever happened. “She’s wandered into the kitchen or the living room before,” he said, his voice tight. “But climbing a crane? I don’t understand.”
Tom, the firefighter, came over. “You were very brave up there, Emily,” he said. “Most people would’ve panicked.”
“Thank you for saving me,” I said, my voice small.
He smiled. “Just doing my job. But you might want to see a doctor about that sleepwalking. This was a close call.”
I nodded, still trying to process it all. The police and firefighters packed up, and we went home. That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the drop from the crane, felt the cold metal under my hands. My parents installed alarms on the doors and windows the next day, and I started seeing a sleep specialist soon after.
But even now, years later, I can’t shake the terror of that night. Waking up 130 feet in the air, with no memory of how I got there, is a nightmare I’ll never forget. The thought that my own body could betray me like that, leading me into danger while I slept, still sends chills down my spine.