My Father Punished Me When I Talked to I asked Father about Ellie. He didn’t want to and the shelves began to shake.
lves began to shake. “Stop it!” I
Ghosts
I’ve been blind since birth. As I grew up,
everything was described to me in such vivid
detail that I didn’t even realize why it was that
important to see, especially having no
reference point to compare it. We lived in a
single-floor ranch house, that’s what Father
told me. In my mind, of course, I could see,
although unlike how a sighted person could. I
had spatial awareness. I knew where my
bedroom was, where the bathroom, living
room and kitchen were. Each wall had its own
texture. I don’t know if that was done on
purpose, or if I could feel things others never
noticed.
I rarely fell over. Only if Father, or one of the
visitors, put something somewhere they
shouldn’t have. It was usually the visitors, and
Father would shout.
They visited infrequently, and only briefly
when they did. Father said I shouldn’t speak
to them, that it unsettled him. He’d worry
when I saw something he didn’t, saw it with
my ears or by touch.
Ellie was the first. She seemed very sweet.
She asked me my name and why my face was
so messed up. She was in the living room. I
could hear where she sat from her breaths.
Harsh nasal sounds, as if her nose was
blocked. When father had a cold, he’d always
breath through his mouth, big labored
breaths, as he wasn’t used to it.
When people mentioned my face, I always
touched it, trying to work out why it was so
strange to them. When I asked if I could touch
theirs, there was always a pause. I guessed
sighted people never did that. Why would
they need to?
When I asked Ellie if I could touch her face,
she reluctantly agreed, but moments later
Father entered the room and asked me who I
was speaking to. I told him, “Nobody.” He
would always punish me when I spoke about
them. I think it scared him. He’d take my arm
and march me off. I’d be knocked off-balance
and disoriented, to the point where when he
finally set me down, my hands would
frantically search my surroundings until I
knew where I was. It was usually my
bedroom, though every now and then he’d
leave me outside, in the middle of nowhere.
That was the worst. I would be lost and
scared. He told me about the road that ran in
front of the house, and explained that the
sounds I heard were cars, that they’d kill me if
they touched me. Those sounds were my only
means of recognizing my surroundings. I
waited until I heard one, and then knew
which way to run back to the house.
I heard Ellie that evening. She whispered to
me, saying she was scared. I whispered back,
but she didn’t hear.
1
talk about her. I asked him why. He didn’t
reply. When I told him that she asked about
my face, he asked me how I responded. I told
him I wanted to touch hers. He laughed,
though I knew he wasn’t happy. I could hear
the difference. When you laugh for pleasure,
your mouth is wide open. When you pretend,
your mouth is almost closed. To me, the
difference is obvious.
It wasn’t until I was older that he explained.
He said we lived in a special place, connected
to the “other world”. That sometimes dead
people slip through, people who died in pain
and wanted to reach the living. He explained
that because I couldn’t see, I was able to tune
in to that. That they knew I was listening
when others weren’t. He said I had to ignore
it. Otherwise, he told me, they’d latch on and
never leave me. All the dead want is to be
alive again, he said. It was dangerous, and
they would trick me. He said he knew how to
deal with them, but he couldn’t help if they
became attached to me.
Alex appeared to me a few years later. She
told me she was lost and didn’t know where
she was. I told her I wasn’t allowed to speak
to her. Still, she pleaded for help. I kept quiet,
knowing what would happen if I said
anything. “Did you speak to them?” Father
asked. Though I was upset, I told him no. I
wished I could help her. I knew what it was
like to be lost, and it scared me.
Alex didn’t whisper to me at all. I’d ignored
her, and she ignored me. Father saved me,
and I was thankful.
After Alex, I knew what I needed to do, so I
did it. The spirits stopped bothering me after
that, for a very long time. That was, until
Sarah appeared.
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Sarah didn’t give me a chance to be quiet. I
was on my own, sitting in the living room and
listening to the television. “Help,” she said. “I
need to find a way out.” I stayed silent. “You
can hear me, can’t you?” she asked, surprised.
“I’m not allowed to speak to you,” I told her.
“Please,” she begged. “I’m scared, I’m lost. I
want to see my daddy.” I gripped the arms of
the chair and told her I wasn’t allowed.
“He’s dead,” she said. I didn’t answer. “Your
father is dead,” she said again.
I wasn’t going to fall for it. I heard banging
from around the room as things began to fly,
shouted. And it did.
“Please help me leave,” she said.
I wasn’t going to talk to her. I did the only
thing I thought would help. I unlocked the
front door, hoping she’d run out and get lost,
just like I would do. When I heard from her no
more, I locked the door and sat back down. I
listened intently for any signs she was still
there. Except for the sounds of the TV, it was
silent.
I hated when my heart raced. I became all too
aware of the tick-tock feeling of the rise and
fall within my chest, like it was about to
explode. When I heard my father’s voice, I
screamed.
“Son,” he said, “I need your help. I think I’m
dying.”
I did what he told me to do; I didn’t speak. If
he did die, he’d never leave me. Instead, I
raced out into the open air and shouted for
help. I shouted until my voice was hoarse. I
heard the sounds of cars racing along the road
in front of my house. I shouted until I heard
someone respond. It was a woman.
“What’s wrong?” they asked. I told them I
think my father was dying. They asked what
had happened to my face. I pleaded with
them to help me, and they promised they
would.
I sat down on the grass and waited. Sometime
later, the woman returned to me and asked if
she could hold my hand. “I’m so sorry,” she
told me. I heard the sounds of sirens, and of
people rushing. I asked what was going on.
The woman said she was there for me.
As the noise died down, a man asked me a
question. “I’m a paramedic,” he said. “What
happened to your face?” I told him I was fine.
He asked if I was sure, and I told him I was. He
asked if I minded him touching my face. I said
it was okay.
A moment later, I felt a pressure release from
around my forehead and the air felt cold
against my skin. It sounded as if he were
peeling an orange. I imagined that in my head
and worried he’d expose my insides. I
screamed and asked what he was doing. He
told me everything was going to be okay, and
the woman squeezed my hand, telling me to
be brave.
I didn’t know what it was I was experiencing. I
felt a tight pain within my head, like when you
smash your shin against something hard,
followed by something I’ve come to
understand as “bright”. It hurt so much. I
began to cry.
“What happened to your eyes?” the
paramedic asked. I said I was blind. He asked
to check them. The pain returned when he
examined them.
“Do you know him? the man asked the
woman who had helped me. She told him that
I had been screaming for help and that she
had come to my aid, but that she had never
met me before.
“How long have you had your eye injury?” he
asked me. I told him I’d been blind from birth.
He asked me if I could see his fingers. I told
him no. He asked if I could open my eyes. I
said I didn’t know what he meant. He asked if
he could open them for me. I didn’t respond.
Then I felt his fingers on my face, fingers
covered in something rubbery. Suddenly, it
became “bright” again. I screamed.
He tried to calm me. The woman squeezed
my hand again. I didn’t know what was
happening. Things I couldn’t describe came to
me. It was like it always was, but multiplied
one hundred-fold, and so much more real. I
carried on screaming as a fuzzy form came
into view.
“Just breathe, okay?” the paramedic said.
“Everything will be fine. When was the last
time you saw?” As my heart began to calm
and my breathing slowed, I became distracted
by what I was experiencing. It overwhelmed
me. I wanted to cry, and I did. “How long has
it been?” he asked again.
“I’ve never seen anything before,” I told him.
******
I was told to keep an eye mask on for most of
the day, only taking it off at night at first, to
allow my eyes time to adjust. At the same
time, I was placed in the custody of my aunt
and uncle, and didn’t even know it at first.
They were shocked at what happened to me,
and that I had never attended school.
The past few years have been a rollercoaster
ride. The doctors said I may never have
perfect vision, though what little I have is a
Godsend, and I’ll take what I can get. I’ve only
recently been learning to read and write, so I
apologize if my English isn’t the greatest. It’s
the best I can do.
I’ve been asking my aunt what happened to
my father, but all she says is that he died of a
heart attack. I asked what sort of man he was.
She says he was her brother and she’ll love
him no matter what. My uncle doesn’t want
to talk about him at all.
I’ve been using the computer a lot recently,
and really enjoying the internet. I can’t
believe such a thing exists. After being so
lonely for so long, I can talk to whoever I
want, when I want, though I’m wary of that.
After all, how do I know if who I’m speaking to
2
is alive? No one seems to share my father’s
concerns about that.
Today I was on a forum discussing the spirit
world – I was so happy to find people who I
could relate to – and someone curious about
my username sent me a link to an article on a
true-crime website. It was about my father,
and mentioned me by name. They asked me
who I was, and if I was the same person.
According to the article, my mother had gone
missing soon after my birth. It said I’d been
bound so that I couldn’t see. That my father
always wanted a daughter.
They found fourteen bodies in the basement.
They said one got away, a girl by the name of
Sarah Frank. She was the one to call the
police. They found Father’s car parked around
the back of the house. They supposed he
carried his victims into the basement via the
storm entrance and left them there. Sarah
had managed to get away after she agreed to
be his daughter following four days of
sustained torture. She stabbed him with a
knife he’d placed on the counter to butter
some toast.
I didn’t want to believe it. And I am not sure I
would have, if it weren’t for the names of the
victims, two of which stuck out: Ellie Farmer
and Alex Riddle. I’d spoken to them both in
the living room.
To this day, I wonder if my father had been
honest with me about a single thing in his life.
Throughout it all, one question remains above
all others.
Did I speak to Ellie and Alex before, or after,
he killed them.
Charles Bonnet Syndrome
I suffer from a condition called Charles Bonnet
Syndrome, or Visual Release Hallucinations if
you want to get more technical.
It’s a condition that’s far more common than
you might realize — it’s estimated that as
many as half of people with gradual loss of
vision will experience one or more bouts over
their lifetime. Yet I’m willing to bet that most
of you have never heard of it.
The reason for that is because most sufferers
are scared to tell anybody what we
experience. I know I was.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. My name is
Andrew and I’m 26. Two years ago I woke up
with awful blurred vision, every single edge
and detail clouded as if somebody had
smeared Vaseline on a camera lens. It never
got better.
I was scared then, and got over to Doctor
Harper’s surgery as fast as I could, suddenly
needing to take a cab rather than climb in the
car I’d driven without incident ever since I’d
bought it three years prior.
The doctor did some tests, asked me some
questions (‘Have you been much thirstier
lately?’, ‘How often do you urinate?’, ‘How
would you describe your tiredness levels?’)
and then gave me the diagnosis that changed
my life forever.
Diabetes.
Type-One.
He explained that I would need to take insulin
shots with every meal, that eating the wrong
foods without monitoring my blood sugar
could see me drop into a coma — or worse.
Then he got to my eyes.
‘Andrew, your diabetes has resulted in
maculopathy. Do you know what that is?’
I shook my head dumbly, already reeling with
the shock of my diagnosis, and Dr. Harper
went on.
‘It’s when the diabetes affects the blood
vessels at the back of your eye, blocking them
and causing them to leak into the macula, the
central part of your retina that helps you to
perceive color and fine detail. When these
blood vessels leak into the macula, it can
cause significant damage.’
With a lump in my throat, I asked: ‘OK, so how
do we make this better?’
I couldn’t see Harper’s face properly when he
spoke, but his tone of voice was enough to
tell me what I’d been dreading.
‘I’m sorry, Andrew,’ he replied gravely.
‘Perhaps if we’d caught this a little sooner we
might have had some treatment options
available to us, but I’m afraid the damage has
been pretty extensive. We can take steps to
arrest the development of the condition, but
I’m afraid it’s irreversible.’
I felt as if my world had come crashing down
around me. I was just 24, still at my physical
peak. I was active, playing basketball and
cycling a couple of times a week. And now my
health, my body and my sight had been taken
from me.
The first six months were tough. I broke up
with my girlfriend, a sweet girl called Holly
who tried to make it work but couldn’t
because I was so damn angry all the time. I
lost my job, because if there’s one thing an
architect needs it’s his eyes. I even fell out
with a lot of my friends, making excuses to
not meet with them until they stopped asking.
In truth it was jealousy on my part, envy that
they got to keep on living while everything I’d
ever hoped for had been snatched away.
I became a recluse, never leaving my
apartment, barely bothering to wash, shave
or get dressed each day. I was so sure that my
life was over, I stopped even trying to live it.

I was an asshole.
It took me a long time to realize this, but in
the end, it was the nurse assigned to visit me
at home, a tall, no-nonsense, experienced
woman called Lois who brought this to my
attention.
‘You’re an asshole,’ she said.
‘What?’ I gasped, shocked at her language.
‘So you’ve got diabetes, do you know how
many people do?’ she asked, then, before
waiting for my answer, she continued: ‘Do
you think they all hide in their apartments,
refusing to get on with their lives? Losing your
vision is a terrible thing and you do have my
sympathy, but, Andrew, it’s no excuse to give
up.’
‘But you don’t…’ I argued, trying to defend
myself, but she hadn’t finished.
‘Understand?’ she growled. ‘One of the
bravest men I know was paralyzed from the
neck down when he was just a child and he
hasn’t given up. You can do so much more
with your life, and you have people that want
to help you do that, but you can’t even be
bothered to shave that ugly fucking beard off.
Stop being a crybaby and make a fucking
difference.’
Of course, it didn’t happen overnight, and I
argued with her. I was furious at her blunt
insensitivity and told her to leave. I said I’d tell
her superiors, but she laughed and told me I
wouldn’t.
‘You won’t because you’re a smart guy and
you’ve got too much pride for that,’ she said.
‘I’ll see you next week.’
That night I shaved. I opened my curtains and
actually looked around. Things were blurry,
but when I really looked, I could see the
things scattered around my home. The mess
I’d let it become.
When Lois came back the following week the
place was tidy. I was clean-shaven, dressed.
I’d even attempted to comb my hair. She
didn’t say anything about it, didn’t mention
the argument of the week before, but she
took me out for coffee down the street. She
guided me along the sidewalk to the coffee
shop, talking to me, reassuring me. It was
daunting, even though it was less than a block
away, but I felt so proud when I got there.
We talked, me and Lois. I think I even
laughed.
Afterwards, she walked me home, then, when
she helped me back inside, she said: ‘It’s nice
to meet you, at last, Andrew.’
That day was the beginning of my new life. I
moved to a new apartment, a ground-floor
3
place, and joined a group of other young
people with visual impairments. I made
friends. I got out, every day, even if it was just
a short walk, but I made a point of seeing
what I could of the world.
I bought what I could, but the Sawyers — the
old couple that ran the local store — would
bring my groceries by once a week. Clark’s a
gruff old coot, so he refuses to coddle me,
and he’s told me that he respects me for
being like I am, for maintaining my
independence, for not giving up.
From a guy like him, that’s one of the
sweetest things I’ve ever heard.
Things were going so well… and then, one
year ago, it started.
I walked into my living room, a mug of coffee
in my hand, and I saw a Victorian funeral
carriage stood right there on my rug,
complete with two huge, proud horses in full
livery, adorned with long black plumes in their
bridles. They stood perfectly still, while the
driver, a small bearded man in period
costume and a top hat, fidgeted with the reins
and peered at me expectantly. Bizarrely, they
were far clearer than the usual blurry shapes
that I could see.
I damn near pissed my pants.
I dropped the cup, spilling scalding hot coffee
over my bare feet, jumping backwards with a
cry of pain and alarm. When I returned my
attention to the horses and carriage back in
the room, they were gone.
At that moment I wondered if I was going
mad. Apparently, most of us do, which is
understandable. How would you feel if you’d
seen that exact same sight in your home?
Unless you’re Jack the Ripper, I imagine many
of you do not have a coach and horses just
lying around. I certainly didn’t.
Eventually, after much quiet swearing to
myself, and more than a little self-delusion, I
managed to convince myself that I had not
seen what I thought I had, that it was merely
a very vivid daydream.
This seemed to work and I got on with living,
even if I entered that same room a little more
cautiously in the days that followed. Finally, I
forgot about it.
Two weeks later I saw a giant, floating,
swirling, orange ball in my bathroom.
I damn near pissed myself again.
I stood staring at it, this bizarre, rotating
levitating globe that was a little larger than a
beach ball hanging in mid-air over my tub,
open-mouthed for a full 10 seconds, before
finally screwing my eyelids tightly closed and
whispering to myself: ‘That isn’t there… that
isn’t there…’
After five seconds I opened my eyes again. It
wasn’t there.
Have you ever had cause to doubt your own
sanity? To wonder whether what you perceive
is truly there, or if your mind has betrayed
you?
Honestly, compared to the loss of my vision,
the prospect of losing my wits was so much
more terrifying. I’d fought against adversity
and took pride in the fact that I am not just a
survivor, but somebody who is living his own
life. How could I do that if I was insane?
I barely slept that night, and I remained jumpy
for days afterwards. Any sign of movement or
any unfamiliar shape would set my pulse
racing, would cause me to doubt whether it
was truly there.
It was the toughest time I’d ever been
through, worse even than that time after I
was diagnosed with diabetes.
At least when Dr. Harper had told me about
the Diabetes I had a definitivew prognosis, I
was given facts by a medical professional, my
affliction was physical, it had a name, and
most important, it had a treatment plan.
This was something else. My own mind at
turned against me, my senses and perception
of reality had become twisted and unreliable.
It’s only when you’re in that position that you
realize just how terrifying it is. Your senses
and the way in which your brain interprets
them are your only true defenses against
danger. You perceive danger and you avoid it,
preventing your body from becoming harmed.
But what happens when you can’t trust your
perception to alert you to dangers that are
truly there?
Lois picked up the problem first, noticing my
skittish manner. She asked what was wrong, if
I needed to talk about anything, but I told her
no, I was fine but I hadn’t been sleeping well.
That last part was true; I hadn’t been able to
sleep a wink. Just the very thought of being
institutionalized — spending the rest of my
days a sedated, blue-pajamas clad zombie in a
white room with only the echoing cries of my
fellow inmates for company — terrified me
beyond measure.
But what was the alternative? Live life as a
risk to myself and others?
Ultimately, I chose to ignore it. I reasoned
that if I was able to function around other
people without them realizing what was going
on, that was good enough.
A full month passed before the next incident,
and I really did think that maybe I’d put this
whole mess behind me. With every passing
day my confidence had grown, so that
Wednesday morning I’d stepped out onto the
sunny street feeling pretty carefree
Each Wednesday I’d treat myself to a latte
down at Joe’s, the same coffee shop that I’d
visited with Lois. It was a custom that gave me
a great deal of pleasure, one that had seen
me forge friendships with other regulars as
well as the staff, including Joe himself.
As I made my way down the street, white
stick in hand, I glanced about me, taking in
the colors and shapes of the world around
me. I enjoyed the feel of the sun on my face
and the sounds of the birds singing. It was a
good day.
Then I saw them.
A party of pilgrims, six of them, all dressed in
Settler-era attire, sitting cross-legged on the
asphalt. They didn’t look at me. Instead, they
were engaged in a heated, yet strangely
silent, conversation.
I froze, staring at them. Still they argued,
gesticulating furiously at one another.
However, I couldn’t hear their angry voices,
despite the fact that (judging by their ill-
temperament) they must be screaming at one
another.
Paralyzed by shock, the white stick fell from
my numb fingers, clattering onto the
sidewalk. I turned to leave, desperate to flee
from the haunting sight of the Colonists in the
road, but I was so panicked, in such a hurry,
that I stepped on my cane. It rolled underfoot
and before I knew it I pitched over, tumbling
to the hard ground below.
I didn’t quite break my fall in time, banging
my cheek hard on the floor and skinning my
palms.
I heard a cry from a passerby, a friendly
concerned woman who rushed to my side.
She knelt beside me, helping me up, applying
a Kleenex to my throbbing cheek which she
informed me was now bleeding. I tried to tell
her that I was okay, there was nothing to
worry about, but this Good Samaritan insisted
on driving me to Dr. Harper’s office to get my
injuries looked at.
Now I think back to it, I’m pretty sure that she
knew my obvious distress was nothing to do
with the fall. At the time I was embarrassed
and angry, but now I realize I owe her a debt
of gratitude. Without her intervention, I don’t
know how much longer this would have gone
on before I cracked up and ended up in an
asylum after breaking down through sheer
stress.
‘Andrew, why don’t you tell me what
happened?’ Dr. Harper asked, gently dabbing
at my cheek with disinfectant.
I explained that I’d just lost my balance, and
that no harm was done, but I think he saw
through my feeble protestations to my
underlying agitation. He didn’t press or force
the matter. He simply asked what might have
4
caused my clumsiness. Then he asked how I’d
been as of late.
When I’d finished mumbling my way through
the most non-committal answer I could
muster, he placed a gentle, reassuring hand
on my shoulder.
‘Andrew,’ he repeated gently, ‘why don’t you
tell me what happened?’
I burst into tears. I told him how scared I was,
how I’d fought so hard for my independence
and now I knew it would be taken from me.
He listened patiently, and then asked me to
tell him why I ever thought that?
I paused then, took a deep breath and
thought about it. This was the point of no
return. But really, what other option did I
have?
So with tears running down my cheeks, I told
Dr. Harper everything. I told him about the
horse and carriage, the orange globe and the
pilgrims. I told him how I’d been living each
day in fear, how I was terrified that I was
losing my mind.
Dr. Harper thought for a while, and then he
said: ‘Andrew, I don’t think you are losing
your mind.’
The sense of relief at that moment was so
powerful it overwhelmed me, rendering me
speechless.
‘You say that even though you’ve seen these
things, you’ve never heard any noise from
them? Have you detected any odors or
experienced any other physical sensations,
such as touching them?’
I shook my head no, and he patted my
shoulder once again.
‘Andrew, have you heard of Charles Bonnet
Syndrome?’ he asked.
‘Charles Bone… who?’ I asked, confused by
this sudden unexpected turn of conversation.
‘Okay, let me explain,’ Dr. Harper said kindly.
‘Charles Bonnet was a Swiss naturalist who
was born in the 1700s. He discovered a
curious condition in his elderly grandfather,
who was nearly completely blind due to
cataracts. The old man regularly experienced
visual hallucinations, including random
patterns and even people and places. Sound
familiar?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, still confused. ‘Am… am I
suffering from dementia?’
‘No, Andrew, not at all,’ Dr. Harper reassured
me. ‘Do you know how perception works? In
layman’s terms, your eyes take in light, via the
iris and pupil, which is then processed via the
retina and translated into electrical signals
which are decoded by the brain, which simply
organizes these signals into a recognizable
image. With me so far?’
I nodded, finally starting to understand.
‘When the retina becomes damaged, such as
those that have undergone macular
degeneration, those signals become warped
and jumbled,’ Dr. Harper went on. ‘The brain
still receives them, so it does its job,
translating these distorted signals into an
image. It kind of fills in the gaps for you.
Sometimes it fills these gaps with colors,
patterns, creatures, and places that aren’t
present. And this is called Charles Bonnet
Syndrome.’
I nearly wept with relief. ‘So I’m not mad?’ I
cried.
‘Not at all,’ the doctor replied. ‘This is an
entirely physical condition; your mind is in full
working order. If you were suffering any form
of mental illness your delusions wouldn’t be
limited to just the one sense — you’d hear
these interlopers, smell them, even feel them.
This is a condition solely related to your eyes,
not your brain.’
As I left Dr. Harper’s office I felt as if a weight
had been lifted from my shoulders. Sure, my
vision was still an issue, but now I knew it was
only a problem with my eyes, not my mind, I
knew I could handle the situation. I was ready
to face the world again.
Since then I’ve seen plenty of weird visions.
I saw a huge waterfall in the park, complete
with a hazy mist and butterflies flitting about
it.
I saw a Native American warrior, complete
with a huge feather headdress, sitting at a
stool at the counter in the coffee shop.
I saw an intricate — and quite impossible —
structure of scaffolding crisscrossing the
entire front of my apartment block.
Hell, on the Fourth of July last year I even saw
a great swooping green dragon in the sky,
twisting and cavorting through the air
overhead.
All looked utterly and completely real, yet,
now I knew they were simply tricks of the eye,
they were no longer disturbing. In fact, I
actually came to quite enjoy them, even
looking at them as unique and entertaining
little shows or works of art that existed purely
for my pleasure and nobody else’s.
I came to welcome them.
Then, a month ago, I saw her.
It was night time — it’s always night time
when I see her — and I was just getting ready
for bed.
I walked into the kitchen to get myself a glass
of water and actually cried out in alarm when
I spotted the figure in the corner.
She was tall, by far the tallest woman I’d ever
seen, and even though she stood hunched,
she still had at least six inches on me.
I was used to seeing ‘characters’ in dated and
bizarre dress, but this was different somehow.
It didn’t seem like an outfit from any one
time, instead a bizarre mishmash of items.
She wore a tuxedo jacket, figure-hugging and
black, tailored to the female body-shape, over
a dirty old ruffled dress-shirt. To complete the
ensemble she wore a bright red bow-tie.
On her hands, which she held out to either
side as if shrugging, or maybe feeling for rain,
she wore dirty white gloves. Her fingers were
disproportionately long, almost spidery, and
occasionally they twitched, as if she longed to
grip and squeeze something in them.
On her lower half, she wore shorts the same
crimson as her bow-tie, over opaque black
nylons. Her legs were long, lithe — attractive,
if the truth be told — the legs of a dancer.
She also wore red heels, the same hue as her
shorts and bow-tie, but they sparkled and
shimmered, bringing to mind Judy Garland’s
ruby slippers from The Wizard of Oz.
As strange as this ensemble was, I couldn’t
tear my eyes from her face.
Most of it was obscured by a jaunty bowler
hat, tipped and tilted to hide her eyes and
nose, but beneath the brim of her hat, I could
see the deathly pale skin of her face and a
grin that sent shivers down my spine. It was
wide – too wide – with entirely too many
teeth. A smile is meant to be an expression of
warmth, it’s meant to feel welcoming and
benevolent. But the look on this woman’s
face oozed malice, it felt much like the sort of
glee I’d expect from a snake as it corners a
rat.
However, the thing that startled me most was
that she had a third arm sprouting from her
back, curled up and over her head like a
scorpion’s tail. It was longer than any arm
should be, and the hand only had three
fingers, like a claw. It was pointed straight at
me and as I swore in dismay and stumbled
sideways it seemed to track my movement.
I stood staring at the creepy figure for a few
seconds, trying to get my head around the
situation. She just stood there in the corner,
grinning back.
5
Finally I realized that this was just another of
my hallucinations and breathed an audible
sigh of relief.
One of the tricks I’ve picked up over the
months of suffering from Charles Bonnet
Syndrome is to break the line of vision toward
whichever stimulus is causing my brain to
interpret the images into the hallucination.
Think of it like restarting a faulty computer,
how refreshing the system debugs it. To this
end I close my eyes and count to five. Then,
when I reopen them, the hallucination is
gone.
So, as I stared at the horrifying, malformed
figure in my kitchen, I knew that to make the
image go away I simply had to close my eyes.
I’ll be honest here, when I counted to five I
hesitated a little before opening my eyes. If I’d
opened my eyes and she’d still been stood
there, smiling that wicked smile at me, I think
I might have had a heart attack. She wasn’t,
and I breathed another long sigh of relief,
fetched my glass of water and went back to
bed.
The Tall Woman haunted my thoughts in the
days after I saw her. She was different from
the other visions I’d had. Somehow she felt
more real.
It was this agitation that my buddy Jason
picked up on when we met for lunch the
following Friday. Jason was one of those same
friends I’d tried to drive away shortly after I
lost my vision, yet he’d refused to give up on
me, continuing to get in touch week after
week.
Good friends are hard to come by, but great
friends — the ones who will be by your side
for life — are even rarer. Jason, God bless his
kind heart, is one of the latter.
‘You’ve got to tell me what’s going on, dude,’
he said, as we sat down over pizza
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, trying to brush
it off.
‘You’re so distracted, it’s like you’re looking
for something in here all the time. You’ve
eaten, like, one slice in pizza in the time it’s
taken me to eat four. So, I repeat, you’ve got
to tell me what’s going on,’ Jason said, waving
a slice of pizza around for emphasis.
‘It’s nothing,’ I replied, feeling a little stupid, ‘I
just had a hallucination a couple of nights ago
that really got to me.’
‘I thought you were cool with those now?’ he
asked, putting the pizza slice down.
‘Yeah, I am. I mean, I was, but this was
different,’ I replied, resigned to talking about
it. ‘She scared me.’
‘She?’ Jason asked, his interest clearly piqued.
‘Tell me about it.’
So I did, I described the Tall Woman and how
she’d appeared to me. I explained that unlike
any of my other hallucinations she felt more
real, and that she was the first to feature such
a weird and unsettling mutation. Sure, I’d
seen smaller versions of people in the past (a
phenomenon referred to as Lilliputian by
medical professionals), but the extra
appendage and impossibly distorted face
were something I had yet to encounter thus
far. I think it was that, combined with the
unnerving expectant stance, that had
disturbed me the most.
‘So,’ Jason said after I’d finished, ‘You say she
had great legs?’
‘Shut up, you asshole,’ I laughed, throwing my
napkin at him.
‘No, seriously, I get it, man,’ Jason replied,
passing the napkin back to me. ‘If I walked
into a room and a giant mutant was waiting
for me, it’d scare the shit out of me too. But
you know what caused you to see this. It’s like
the coachman and that waterfall you saw, it’s
a condition that you know you have and it’s
one that you know how to deal with, OK?’
‘I know, I know,’ I replied. ‘Thanks, man,
you’re right.’
I did feel better too, so I smiled at him, took a
big bite of my pizza and changed the subject,
asking him about his psycho ex, a
conversation he was all too happy to dive in
to.
The next time I saw the Tall Woman, just
under a week later, I was brushing my teeth.
I was stood at the washbasin, brushing away,
when I spotted a figure in the mirror. She was
out in the dark hallway, peeking around the
door behind me. That same sinister grin I’d
seen before stretched her narrow face into a
distorted grimace, the dirty bowler hat
pushed down over her eyes once again.
Each of those three long spidery hands
gripped the door frame.
As crazy as this sounds, it felt like she was
trying to avoid being spotted.
I cried out, spitting toothpaste foam all over
the mirror, my toothbrush clattering into the
basin.
I spun around, my heart thumping in my
chest, my breathing ragged in my throat.
She wasn’t there. Of course, she wasn’t.
The doorway was empty.
I tiptoed forward, hesitantly, trying to look
around the doorframe into the hallway
without actually sticking my neck out into its
shadowy confines. The seconds ticked by as I
drew closer and closer. I couldn’t see anything
so, finally, with a whisper of self-affirmation, I
stepped out of the bathroom. The hallway
was empty, as was the rest of my apartment.
I was shaken again — this was the first time
I’d seen a hallucination in a reflection, and I
wasn’t even sure that I’d actually seen it.
Now, as I sit here, writing this, knowing what
would follow, I think I thought like that to try
to protect myself, to shield myself from the
truth
I was an idiot.
A full fortnight passed without incident. Sure,
I saw a flash of color one day, a dancing
yellow lightning bolt that zigzagged back and
forth on the street outside my apartment, but
that was exactly the sort of thing I’d come to
expect from my condition. It was exciting,
otherworldly, but it wasn’t scary, not like she
was.
In retrospect, that fortnight was blissful. It
was a reminder of what life could be like, the
existence that I’d carved out for myself since
my diagnosis. Life was good.
The night that changed the way I viewed the
Tall Woman, last night, I’d been out and had a
couple of drinks. I’d met the other guys with
visual impairment for dinner and we’d ended
up at a bar afterwards. I wasn’t hammered,
but we got through plenty of beer between
us, and by the time I stepped out into the cool
night air, I felt decidedly light-headed.
It took me a while to make it home, laughing
and talking to a couple of the other guys from
our group as we strolled along. It had been a
great evening.
It’s probably the last truly good one I’ll ever
have.
I bid the other guys goodnight and, fumbling
with my key, let myself in.
With swaying steps, I strolled into my hallway,
slamming the door a little too loudly behind
me.
I took off my jacket, hung it on the hook by
the door, and then hit the light switch.
She was waiting at the end of the hallway, all
three hands held aloft into claws, reaching for
me, that same maddening malevolent grin on
her pale face.
I swore again, louder than ever, actually
jumping back a step, recoiling from the
impossibly tall and terrifying figure lying in
wait in my own home.
The Tall Woman didn’t move. She just stood
there, staring and smiling at me.
I stared back, but I sure as hell didn’t smile.
‘Jesus Christ…’ I muttered under my breath.
You know how you can feel a little paranoid
6
after a few beers? That feeling of non-specific
post-alcohol dread? Imagine that combined
with a giant grinning mutant woman suddenly
appearing in your home.
Suffice it to say, it was very, very, very uncool.
‘I don’t need this,’ I sighed and closed my
eyes.
One…
Two…
Three…
Four…
Five…
When I opened my eyes her face was just a
foot from my own, grinning wider than ever.
She’d dashed the length of the hallway and
was now stood so close that her long,
grasping arms were either side of me, her
fingers twitching and clawing at the air
around my face. I could see her chest heaving
as if she were actually laughing silently at my
attempts to dismiss her.
As if the thought that I could ever be free of
her was amusing.
I screamed, a full-bodied shriek of terror, and
actually dropped to my knees, covering my
head as if to fend off an expected blow. It
never came.
Finally, I lowered my hands, gasping for
breath, shaking. The hallway was empty, the
Tall Woman nowhere to be seen.
I stayed there, on my knees, for a moment,
gasping for breath, then I was on my feet and
I turned and ran, out of the apartment, out of
the building and into the street.
I stood there, shivering, terrified beyond
reason, without a clue as to what I’d do next.
Finally, I pulled my phone from my pocket and
I made a phone call.
‘Hey, Andy, what’s up?’ Jason asked.
‘Jason, I need you to come here,’ I said,
sobbing.
Jason didn’t ask why, didn’t complain, instead
he simply replied: ‘I’m on my way.’
Less than 20 minutes later his car pulled up
outside and he dashed over to the steps
outside my building where I was sitting,
shivering.
He threw his jacket around my shoulders and
asked what happened, his voice filled with
concern.
‘She’s in there!’ I stammered. ‘The Tall
Woman. She’s back.’
‘Okay, Okay,’ he said, gently helping me to my
feet. ‘Come on, man, let’s go in there and
check it out.’
I wish I could say that I was brave when we
went inside, but I’d be lying. I cowered behind
Jason, one hand on his shoulder as we made
our way through my home. Of course, we
didn’t find a thing — we’re talking a giant
mutant woman in a poky little one-bed
apartment — where the hell was she going to
hide?
Finally, after we’d checked every single room
twice, I had to admit that she was gone.
‘I’m so sorry, man,’ I apologized, feeling
genuinely stupid. ‘I got scared and… I’m sorry
man…’
‘Hey, forget about it, buddy,’ Jason said. ‘So,
I’m here now, where do you keep your
booze?’
Half a bottle of bourbon later, we were both
feeling pretty talkative.
‘She’s, you know, just kind of different, you
know?’ I tried to explain.
‘I get it, I get it,’ he said. ‘It’s like, you saw
something bad and you feel bad and… that’s
bad.’
He didn’t get it.
‘No, she’s different, you know,’ I explained.
‘I’ve never had a repeat hallucination before.
And they’ve never been scary, you know.
She’s not like the others.’
‘Dude,’ Jason said, taking another sip of
bourbon, ‘you’ve got, like, Charlie Bony
Syndrome and you know that makes you see
shit, so…’ He waved his hands in the air like a
magician who’d just performed a trick.
‘I know, I know…’ I replied.
‘No listen, Andy,’ he said. ‘You know it makes
you see shit, it’s just your eyes, yeah? You
didn’t hear anything, you didn’t feel anything.
This is how that stuff goes. It’s your eyes, and
I know it’s scary, man, but you’ve been
through, like… hell and high water in your life
so far. You’re tough — one of the toughest,
bravest guys I know — and you can handle
some creepy hallucination bitch.’
I laughed, I couldn’t help it.
‘She is a very creepy hallucination bitch
though, dude.’
He laughed too and we both took a drink.
‘You know, that could help…’ he said finally,
his voice thoughtful.
‘What, drinking?’ I asked.
‘No… well, yes, it does,’ he giggled. ‘I mean
like, demystifying her. You should give her a
name. Something stupid, so she’s not scary.’
‘I’ve got say that as much as I like Creepy
Hallucination Bitch, that’s a bit of a mouthful,’
I laughed
‘Yeah, I get that,’ he replied.
Suddenly something he’d said came back to
me.
‘How about Helen?’ I suggested. ‘Helen
Highwater?’
‘Awesome,’ he said, then raised his glass.
‘Here’s to Helen, buddy.’
‘To Helen,’ I smiled and drained my glass.
Jason spent the night on my sofa, mainly
because he’d had too much to drink to even
think about getting behind the wheel of a
vehicle, but honestly, I think the reason he
drank so much was so he’d have an excuse to
stay and keep an eye on me.
Now, as I sit here cowering in my bathroom,
too scared to go out into my apartment, I
know we were both wrong. About everything.
Remember how earlier I told you that the
thought of being institutionalized, that the
very idea of losing my grasp on reality was the
most terrifying thing I could imagine?
Now I’d welcome that, because the
alternative is far, far worse.
After breakfast, I said goodbye to Jason and
he climbed into his car and drove away.
The day passed without incident, and when
Lois stopped by this afternoon she even
commented on how upbeat I seemed.
‘You got a lady in your life?’ she asked,
casually.
I laughed at that, wondered what she’d think
if she knew the truth.
‘Yeah,’ I chuckled, ‘Something like that.’
‘Good for you,’ she sniffed. ‘You make sure
you treat her right.’
That tickled me even more and I had to bite
my lip.
‘Sure,’ I replied, ‘I’ll do my best.’
But this time I’d had enough.
‘You don’t scare me anymore,’ I said, my voice
filled with defiance and anger. ‘I’m not letting
you do this to me…’
I reached across to the light switch.
‘… Goodnight, Helen,’ I said triumphantly,
then flicked it, plunging the room into
darkness.
I laid there, a sense of tremendous pride
surging through me, and I grinned to myself in
my warm, comfortable bed, overjoyed at the
emotional victory of overcoming my own fear.
And then it happened.
The thing that led me here, something that
turned my blood to ice water and my bowels
to jelly.
‘Goodnight, Andrew,’ her rasping voice hissed
from the darkness.

I’m glad he did, knowing that he was there
made me feel safer and I was able to get
some sleep. It gave me a sense of security to
know that if the strange vision I’d just
christened Helen was to appear again, I’d be
able to call on him for support.
This morning, we both needed support.
‘It feels like a mule kicked me in the head,’ he
groaned when I made my way into the living
room.
‘Yep,’ I replied, my own head thumping.
‘Joe’s?’
‘Joe’s,’ he replied firmly, and staggered to his
feet.
Tonight, still a little wiped from the exertions
of the previous evening, I decided to turn in
early. I brushed my teeth, washed my hands
and face, and got changed. Finally, I fetched a
glass of water and walked into my bedroom.
I climbed into bed and instantly felt so, so
relaxed. Within mere seconds I was ready for
sleep, that sudden overwhelming drowsiness
that comes when you’ve spent a whole day
keeping sleep at bay.
I decided that resistance was futile and sat up
to switch off the light.
I nearly didn’t see her, but as I reached for the
switch, I caught a glimpse of something out of
the corner of my eye.

As we drank strong black coffee and ate My heart leaped into my throat as I turned to
muffins, we didn’t talk much. the foot of my bed.

Finally, Jason broke the silence.
‘So, you feel cool now?’ he asked, his mouth
still full of blueberry muffin.
I nodded. ‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘Not still freaked out about you-know-who?’
he asked.
‘Helen?’ I replied with a smile. ‘No, I really
don’t think I am. I reckon I can handle some
creepy hallucination bitch.’
‘Good,’ he laughed, giving me a hearty pat on
the back. ‘That’s cool, man. I bet you can.’
The Tall Woman was crouching there, her
grinning face staring at me from just beyond
my feet. So many teeth.
Her long, slender fingers spread out over my
blankets, twitching slightly as she gripped the
end of the bed. Slowly, excruciatingly so, her
third misshapen arm came into view over her
shoulder, joining her other hands on my
bedding.
I froze, utterly petrified.
I was at a crossroads here, arriving at a pivotal
moment that had been coming for some time.