I was out drinking with some friends the other night, friends I hadn’t seen much since we all started families and life got busy. As we were having a good time at a pub, sharing drinks and talking, we began to reminisce about the past — the easier days. One conversation led to another, and we went on to talk about our childhoods. We talked about the games we used to play, how we occupied our time without the need for electronics. Then someone mentioned playing “Bloody Mary” in the bathroom. As everyone around the table laughed and shook their heads in remembrance, my face remained expressionless as tears began to slip down my cheeks and my body started to tremble.

Then my crying got worse. I called it a night then and there, hoping no one would notice me crying uncontrollably. I ordered an Uber home, and sat in the car, ashamed and stunned to what had just happened. I blamed it on the alcohol — I’d become a lighter drinker as I aged. But then a memory flooded back into my psyche like a tidal wave: something had happened to my little brother and me when we were only nine and twelve. When my friend mentioned “Bloody Mary,” I felt like I had experienced the terror all over again.

I was at school and my friends were talking about a new scary game to play: calling out for Bloody Mary in the middle of the night. A friend was explaining how to do it: you need to be in the bathroom, with all the lights off, and repeat the words “Bloody Mary” three times while staring into the darkness of the mirror. Everyone agreed to try it over the weekend, including me.

I was told that it was best to do it alone, but I was too afraid to do it by myself. So, I got my little brother involved. Obviously, I didn’t tell him that I was too frightened to attempt it alone, so I told him it was time for him to play big kid games. Of course, he agreed to it. When I told him what we had to do, making sure our parents wouldn’t find out, he was thrilled to take part — though I could see fearful hesitation underneath.

We made plans for that night, to wait for our parents to fall asleep, then sneak out of bed with our little flashlights, and meet in the bathroom. We executed our plan perfectly. As we stood in the bathroom, in the dead of night, our hearts pounding in our ears, we were ready to call for Bloody Mary. We turned our flashlights off, and I told my brother to stand beside me in front of the mirror and repeat the words three times with me. Then my brother got cold feet — he didn’t want to play anymore. After a brief whispered argument, he agreed to stay in the bathroom with me, near the door, while I performed the call. I readjusted myself in front of the mirror and said the words: “Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary.”

We stood in the silent, dark bathroom, anticipating her arrival, but she never came. As I readied to turn my flashlight back on, I began to hear sobbing coming from the shower behind me. I turned around, and the sobbing got louder. I turned my flashlight on and pointed it at the curtain, which was concealing whatever was weeping behind it. I looked at my brother, and I’d never seen his eyes so wide with shock. The weeping continued, and not knowing what else to do, I grabbed the curtain, closed my eyes, and ripped it open.

I slowly opened my eyes, and to my surprise, the weeping had stopped — the shower was empty. I looked at my brother and told him to turn his flashlight on and go straight to bed. He tried to say something in protest, but I cut him off and ordered him to do what I said. He finally obliged, and we made our way to our separate rooms. I reached my door, slowly opened it, slid through the crack I made, and shut it quietly so it wouldn’t creak and alert my parents. I tiptoed to my bed and crawled under my sheets.

As I lay in bed, heart still pounding, sweating profusely, and hearing nothing but the tinnitus in my ears, I finally relaxed and fell asleep. I was suddenly woken by noises coming from within my room; my brother had snuck in and was crying in the corner. My eyes hazy from drowsiness and the darkness of the room, I couldn’t see him, only hear him. I asked what he was doing, but he kept crying. Still, I knew why he was there — he was too scared to sleep alone and wanted to sleep in my room.

I told him to come into bed and he could sleep with me for the night. The floorboards groaned as he got up from the ground, and his footsteps creaked along the floor toward my bed. My eyes were already closed again as I attempted to return to sleep. My brother settled onto the mattress, springs squeaked with his weight. It felt off — my brother was almost half my size, but the depression that his weight made in the bed felt deeper than it should have. And then I noticed my feet sliding towards him, which also didn’t make sense, as I was much taller. His weeping continued. Frustrated, I shifted away from him, and told him to stop crying and go to sleep. He wept, and wept, and wept, and then, I heard tapping on my door.

Startled, I opened my eyes again, and the weeping quieted, as though my brother had frozen too. The doorknob began to slowly turn, and the door creaked gently open, letting dim light enter my room. Then, my brother popped his head in and asked if he could sleep with me.

As I was processing the situation, I felt a subtle movement of whatever was lying beside me. I then leapt out of my bed and ran to my brother. He asked me what was wrong, and I pointed to my bed. He shone his light in that direction, and we saw a black silhouette of a woman with long black hair slowly rise, folding upwards at the waist, as if she were being lifted by the head. As she rose, her long hair dangled towards my bed, and it looked greasy and wet. Once she was upright, she twisted her body towards us, still a featureless shadow, but her gleaming eyes reflected the light. My brother and I yelled as loud as we could.

Soon after, my parents rushed from their bedroom to mine, and as they arrived, they turned on the lights and she vanished. Dumbfounded, I stood there as it hit me — she had lain beside me in my own bed. My brother tried to explain what we’d seen while my dad went to examine the bed. When he saw my sheets, he gave a concerned look at my mom, approached her and whispered something. She brought my little brother back to his room as my dad bent over to talk to me.

I barely registered what my dad was saying. My stomach dropped and panic set in, because I knew what he was trying to do: console me for wetting the bed as my sheets were drenched where that thing had lain. Not only was I sleeping beside God knows what, but now my parents thought I wet the bed. I was so petrified by the conglomerate of emotions that I just stood in silence. My parents whispered and cleaned as I couldn’t process what was happening.

After that night, I had issues sleeping, and my parents’ concerns grew. I told my brother to promise to never mention what we had done, and he kept his end of the bargain and so did I. Over time, I buried that horrifying experience deep within my mind. Things eventually returned to normal, until the floodgates opened that night at the pub, when someone mentioned Bloody Mary.

I called my brother to talk about it, but he avoided the conversation and made up an excuse to hang up. So here I am, with only my thoughts and memories, replaying those moments as a kid, again causing me sleepless nights. As I lie in bed at night, my wife beside me, and as she shifts, I look over — her black hair spread across her pillow — and I stare and wonder whether that’s my wife or whether Bloody Mary has come back for me. I never dare to touch and find out.