That thing when you’re traveling alone. You book what looks like a nice hotel, but when you get there all you can think about is Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Unexpected.
It’s not even that there is anything wrong with the place, it’s just that it’s a little empty considering that you supposedly got the last room. The staff are pleasant and attentive, but it’s just too quiet. Stuffy, even.
So after checking in you take your luggage to your room and freshen up, before going back down to the restaurant for a bite to eat. Again, the place is empty, except for the waiter, the guy behind the bar, and whoever mans the kitchen, and of course the mandatory two ladies of a certain age enjoying a cocktail.
You order yourself a drink, a pint of something local, and its brought over to your table on a little paper doily. It has a strange taste taste but you think nothing of it, it’s not that it’s bad, it’s just an unfamiliar brew.
So you finish your drink and you order another one. This time, the bar man brings along the evening menu and without saying a word, he places it on the table next to your drink. Its been a long day and you haven’t eaten since you left the safety and familiarity of your hometown so you pick up the menu and review the options. Perhaps you’re more tired than you might have realised. The words are blurred, difficult to read.
Not recognizing much on the menu, which doesn’t even list prices, you keep it simple, and you order the Rabbit Cacciatore. It comes quickly enough but there isn’t much of it, and the pint you wash it down with still has the strange taste. You order something different for the next one.
By now, the two ladies of a certain age enjoying a cocktail have left and it’s just you and the bar man. His attentive gaze could be mistaken for willing an early finish, but you decide to stay for a few more pints and order the same again; you receive your pint with a reticent smile from the bar man and take it to a seat by the window where you plan to enjoy the rest of your evening watching the city go by.
Almost immediately, you catch the eye of the homeless guy sitting on the pavement at the entrance to the Underground in the cold February night. The swish and cosy ambiance of the three point five star rated hotel and restaurant is shattered, and you instead decide to hastily finish your pint and retire to your room for a bit of bedtime telly.
By the time the lift delivers you to your floor, you’re exhausted, drowsy even. You enter your room and close the door behind you, being sure to lock it. Too drained even for a bit of ITV, you recline on to the bed and immediately drift off soundly asleep.
But you don’t sleep long. Soon, there are hushed voices outside the door, and the sound of keys jangle, the door handle crunches the spring inside. Someone, mistakenly, is trying to enter your room.
You sit up, except you don’t, you can’t. You’re pinned to the bed. You call out, but hear nothing but a hushed groan, your words slurred as if drunk, drugged even. You’re heavy. Is something on top of you, is someone in the room? For a moment, you panic, but then it’s over. You’re awake and the room is empty.
“Sleep paralysis is when you can’t move any part of your body right before falling asleep or as you wake up. It happens when your body is in between stages of sleep and wakefulness. An episode is temporary and only lasts for a few seconds to a couple of minutes. It’s a type of parasomnia.”
Sure. Terrifying. But just a dream. But it does raise the interesting question: has your suitcase been moved? Seriously, was that how you left it? Are you sure?
By the fourth or fifth time you’ve done this, you decide, paranoia or not, you need peace of mind, even if it does come in a pretty but blurred pink case.
Can’t believe they didn’t think of these before, Del Griffith and Neal Page sure could have done with one.
Duggan's Dig 
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