"Eyes Wide, Knife Raised":
I had just finished my shift at the coffee shop when my phone buzzed. A message from my sister, Lily:
“Packing the last of my things. Come help? We’ll get lunch after.”
She was finally moving in with her boyfriend, Derek, up north. Pennsylvania, a whole new chapter. I figured it’d be a quick visit, just helping her sort through boxes before saying goodbye. The house wasn’t far—fifteen minutes at most—so I hopped in my car and drove over.
Lily opened the door with her usual bright smile, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She hugged me so tightly it was almost desperate.
“Ava, thanks for coming. I can’t believe it. Derek’s already waiting.”
Inside, Dylan sat slouched on the couch, staring blankly at the TV that wasn’t even on. He and Lily had been inseparable since high school, but in the last few years, he’d slipped into a fog—his father’s death, the drinking. When Lily asked me to come, she mentioned he’d been “off” lately. I felt it the moment I saw him.
He nodded at me without speaking. His silence felt heavy, like a storm waiting to break.
“Come on,” Lily whispered, tugging me toward her room. “Let’s tackle these boxes before I change my mind.”
Her room looked like a thrift store had exploded—clothes spilling from drawers, stacks of books and keepsakes everywhere. We started folding shirts, laughing over childhood photos, filling boxes with fragments of her old life. For a while, it felt normal.
But Dylan lingered. First in the hallway, then drifting into the room, offering us water he didn’t drink himself. His eyes lingered on Lily too long, his words slow and flat, like they cost him effort.
“You okay?” Lily asked at one point.
He rubbed his eyes. “Didn’t sleep much. Walking again.”
I remembered his sleepwalking. He’d been doing it since he was a kid—wandering barefoot outside, muttering to people who weren’t there. Lily said it had gotten worse with the drinking.
“You should see a doctor,” I told him.
He shrugged, already drifting toward the fridge.
The afternoon dragged on, Dylan appearing and disappearing like a shadow. Sometimes he just stood there, watching. Once, I caught him gripping a framed photo of Lily and Derek, his knuckles white before he set it down.
When Lily left to grab tape from the store, the air seemed to collapse in on itself. Dylan sat on her bed, picking at a loose thread.
“So, Ava… Lily’s really leaving?”
“Yeah. She’s happy, Dylan. This is good for her.”
He leaned forward, his voice low. “I’ve always cared about her. More than she knows.”
The way he said it made my stomach knot. Before I could respond, he stood abruptly and walked out.
I finished packing one last box and went to the living room. Dylan was stretched across the couch, eyes shut, breathing steady. Maybe asleep. Maybe not. I scrolled through my phone, trying to ignore the crawling unease in my chest.
Then came the sound. A dull clink.
I looked up. Dylan was standing, eyes wide open but glassy, unfocused. His movements were jerky, puppet-like. He shuffled into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and pulled out a knife. The blade gleamed under the overhead light.
“Dylan?” My voice cracked.
He didn’t respond. Just turned, mechanical, and walked toward Lily’s room.
My body went cold. My phone slipped in my sweaty hand as I followed, whispering his name like saying it softer would break the spell.
He stood in the middle of Lily’s half-packed room, clutching the knife. His grip tightened. His lips moved.
“The shirt. You came in about the shirt.”
My heart hammered. He wasn’t awake. He couldn’t be.
The door opened behind me. Lily stepped in, tape in hand. “Hey, I—” She froze. “Dylan? What the hell are you doing?”
Her voice startled him. He turned, blank eyes cutting toward her, knife trembling in his hand.
“Dylan, stop!” I shouted. “He’s sleepwalking. Don’t—don’t touch him.”
“It’s a dream,” he whispered. “Just a dream.”
Then he lunged.
The blade tore across Lily’s arm. Her scream ripped through me. I grabbed her and pulled, dragging her toward the door. Blood sprayed across the boxes, across me.
“Run!”
We stumbled into the living room, Dylan’s footsteps pounding behind us. Lily tripped over a box, crashing to the floor. In an instant, he was on her, stabbing, over and over. The sound was sickening—wet, tearing, final.
I screamed and threw myself at him, clawing, hitting, anything to stop him. The knife flashed inches from my face as I shoved a chair between us. He swung again, snarling, his blank mask cracking into something darker.
“Stop! Dylan!”
The chair slammed into his arm. The knife clattered to the floor. For the first time, his eyes flickered, confusion flashing across his face. He blinked like he was waking up.
“What… what happened?”
I didn’t answer. I grabbed my phone, dialing 911 with bloody hands. “My sister’s been stabbed! Please—hurry!”
Lily gasped, choking on her own breath. I pressed down on her wounds, sobbing. “Stay with me, Lily. Please.”
When the sirens wailed outside, Dylan was still staring at his hands, shaking his head. “It was a dream. Just a dream.”
The police tackled him to the floor. He didn’t fight. He just kept repeating, “I didn’t mean to. I was sleeping.”
But Lily didn’t wake up.
Twenty-five stab wounds. That’s what the doctors counted.
In court, Dylan’s lawyers clung to the sleepwalking defense. They talked about his history, his father’s death, his drinking, his broken brain. But the jury saw what I saw in his eyes—that cold, jealous hunger he never admitted.
Life in prison. That was the sentence.
And me? I still see him when I close my eyes. That glassy stare, the knife in his hand, the moment he chose. Because whether he was asleep or awake, I’ll never know.
But the thought that he might have been pretending—that he knew exactly what he was doing—that’s the part that keeps me up at night.
"Insane Automatism":
I never imagined that moving back in with my brother would pull me into a waking nightmare. James and I had always been close—two kids growing up in a cramped little house, clinging to each other whenever the world got hard. When I lost my job and needed somewhere to stay, he welcomed me back without hesitation. He was the steady one. Always clocking long shifts at the factory, always coming home late, tired but gentle.
Our father, Edward, had retired years ago, living mostly in his armchair with a stack of battered books by his side. Our mother, Helen, kept the house humming like clockwork. For a while, everything felt safe—familiar walls, warm meals, and soft family routines. But then the nights started getting strange.
At first, it was small things. One evening after dinner, James went upstairs early, mumbling about exhaustion. I was in the kitchen, up to my elbows in soap and warm water, when footsteps creaked behind me. I turned and there he was in the doorway—eyes wide open but vacant, like he was staring through me into some invisible space.
“James?” I said quietly.
He didn’t answer. He crossed the linoleum like a sleepwalking marionette, opened the fridge, and pulled out a carton of milk. Without a word, he poured it straight onto the floor. Cold liquid spread across the tiles, soaking my socks. I grabbed his arm. “James, what are you doing?”
He blinked slowly, like surfacing from deep water. “Anna? Why’s the floor wet?” He genuinely didn’t know. We laughed it off—just a weird moment, a little stress maybe. But I didn’t like the way my skin prickled when he looked at me.
A week later, it happened again. Mom and I were watching TV in the dim living room while Dad had already gone to bed. James came downstairs stiffly, every movement jerky and deliberate, as though invisible strings pulled him. He unlocked the front door and stepped out into the dark yard in his pajamas.
Mom’s whisper was a thread of fear. “Anna, go get him before he wanders off.”
I followed him barefoot onto the cool grass. “James,” I called softly. “Come back inside.”
He stopped by Dad’s car, fumbling with the keys he’d somehow grabbed from the hook. When I touched his shoulder, he turned, face blank, mumbling about needing to fix the engine. I led him back in, and halfway up the stairs he blinked awake. “Why am I down here?”
The next morning over breakfast, Dad’s frown etched deep lines into his face. “This isn’t normal. Remember when you were a kid? You’d get up and rearrange your room at night.”
“Yeah,” James said, rubbing his temples. “But that stopped years ago. Maybe it’s just the shifts.”
“Or something else,” I said. “What if you hurt yourself one night?”
Mom’s voice trembled. “Please, see a doctor—for us.”
He sighed. “Fine. I don’t want to scare you.”
The doctor called it somnambulism—sleepwalking. He asked about stress, alcohol. James admitted to a couple beers after work. “Cut back,” the doctor advised. “Lock doors. Sleepwalkers can do complex things. Drive, even.”
Drive? We exchanged uneasy glances. It sounded impossible, but James promised he’d be careful. “I’m supposed to protect you,” he told me later on the porch. “Not the other way around.”
For a month, things went quiet. We installed a bell on his bedroom door to alert us if he got up. Dad started sleeping lighter, checking the locks. But safety has a way of lulling you, and that’s when it all cracked open.
One night after a family barbecue—James had a few drinks with Dad—the bell jingled in the dark. My room was across the hall; I slipped out, heart thudding, and saw his door ajar. Downstairs, faint metallic clinks rose from the kitchen.
I crept down, the wood cold under my bare feet. James stood at the counter holding a kitchen knife, slicing invisible vegetables through empty air. His eyes were wide, unfocused.
“James,” I whispered.
He turned slowly, blade catching the low light.
“Put that down,” I said.
He didn’t. He walked past me, out the back door into the driveway.
Dad’s car waited in the dark. James circled it, knife still in his grip. Then Dad appeared at the door, robe cinched hastily, hair disheveled from sleep.
“Son?” His voice was careful. “Give me the knife. You’re not awake.”
James stopped, staring. Dad stepped closer, palm out. “It’s all right, son.”
Then James lunged. The knife flashed; Dad dodged but James grabbed him, shoved him hard against the car.
“Stop!” I screamed, running forward.
“James, it’s me!” Dad gasped.
But James didn’t hear. The knife clattered to the pavement, but his fists rose instead—hard, fast blows to Dad’s face and chest. Blood bloomed on Dad’s lip. I grabbed James’s shirt, pleading. “Wake up! Please!”
He elbowed me aside and kept hitting. The sounds—thuds, cracks—were sickening. Dad slumped, groaning. James knelt over him, raining down punches.
Mom burst out with the phone in her hand, dialing emergency. She grabbed James’s arm. “Stop it!”
He shoved her; she fell onto the grass.
I snatched up a garden rock, heavy and rough, swung it at James’s shoulder. He grunted, turned toward me with those empty eyes. Blood smeared his hands—our father’s blood.
For a heartbeat, I thought he would come for me next. Then he blinked, shuddered, voice breaking. “Anna? What… Dad?” Horror filled his face. “What did I do?” He collapsed beside Dad, shaking him. “Wake up. Please wake up.”
Sirens rose in the distance.
The ambulance came too late. Dad died from his injuries—broken ribs, crushed skull, dozens of bruises and cuts. Police arrested James on the spot, confused and crying, repeating, “I don’t remember. I was asleep.”
At the station, he told them everything—the diagnosis, the episodes. “I loved my father. Why would I do this?”
The trial dragged on for weeks. Experts testified about sleepwalkers performing complex—even violent—acts. One doctor called it “the body on autopilot.” James’s childhood incidents came out. Mom spoke steadily on the stand: “My son would never hurt Edward on purpose. They were close.” I testified too, recounting the blank stare, the sudden snap to consciousness.
The prosecutor pressed. “You drank that evening, didn’t you? Argued with your father?”
James shook his head. “No argument. We were talking about old times.”
But the doubt hung heavy—was it rage or sleep?
Nights during the trial, I lay awake, replaying it: James’s fists, Dad’s pleas, the blood on the driveway. What if he’d turned on me or Mom? The house felt hollow, haunted by echoes of Dad’s voice.
“Do you think he meant it?” Mom asked one night over tea.
“No,” I said. “But it scares me. What if it happens again?”
She stared at her cup. “Me too.”
The jury deliberated for days. When they returned, the foreman read: “Not guilty by reason of insane automatism.” James sobbed. The judge ordered treatment in a secure hospital. “This wasn’t murder,” the judge said. “But everyone must be protected.”
Months later, James came home on medication, apologetic and changed. “I’ll never forgive myself,” he whispered at dinner. “Dad was everything to me.”
We tried to rebuild—family meals, quiet talks—but every night, I listen for footsteps. If the floor creaks, I sit up, heart hammering. I keep my door locked, my phone by my bed.
Because deep down, I know: the man who killed our father is still here, buried inside my brother, waiting in his sleep. And next time, it might be me.
"Locked Doors":
I had just shut down my laptop after a long night of hammering out college application essays when I heard it—the first sound from the backyard. A sharp, watery splash, faint but distinct in the stillness. It was close to midnight, the hour when the whole world feels like it’s holding its breath. Inside, the house was silent. My parents, David and Elena, had gone to bed hours earlier.
Dad had been muttering about the pool pump making weird noises lately, so I assumed he’d gotten up to tinker with it again. He was always fixing something—leaky pipes, loose hinges, the irrigation system—even at strange hours. It was his way of controlling the small problems life threw at him.
Dinner that night had been the usual ritual, a small island of normalcy. Mom’s pasta—fresh tomatoes from the garden, fragrant basil, a dish she made when she wanted to keep the family close. She’d smiled, though her eyes were tired.
“Alex, how’s the application going?” she asked, sliding the bowl to me. “Deadlines are coming.”
“It’s fine, Mom,” I’d said, twirling noodles. “Just a lot of essays. Dad, State’s engineering program—still a good choice?”
Dad had nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “Solid program. You’ll do well, son. Don’t stress too much. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders.”
Mom reached over and squeezed his hand. “Maybe we should plan a weekend away soon. Just the three of us. Before things get busy.”
He’d smiled faintly. “We’ll see.”
That conversation echoed in my head as I lay in bed, trying to will myself asleep. Then came that sound. A splash. Not a plop like a frog or raccoon. A body moving in water.
I sat up, heart hammering. Our house sat on the edge of a quiet Phoenix suburb, no close neighbors to overhear. Sometimes stray cats or coyotes found their way into the yard, but this felt different. Heavier. Intentional.
I swung my legs out of bed and padded down the hallway in socks, the tile cool under my feet. The kitchen was dark, except for a faint glow from the backyard. The back door was cracked open. Dad always locked up at night. Always.
I pushed it open and stepped onto the patio. The pool lights were on, casting an otherworldly blue across the rippling surface. For a second, nothing seemed amiss. The air smelled of chlorine and desert dust.
Then I saw her.
Mom floated face-down in the shallow end. Her nightgown ballooned around her like a pale jellyfish. For an instant my brain refused to process it. Was she swimming? At this hour?
“Mom?” My voice cracked in the cool air.
No response.
That’s when I saw Dad.
He stood at the edge of the pool, his back to me. His pajamas clung wetly to his body. In his hand—something metallic glinted under the pool light. A knife. Not just any knife, but the big one from the kitchen block, the one Mom used for carving roasts.
“Dad?” My voice was a whisper now, strangled. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t turn. His head tilted slightly, like he was listening to something far away. Slowly, mechanically, he bent and reached toward Mom. Red swirled into the blue water like ribbons of smoke.
Panic erupted in me like a fire. I ran forward, splashing onto the wet deck. “Dad! Stop! What’s happening?”
He didn’t look at me. His eyes—when he finally half-turned—were open but glassy, like windows with no one behind them. I knew that look. I’d seen it before when I was younger—him wandering the house in the middle of the night, moving pots and pans, muttering about deadlines. Mom would always guide him back to bed, saying softly, It’s just stress. He’s sleepwalking.
But this wasn’t wandering. This was violence.
“Mom!” I screamed, leaping into the water. The cold hit me like a slap. She was still alive—barely—bubbles rising weakly from her mouth. “Hold on!”
I grabbed for her, but Dad shoved me aside with terrifying strength. His movements were jerky but precise, like a puppet being controlled.
“David… please…” Mom gasped, voice gurgling with water. “It’s me…”
No flicker of recognition crossed his face. He pushed her under again. The water churned, stained with blood. I punched his shoulder, clawed at his arms. “Dad! Wake up! You’re killing her!”
The bubbles stopped.
I dragged her limp body to the steps, heaving her onto the tiles, hands slipping on the slick red. Stab wounds. How many? My stomach lurched. I checked for a pulse—nothing.
“Dad, what did you do?” My voice was a sob, ragged and small.
He just stood there, knife dangling, water dripping from his pajamas.
I bolted inside, grabbed the phone with trembling fingers, and dialed 911. “My dad—he attacked my mom. She’s not breathing. Please hurry!”
Back outside, Dad was moving again. Slowly, methodically, he carried the knife to the car in the side yard, shoving it and his wet clothes into the wheel well like he’d done it a hundred times before.
“Dad,” I whispered, “it’s Alex. Wake up.”
He turned toward me, blinking. For an instant, the glaze left his eyes. “Alex? What’s going on?” His voice was bewildered, normal. Then he saw her body and dropped to his knees. “Elena? No… what happened?”
Sirens wailed. Blue and red lights slashed across the yard. Police poured in, guns drawn, shouting. They cuffed him while he sputtered, “I was asleep. I don’t remember. The pool pump—I was fixing it…”
The days that followed were a blur of interviews, courtrooms, and headlines. Experts spoke of parasomnia, of people who could cook, drive—even kill—while asleep. Dad’s lawyers showed brain scans, sleep study charts, strange words like arousal disorder and homicidal somnambulism.
But the prosecution pointed to the hidden knife, the wet clothes stuffed into the car. “That’s consciousness,” they said. “That’s guilt.”
I testified, voice trembling. “His eyes were empty. He wasn’t awake.”
The neighbor’s testimony was worse. He’d seen it all from his window: Dad dragging Mom into the pool, holding her under without hesitation.
The jury deliberated for days. Guilty. Life without parole. Dad collapsed, sobbing. “I didn’t mean to… Elena, forgive me.”
Now, years later, I still visit him. He’s aged, broken. “Alex,” he asks each time, “do you think she knows it wasn’t really me?”
I nod, but the doubt gnaws at me. Because I’ll never forget the way he moved that night. So precise. So deliberate. Was it truly sleepwalking? Or something darker he hid all along?
I lock my bedroom door now. I lie awake at night listening for footsteps. Because if it could happen to him—a good man, a loving father—what’s to stop it from happening to me?
"Midnight Visit":
I had just folded the newspaper and set it on the coffee table when the clock in the hallway struck midnight. Its chime echoed faintly through the quiet house. Linda had gone to bed earlier, leaving the faint scent of her hand cream in the living room. Our daughter Anna was asleep upstairs, her door closed, her soft music barely audible through the floorboards. We lived in one of those quiet suburbs outside Chicago where the night always felt predictable, where neighbors waved, lawns were neat, and doors stayed unlocked without worry. It was a place where you felt safe—at least, we used to.
Our other daughter, Emily, lived about fifteen miles away with her husband, David. They visited often—Sunday dinners, birthdays, little unannounced drop-ins. David had always been polite, the kind of son-in-law who helped carry groceries without being asked. But lately, there’d been a shadow about him. He looked tired, edges frayed from factory shifts and whispered talk of money trouble. Once, over coffee, he mentioned betting on horses. Just in passing. We didn’t press.
That night, a sound cut through the quiet—a car rolling to a stop outside. At that hour, it felt out of place. Probably a neighbor, I thought. Or someone’s teenager sneaking back in. But then I heard the front door handle rattle. I frowned. Midnight visits were rare.
I got up, the carpet cool under my feet, and went to the door. When I opened it, David stood there.
He was barefoot except for damp socks, his pajama bottoms clinging to his legs, as if he’d walked through wet grass. His eyes were open but wrong—vacant, glassy, like marbles under dim porchlight.
“David?” My voice came out sharper than I meant. “What are you doing here? Is Emily okay?”
He didn’t answer. He stepped forward, past me, moving stiffly, like someone being pulled along by invisible strings.
I shut the door behind him, unsettled. “David? Talk to me. Did something happen? Where’s Emily?”
He went straight to the kitchen without looking at me. His hand hovered over the knife block, then gripped the carving knife we used for roasts. The steel glinted under the dim light.
“Hey,” I said, my voice rising. “Put that down. What’s going on?”
No reaction. He turned, the knife dangling at his side, and started for the stairs.
I grabbed his arm. “David! Stop.”
He shook me off with a strength that shocked me. Above us, footsteps. Linda’s voice floated down from the landing. “Robert? Who’s there?”
She appeared at the top of the stairs, rubbing her eyes, her nightgown soft against her legs. “David? Oh honey, what are you doing here so late?”
David climbed slowly, one step at a time. Linda smiled faintly, expecting some odd family emergency. Then she saw the knife.
“David,” she said, her voice catching, “why do you have that? Put it away, you’re scaring me.”
He reached the top step and lunged.
The blade went in quick—once, twice. Linda gasped, hands flying to her chest. Red bloomed on her nightgown like ink in water. “Robert! Help!”
I charged up the stairs, legs heavy as if I were moving through mud. “David! No!”
He turned toward me, his face blank—no rage, no recognition—just emptiness. The knife slashed across my arm, heat and pain flaring instantly. I stumbled back, gripping the wound. Linda slumped against the wall, sliding down. “Why… David…” she whispered.
Anna’s door opened then. Seventeen, hair mussed from sleep, she blinked at the scene. “Dad? Mom?” Her voice cracked. “What’s happening?”
Her eyes found David standing over Linda, knife dripping. She screamed—a sound that split the house in two.
David paused, head tilting toward her. He stepped forward, the knife rising.
“No!” I bellowed, launching myself at him despite the pain. I tackled him from behind, and we tumbled down the stairs. Wood splintered as we hit the banister. The knife skittered away.
David landed at the bottom, silent, already pushing himself up like a machine.
I scrambled for the phone, blood slick on my fingers as I dialed 911. “Please, send help! My son-in-law—he’s attacking us!”
The operator’s voice was calm. “Sir, stay on the line. What’s your address?”
I rattled it off, eyes on David. He had the knife again, climbing the stairs like a sleepwalker. Linda was still. Too still. Anna’s door slammed shut upstairs. Furniture scraped as she barricaded it.
“David, please!” I begged, following him up. “This isn’t you. Wake up!”
He pounded on Anna’s door with his fist. “Anna, open up! It’s me!” But his voice was flat, lifeless, like a recording.
Inside, Anna sobbed. “Go away! Dad, make him stop!”
I snatched a lamp from the hall table and swung. It cracked against his head. He staggered. For a moment, his eyes flickered—recognition, horror, confusion.
“What… where…” he mumbled, dropping the knife. His gaze darted to Linda’s body. “Oh God. What did I do?”
He fell to his knees, shaking. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder.
“Robert?” he whispered, eyes wild. “How did I get here? Linda… is she…”
The police burst through the door moments later, guns drawn. “Hands up! Drop the weapon!”
David raised his hands, trembling. “I don’t remember,” he kept saying as they cuffed him. “I was asleep. I swear, I was asleep.”
Paramedics tried to save Linda. They couldn’t. Anna clung to me, shaking. My arm needed stitches, but that pain was nothing compared to the silence in our house.
In the days after, Emily came to the hospital, eyes red. “Dad, what happened? David would never…”
“He came in the night,” I said. “Eyes open but not seeing.”
She nodded faintly. “He’s been sleepwalking again. Worse lately. The debts, the stress…”
The police questioned me for hours. “Did he say anything? Any argument?”
“No,” I said. “He acted like a machine.”
Doctors later confirmed it: homicidal somnambulism. Sleepwalking turned lethal.
At the trial, a sleep specialist explained to the jury how a brain can perform complex tasks in deep sleep—drive a car, unlock a door, even kill. Emily testified too, voice steady but breaking. “David loves my mom. He’d never do this awake.”
I testified last. “I saw his face that night. Blank. When he woke, he was horrified.”
The prosecutor pressed me. “But he stabbed your wife multiple times. Attempted to harm you and your daughter. Doesn’t that suggest intent?”
“If he were awake, yes,” I said quietly. “But he wasn’t. This wasn’t him.”
After days of deliberation, the verdict came: not guilty by reason of automatism. The room murmured. David wept. Emily hugged him, but I stayed back, unsure what forgiveness even meant anymore.
Life moved on, but differently. Anna moved out, too haunted to stay. Emily and David sought therapy. David started medication to suppress his episodes.
Months later, I visited them. David poured coffee with steady hands. “I take pills now. Doctors say it’s under control.” Emily smiled, but her eyes flicked toward him when he left the room.
That night, staying over, I woke to soft footsteps in the hallway. My heart stuttered. I opened the door. David stood there, eyes open but distant, staring at the wall.
“David?” I whispered.
He turned his head slowly. “Go back to bed,” he murmured, voice flat, then walked downstairs to make a sandwich. Harmless, this time.
But I didn’t sleep again that night.
Years passed. David rebuilt his life, paid his debts, became a different man. But at holidays, when I passed him the carving knife, I watched his eyes. Normal now. Smiling.
And yet, in the quiet moments, I still see the knife, the blood, Linda’s last breath.
I still listen for footsteps in the night. Because the scariest things aren’t always done by monsters. Sometimes they’re done by people who aren’t even there.