As we welcome the festive season in October, I thought it would be appropriate if my first article was personal, with a blend of spooky-- really spooky.

So, I grew up haunted. It's not something I advertise-- I've only told my stories to a select few. These events are prominent to my presence. I still sleep with the lights on, my toes never stretch enough to stroke the edge of the bed and I always have to sleep with a blanket or sheet over my face. My back faces the wall at all times (not that I can see or breathe well with the blanket/sheet in the first place) and I avoid 3 a.m. like I avoid most clowns. I’m not sure why. If something wanted to jump out of the closet and take me hostage, I'm sure a thin layer of fabric would do nothing to stop it (or them, I suppose). Perhaps it's about feeling secure.

Anything to make us feel safe in fight or flight situations.

Let's start from the beginning. I was the tender age of six when my family moved into our old house. I think the only part about it I liked was the single towering tree in the backyard, but even that felt ominous under some circumstances. There was an above ground pool connected to the balcony, unused and torn for years. The grass rarely grew. If the exterior wasn’t uncomfortable enough, the interior was worse. We had large glass doors and windows facing the yard which, for the longest time, had nothing to cover them. I still have lingering sensations of what it felt like to be watched by shadows.

I’m not sure where I received the information but I knew, even at that age, 3 a.m. was paramount for spiritual activity and negative spiritual activity at that. I could always feel a presence in the house from day one to the last. Past midnight, if I had to go to the bathroom or needed a glass of water, it could wait until morning.

There was one exception.

One of my Dad’s friends was invited to stay a few nights at our house. He spoke Bangla, like us. So, that night, in my half-asleep state, my 7-year-old groggy self-eyed the clock-- 2:58 am. The warm light from the living room seeped in from under the door and I heard a deep, calm voice in mid conversation . I sat up for a moment, listening. During the pauses, there was no reply. Often times, my Mom would be up late hours making long distance phone calls to our extended family. I didn’t see anything unusual about this. Breaking habit, I felt fearless enough to crawl out of bed and approached the door. It wasn’t like I was the only one awake. The conversation heated; the voice rose several octaves, coarse and bellowing. I should have known something was off when I couldn’t comprehend a single word uttered. I twisted the knob.

Back then, I was into horror movies. I loved them even though sleepless months would ensue after every single one. In them, when faced with acute fear, we’re shown to sprint, scream or hide from immediate threat. Fight or flight. None of that happened with me. I stepped out into the hall. The living room light was on-- I had seen it from under the door. When I was met with complete darkness and silence, I forgot my need to go to the bathroom. Not quite confusion, but a strange calm settled within. Cautiously, as if the floor contained pieces of loose glass, I tiptoed to the living room. The lamp was near the glass door, all the way across the room. Even if it was a coincidence, there was no possible way for someone to flip the light off and scramble to hide or go to their respective rooms, as I occupied the only other entry way.

I ran to my parents' bedroom next. I was met with my Dad’s gentle snores and the rise and fall of my Mom’s shoulders. Last one left, I thought, as I faced the guest bedroom. I didn’t want to peek inside; what would that mean for me if our guest had been asleep, too? I reached for the knob, breathing shallow. I had to know. I cracked the door, three inches at most, just enough to poke my nose in. There, on the bed, a lump of a slumbering body. I closed the door and stared at it. The flight must have kicked in then because I don’t remember shutting my own door, or climbing back into my own bed, or pulling the covers over my shoulders. I glanced at the clock. 3 a.m. on the dot.

I didn’t sleep. I waited until my Mom woke to explain the series of events. She reassured me it was all just a bad dream. I remember being frustrated, hurt and terrified at her refusal to believe me. Eventually, I let it go.

A few years later- I must have been 12- I awoke to see the red numbers of my clock. 2:58 am. It was the middle of winter. I wasn’t sure why my senses were acute and tense, or the reason for my waking. The only window in the room was shut, the air eerily silent. I was cocooned in blankets, unable to relax. After staring at the ceiling for a good minute, I began to study the shadows in the room. I often avoided this, afraid of what I’d see. But I did so that night, not realizing I was breaking habit yet again.

There was the giant vanity with a half circle mirror that must have spanned four feet. Stacked books and folders occupied one end and a table fan was secured at the other. Not sure why my eyes settled on the latter. Between the fan and the edge of the vanity was a good amount of space to keep it from falling. It had been there all summer, undisturbed, everyone too lazy to move it. But it did move. At that very second, the fan tipped over. Not from the side as if sliding off the edge, but tipped to fall forward. As if pushed from the back (the back being the mirror). Slowly, afraid to draw attention to myself, I brought my knees to my chest. My eyes went to the clock again. 3 am.

It wasn’t until three summers ago that we moved to our current house. One evening, I brought up the topic once more. Memories could lie. It had been 10 years. I knew the things I saw and heard were real, but doubt always settled when no one believed. Could it really have been a dream? A figment of my irrational imagination?

That’s when Mom confessed she had wholeheartedly accepted everything I told her of that first time and every other freaky incident after as truth. She still refuses to tell me of her own hauntings, but we both know a terrible, unwelcome presence had been dwelling with us for 10 years. Her excuse for tricking me back then: What kind of mom would confess to their 7-year-old child they had encountered the supernatural? Not mine. But the damage had been dealt and the hauntings continue. A mirror can never, ever be placed before my bed again. Fans and vanities can never go together. I still recall the specific tremor to that voice all those years back. I wonder what language it was. I wonder why I was the only witness.