The Blue Man Grope

The bright sunlight was fading through the window as he lingered somewhere between sleep and wake after a busy day of classes. The only thing occupying his mind was rest. Not the major psych test he had the next day. Or the legends of the building known as Upperman Hall.

He opened his eyes in a gasp of air, seeing the white walls around him painted scarlet as the southern sun was setting. He turned his head and noticed that the temperature in the room was cold. He gasped for air again. Then he exhaled. And he saw his breath.

He readied himself to rise from his place on the bed to check the thermostat. Laying on his stomach, he started pushing up with arms. But he froze. Was he still asleep, he thought. Then a blue fog overcame him, and he thought he could no longer breathe.

His face was turned into his pillow. He bit the stale tasting case as he tried to breath in some air. His face was white with his own saliva draining from his mouth.

Was it some sick intruder?

Was I going to die?

Many things rang through his head during those moments. But, then, he wasn't allowed the opportunity to think anymore.

Although he knows it only happened in a matter of seconds, to him it felt like minutes.

Hours.

Days.

But what he surely does remember is the feel of cold, stone-like hands gripping his shoulders. The granite fingertips tore into his shoulderblades. Then they lifted him. For a second he saw the room around him. The sun was all but gone and the room was surrounded in a blue haze.

It was him.

In a second, his face was slammed against his spit and tear stained pillow.

As his head was raised then quickly slammed again, he couldn't breathe or move. All he could do was think to another resident's story. He said it started out as a blue dot in the corner of the room that grew larger and more defined. There were amorphous hands and a smile. And a laugh.

Then he remembered how he laughed at the guy's story. "What a load of bullshit," he said.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of distant laughter and his face hitting the pillow once again. The cold hands let go as air entered his lungs once again. He gasped loudly, and it echoed throughout the old cinder block room. Tears from both fright and relief swam out of his eyes. He laid there for what he thought was hours, crying at the world.

I'll never forget his face as he told me what happened later that night. The terror in his words was more real than the stars above us or the cool feel of the breeze. I hovered in between wonder and doubt, and I knew he could sense it. So he took his shirt off.

There, in neat rows across each one of his shoulders, were four fingertip-like bruises. It was then I could almost feel his pain and would never doubt the many tales of terror I heard from residents of the old building.