The Retired Professor Sleep Paralysis Demon

I’ve had a few very strange things happen to me throughout my life, but the absolute strangest happened to me in my 20s (very long time ago 👵🏼).

Chapter One

I was a junior in college, and was very, very, very broke. At the time, I won what I thought was the lottery by getting a highly coveted, rent controlled room in a massive, 6 bedroom Victorian. It was a self proclaimed Anarchist house out in Oakland, which meant the parties were absolutely fantastic.

Living with 5 people is…an experience. Of the 5 roommates, I absolutely adored 2 of them, but was fully distrustful of the sketchy couple who charged us all way too much for the wifi bill. The 5th one was cute. Obviously, I made the ill fated, irrevocable decision to start sleeping with him. He had a drum set in his bedroom and didn’t want anything serious, so naturally, I needed him to fall in love with me. He never did.

Back to the broke thing. So, I really need you to understand the broke-ness of it all. I slept on a stack of yoga mats for the first 3 months in that house until I could afford a mattress. I would ride my bike or take BART all the way to campus, go to classes, go to work, sleep with the drummer sometimes, and then rinse and repeat. My rent was $500 and that was the upper ceiling of what I could afford. So, that kind of broke.

When we got an eviction notice from our landlord saying he was going to kick us out, it was very bad. This was a common thing happening all over the Bay Area at the time. My roommates and I had stabilized rent, but the rent for the rest of bay had skyrocketed. We found a pro bono lawyer who said he could help us. As a true anarchist, I didn’t trust lawyers 👀 Fine, that’s a lie, I was just a complete coward at the time who couldn’t trust that anything would ever go ok. It rarely did back then.

I decided it was time to jump ship…I also really needed to break the drummer’s heart...so that he could stop breaking mine.

I started combing everywhere I could until I came across a post on the University's Facebook housing page that I couldn’t believe. A retired professor who had taught at Stanford, was looking for someone to occupy her tiny, very charming back house. The rent was about $300/month with an agreement to work for the professor for about 10 hours/week. The work seemed pretty harmless - help with tech, responding to emails, getting groceries, watch her dog etc. 

I threw together every shred of evidence I could find that validated my general good person-ness and hardworking-ness, and packaged it all in a heartfelt email. She called me two days later. Her name was Deb. She sounded polite, elderly, sweet. Deb asked me to come to her house to meet in person. So I did.

When I showed up at her house, I thought it was the strangest, most beautiful, San Franciscan hippie house I’d ever seen. It was in the Hills with a fantastic view of the East Bay. Angular, loud colors, perhaps even a little clownish. I loved it.

Before I could knock, the door opened and I was greeted by a short and frail looking woman with piercing blue eyes. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes did not. I couldn’t tell if it was because she was being a fake bitch or - that’s when I noticed her skin was pulled taut towards her ears...she couldn't move her face because there just wasn't enough skin to move. Deb had a face lift? I was instantly elated. Deb was not the stereotypical feminist professor I had imagined. This old woman is interesting and vain and tortured and chaotic. I was there for it.

We sat down in her dimly lit living room where we talked. She told me about herself, her published books on feminism, her health issues, her childhood in the Bay. She seemed just like a very sweet, timid, old lady who was struggling to live her life because her hips were giving out on her. I felt bad.

Her face would twitch every so often as she spoke. Her cough was flem-y and rough, in sharp contrast to her soft, light voice. I couldn't stop starting at her tiny dog, Louie, who had the eyes of an old man trapped in a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel's body. He looked tired and annoyed and was definitely judging me. She, however, seemed to like me, and I was already determined to like her before I walked in the front door. She gave me the job on the spot.

I abandoned my roommates, decided the weird thing with the drummer had run dry anyway, aka I was now dating a super buff tech guy (the enemy, so it was hot). And of course, I made sure to parade the tech guy, shirtless, all over the house. Yes, it was getting awkward. And yes, it made the drummer jealous. He still would not love me, but he did help me move my furniture.

Finally, the last piece I needed to move was my bed frame and my prized mattress. The one I had saved for 3 months for. The one that had saved my back. That fated day. That was the day it all changed. I called Deb to ask her what I should do with the mattress in the room and she rushed downstairs, bursting in through my little french doors.

"You can't move the mattress, it comes with the room."
"Oh, but I have a brand new mattress I would love to use instead."
"No, no, no, this mattress stays. I need it here for when you eventually move out."
"Can I store it somewhere?"
"No, you have to use it. End of discussion."

By the end, her voice was deep and bitchy. I conceded silently. Alright Deb, I guess I'll use this crusty af, old, shitty mattress.

That was my first night sleeping at Deb's. I was still paying double rent and spiraling about what I would do about my beloved mattress. I had 10 days left and needed a plan...I immediately passed out. Plan-less.

I'm not sure how long I was asleep, but I was violently woken up by an overwhelming buzzing. It wasn't a sound. It was a feeling that had possessed my whole body. It felt like electricity was building in every part of me, shooting through me, paralyzing me. I couldn't move my mouth, my arms or legs, but I could open my eyes.

And that's when I saw Deb. My french doors were wide open and Deb was floating above me, staring down with black eyes, expressionless. I was like, "What in the actual fuck Deb. I'm trying to fucking sleep. Can you knock next time?" But the words were trapped in my head. That's when I heard a high pitched sound. It felt like the electricity in my body was building while the sound grew louder and louder. That's when I was like "fuck, maybe Sister Maria was on to something about the whole God thing," and I recited the prayer I learned at my Catholic elementary school to ward off demons, except I couldn't say or even think the words. That's when I fucking exploded.

Deb isn't done. Subscribe below for Chapter Two.