The Visitor

An essay by JOLEZYA ADEYEMO

My dark visitor first came to me when I was about ten years old.

During the day and early in the evening, there was nothing to indicate that I was about to experience the scariest night yet in my short life. It was dead quiet as I lay safe under the cover of my duvet. Somewhere in between sleeping and waking, I felt a sinister presence in the room, an unwelcome visitor. I was overcome with a sense of dread, and I couldn’t shake the thought that I was in danger. I thought I saw a shadowy figure out of the corner of my eye. Something supernatural, devilish even, might be out to get me. I tried to turn to see, to be certain what I felt was truly there, but I couldn’t move. I was paralysed. 

I wondered if my paralysis was due to fear or exhaustion. Either way, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t move. I tried to speak, to tell this sinister figure to leave, maybe even to dare ask what it wanted. I couldn’t speak. I was mute. Trying to summon what energy I had to move or speak only made me feel weaker. My chest tightened and, though I wasn’t out of breath, it took a little more effort to breathe.

I tried to will the presence away, order it to leave with my mind. I tried to exude a sense of authority in my mental commands.

I pictured a cloaked figure standing close to me, reaching out its hand but not managing to touch me. A chill ran through me despite it being the middle of summer. I tried to cling tighter to my duvet, but still couldn’t make even the slightest movement.

I don’t know how long I was immobilised—seconds, minutes, or hours. But suddenly it was over. I felt exhausted but was able to move again. I turned to look, but the intruder was gone, or maybe there never was an intruder.

I was scared to fall back asleep, but eventually I did. My exhaustion won and I succumbed to it. Similarly, the following evening, I was afraid to go to bed. I told myself it probably wouldn’t happen again and tried to self-soothe. The Visitor didn’t return the next night. I hoped to never encounter it again. Little did I know that the visits wouldn’t end. They would be rare, but this was only the first of several unpredictable visits that would occur over the years.  

Meanwhile, I questioned whether the previous night’s events really happened or whether I was losing my mind.

If it really did happen, then why? Had I committed some grave sin? Was it time to pay for my indiscretion? Was I, the good Catholic girl—compliant, obeying the rules set by my faith and the people around me—guilty of some transgression? And this figure with the power to immobilise me had come for its reckoning. But first, it wanted to observe me, let me know something was coming. What could be coming? Could it be emotional torment or death? It was a form of purgatory, an incomplete torture or punishment.

And during the event, I genuinely wondered if I would make it through the night. Was it a bad omen? Was my room haunted, or was it more that I was personally haunted—destined to be followed by this figure wherever I went? 

Was it a demon being sent by Satan himself? It might seem an odd thought, but I wondered if an average girl like me was relevant enough for such a visit. I didn’t think anything about me warranted the attention of supernatural dark forces. 

I was burdened with endless questions but found no answers. Questioning the situation was futile.

The following morning, I was in a haze, and I felt lethargic for the rest of the day. Still questioning whether anything had happened, whether it was my imagination or maybe a nightmare, even though I never had nightmares.

I imagined a masculine figure, tall but hunched over, dressed in a hooded cloak. But maybe this was a cartoonishly evil character influenced by books and movies I had watched.

I chose not to tell anyone what happened, not even when it happened again a few months later.

I feared being doubted, but worse, I feared being believed and what the consequences of that would be. Being believed would likely lead to some sort of intervention, and I was anxious about what that might involve. I worried about whether the treatment would be mentally and physically taxing, if I could handle it, and if it would work. As scared as I was, I was also angry. If this visitor was going to come to me, it should at least do something. Why come to me and simply observe me? If you mean to cause harm, then do so. Get it over with. If you mean well, then why appear in a way that rouses fear in me? Why appear only at night or in the early morning hours, before the sun’s light emerges? While I feared this visitor, I also began to label it a coward and a bully: powerful enough to scare me, hold me captive in my own body, but not strong enough to do more. Scared to be seen, only allowing its presence to be felt but not allowing itself to be seen. What was the point? To terrorise me emotionally, incapacitate me for pleasure, only to leave me able to move again but confused? It was an offensive waste of my time. Either do your bidding or leave me alone, I thought.

I locked away the experience in a mental box. The Visitor came to me a handful of times in my tween and teen years, then returned intermittently from my mid-20s onwards. It was always during the night or early hours of the morning. I would lie awake, gripped by fear, needing to see this intruder, attempting to turn and lay my eyes on it, only to find myself unable. As if held down by an invisible force.

I hoped every visit would be the last. Sometimes years passed, and I thought they had ended for good. Over time, I mostly forgot about these events. When I remembered, I relegated them to a strange, closed chapter of my life.

I wondered if The Visitor would ever appear during the day, in broad daylight, or in the presence of others. If so, would anyone else feel it, maybe even see it?

Though the visits followed the same pattern, two incidents stood out. Usually, the figure stayed still, glued to one spot as it gazed at me. We were both frozen in time. Only on two occasions did it move closer, sit on my bed, and lie down next to me. In my paralysed state, I marvelled at the audacity of this entity. It kept its distance on other nights, but to lie next to me was a boldness I had never encountered. This was an escalation, a new boundary crossed. I was more vulnerable with the presence closer than ever before. 

I lay there, helpless, until it rose and left. As usual, my ability to move and speak returned once it was gone. I reached across the bed where I had felt it, almost as if to confirm it had really gone. 

Eventually, enough years passed that I thought the visits were truly over. When The Visitor returned unexpectedly, it was especially shocking because of where I was. At this time, I was living in Ghana, and this was the first time it had followed me across international borders. It had always appeared in Zambia before, never in any other country I visited.

I was the only occupant of this home. I had locked and bolted the doors as usual, yet I sensed someone standing next to my bed one early morning as I awoke. I thought it must be a thief with no sense, or worse, a predator. But when I realised, try as I may, that I couldn’t move, and that feeling of an otherworldly wicked presence washed over me, I understood that this was my dark visitor again. This mysterious visitor was seemingly not bound by man-made borders. I was just as helpless against this visitor in Accra as I was in Lusaka. I was shocked but not as shaken as I was after the earlier encounters.

By this time, I had come across some articles years prior. They detailed a sleep disorder. It could occur when falling asleep or waking. It was typically accompanied by hallucinations, a feeling of an evil presence in the room, an inability to move or speak, and a feeling of pressure on one’s chest. Reading this, I had no doubt this was the condition I had experienced. I now had a name to give to my mysterious episodes. Checking on social media, I read up on other people’s experiences and related. People jokingly referred to their visitor as a sleep paralysis “demon,” a moniker I embraced now, knowing that this was not the kind of demon I needed to worry about.

As I continued to search, I found tips to tackle sleep paralysis: improve your sleep hygiene (a range of healthy habits to promote better sleep), avoid sleeping on your back (it only ever happens when I sleep on my back), and reduce stress (easier said than done).

Despite a better understanding of the condition, episodes are still frightening and frustrating. You can’t help but panic when suddenly finding yourself unable to move or speak, worse still when your breath becomes laboured in an instant.

It’s been over eight years since The Visitor followed me across arbitrary international borders. I thought I had left it there because that was the last time it came for me. However, recently, I experienced another episode of sleep paralysis in Lusaka, where we first met. Initially, as I lay in bed, I found myself confused, wanting to move but feeling unable to, not because of tiredness but seemingly from an unknown force overpowering me. Then I felt it, the dark visitor. My confusion grew until I remembered I had experienced this before. I calmed down and waited. I knew the scary situation would pass sooner or later. When it was over, I wondered if this would be the final episode, the last visit. Experience, however, has shown me that I should never expect it to be the last. When my demon visitor returns, I will remain motionless, feeling the weight of its presence, yet anchored by the quiet certainty that I am safe. Powerless in the moment, but empowered by understanding.