Every night before I went to bed, the man in the wall protruded further, advancing with each passing day. My past self never noticed anything strange about the fact that there was no such thing as day, nor at first that he shouldn't be there.
Almost as if on cue, the bedroom door opened to my approach. The first time I noticed him, he was a translucent-blue plastic sculpture of my younger brother—just a frontal slice of Sky's face, sheared by the wall. A press-molded mask, attached just above my ultra-wide gaming monitor. Its eyes were closed, its expression relaxed, its mouth a neutral line.
Funny prank, I thought. It seemed like a practical joke Sky had pulled. It didn't occur to me then why or how he'd made a replica of his own face and glued it to my wall. I ignored it and lay down in bed, its plastic façade directly across from me.
The next night, it was still there. I hadn't bothered taking it down when I woke up, and being only the second night, I didn't notice that anything was off. I went to bed.
On the third night, its eyes were open.
Why hadn't I noticed this? Not only that, but there was more of it. The thing on the wall had ears.
As the nights went by, he looked less and less like my younger brother. His body had been materializing as if it were phasing through the wall, falling out, on my side. If I had photographed him every night, I would have noticed these changes sooner. By now, his entire head and shoulders were visible, yet I still went to bed and slept like everything was normal. It wasn't until things finally went sideways that I started questioning the oddity of it all. But where should the line have been drawn? I wasn't even close to it. My own line was still a ways off.
One night, he had arms—or I assumed they were his. They weren't plastic like the rest of his body; they were made of flesh. Human arms attached to the wall, cut off at the elbow. The night I noticed his arms, a thought in the back of my mind was intrigued as to why I didn't see them emerging. They were just there. And at this point, a sliver of his torso was also visible.
Two nights came and went, and a little more of him. It was late the night that I noticed it, but because I mostly ignored him, I was led to believe that perhaps this had begun a bit sooner. The Plastic Man blinked and followed me with his eyes. This was enough to startle me, and I drew my first line. I would later draw more, as nothing he did at the time seemed to threaten me.
I had noticed a cord plugged into the power strip on my desk, leading to the left arm of my observer.
This was how it could move its eyes, I thought. And the line I had drawn quickly faded. This automaton was uncanny, sure, but I was more intrigued than frightened—foolish, in hindsight.
The following night, there was a second wire, a smaller one going into his neck. Both cords were taped to the power strip, keeping the plug secure, and it could now move its plastic facial muscles and arms, too. I will admit, it was creepy and unsettling, but for some reason, I kept going to sleep. I didn't try to remove him, and I didn't switch rooms.
Night after night, more of his body was revealed. I had seen his mouth moving as if he was trying to communicate, but no sound came out. He opened and closed it, slow at first, then very rapidly, moving his tongue around. He opened wide, closed his mouth, and then spoke.
I don't exactly remember the words that came out, but what he said was very disturbing. I recall asking something along the lines of:
"What are you doing here?"
He said I had made him, I was his creator, and that was exceptionally strange to hear.
Either from obliviousness or another form of cognitive stupidity, I left it at that and went to sleep.
The next night, I started a conversation with him. To this day, I can't recall the things we talked about. We continued this way for some time—my nightly ritual. But the more I learned, the more fearful I became. Our conversations were no longer interesting. They were a trap I had to remove myself from. He would initiate before I even stepped foot into my room, and I knew my anxiety to go to bed was being lapped up by his entire being.
Finally, I put my foot down and drew a firm line. I decided that I would eliminate it, and that "it" was no longer a "him."
That night, something was especially off about it. I suspected that it may have known what I was about to do.
"Okay," I said. "You are weird. You are strange. You should not be here. You should not exist."
I smacked its face really hard, hoping to crack or break the plastic. That was the wrong move. One of the many incorrect ways of going about this.
My slap didn't inflict damage; it only made it mad, very, very mad.
It started moving its arms wildly—smashing things on my desk, breaking my monitor, throwing my keyboard against the opposite wall.
"Stop it!" I yelled, and that seemed to calm things down. But a few moments later, it continued destroying my setup.
I saw a kite string attaching my PC's power button to my microphone, and it was on fire like the string was drenched in alcohol. But the kite string didn't burn.
I knew then I had messed up. Why hadn't I unplugged it first? Accepting the collateral damage, I ripped the tape off and unplugged the cords from my power strip. When I did, sparks flew everywhere, and the plastic thing seemed to shut down.
I'm not sure how electricity works, but when I unplugged it, the giant box fan in my room spun up to full power and blew things around. I turned it off and decided to tidy things when I woke up. Believing the threat was gone, I climbed into bed and pulled the covers over my head.
About twenty minutes later, I heard a loud noise, just as I was dozing off. I sat up and looked at the wall where the plastic man had been. The wall was bare.
A jolt shot through my entire body, and the plastic man leaped on all fours from the floor and lunged straight at me.
Then the dream ended, and I awoke.
I should mention that I am a twenty-year-old man, and still occasionally have nightmares, but this one in particular was terrifying. Most of the time, I'm not scared or disturbed. I'm usually interested and curious. But this left me shivering. I was crying and desired comfort, so I ran upstairs.
My father was sitting at the top, almost as if he was expecting me.
As I was coming up, he looked concerned.
"What's wrong? What happened? Are you okay?"
I didn't speak, only sat in his lap as he held me. His gray shirt and pajamas, along with his familiar musk, were comforting.
Then my younger brother, Sky, came dashing up the stairs as I had. He, too, had just woken up from a nightmare. When he explained it to us, I remember thinking how odd it was, but not that it was scary in any way. And if that was considered a nightmare, then I could not share my own.
His nightmare was about him peeing on ants as they were marching on the side of our house and on our lawn.
My thought process in that moment was very strange, reflecting back, though at the time it seemed very reasonable and validated. I wondered if my dad was going to pray over us because of the night terrors. Because in my dream I had killed the figure of my brother in the plastic man.
Non-physical bodies belonging to the celestials had been let loose into the air through the electricity. Were they sentient thoughts? Are they infecting us, infiltrating our minds? I had wanted Dad to pray.
Then, I don't remember what happened next. I assumed I had made it back downstairs to my room on my own and gone to bed. I do remember, however, thinking:
Why did I give it human arms if the rest of its body was plastic? Had I really created this thing as it said I had?
My covers were over my head as they usually were—not for fear's sake, but for the physical comfort I had acquired over the years.
My breath caught in my throat. I couldn't breathe.
I felt two iron fists gripping my neck, choking the life out of me. I struggled with all my strength, but to no avail.
I died that night and finally woke up for the second time. Or was it the third?
I reached for my phone on the head of my bed and began recounting my unconscious experience. As I recorded this voice memo, I kept questioning if I was really awake, or if I was stuck.