I Kicked a Gorgeous Ghost Out of My Bed

“Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.” — Stephen King

In the past, as a single parent to my young daughter, I slept with one eye open — my maternal radar vigilantly locked on.

Back then, in those small dark hours of the night, that beautiful girl of mine, woken by disturbing nightmares, would ever so quietly creep into my room, and gently climb up into my bed, spooning herself to snuggle up close behind me.

As mindful as she was to try not to wake me — the fidgeting and tugging of the duvet would follow. In my muddled sleep, my nurturing detector, now alerted, though somewhat irritated, progressed to its stoically protective stance. The creeping into my bed lasted for a fair number of years. Yet, I would have never changed it, or my slight irritation, to not be there for her — for the world.

After one or two years had passed, when it became apparent my daughter had grown out of her night terrors, I was finally able to let myself drift into a deeper level of sleep and subsequently — replenish my energy levels with those new, longer periods of uninterrupted slumber.

Until one twilight dark morning, it seemed the night-time terrors were back. In my hazy half-sleep, half-awake pose, I felt that familiar motion of my bed dipping, the cold air blowing sharply through my cosy cocoon of snuggled warmth, only to be eradicated by the unwelcome forced adjusting of my duvet.

‘Ahh, here we go, back to this then,’ I thought to myself.

After she settled, I felt my daughter slowly stroke my hair, and again, and now, much longer strokes. It didn’t make sense; she’d never done this before. The closeness of her breath blowing down into the back of my neck. As I came around a little more, I discerned an unusual energy, one that I wasn’t at all familiar with. Slightly alerted by this, I pushed myself harder to wake up properly — out of my heavy grogginess.

My thoughts ran through jagged slow motion as I tried to catch up to what was happening. Suddenly, everything tilted into a crystal-clear reality. It wasn’t my daughter behind me, it was a young man right up close, skin to skin, next to me!

What the hell!!

This was too real to be unreal. I had seen plenty of weird shit over the past few decades, with the only ever explanation I could possibly muster for the lifelong parade of paranormal activity — being, perhaps, sleep paralysis.

Yet this was on a whole new level. It was so real, and one of those stories no one can believe when I tell them. I wasn’t sleep-deprived or had fallen asleep after hours of insomnia. This is normally the case when sleep paralysis occurs, due to exhaustion, and the mind wakes when the body is in its paralyzed state.

I asked him why he was there — in my bed — and as close and palpable as any human could feel and be. By then, I had woken even more and knew that this was something from another dimension, no matter how many times I kept questioning myself.

I finally managed to bolt myself up, now fully awake — eyes wide open; and he disappeared in an instant. My heart was beating, my mind unable to differentiate how I was able to see, feel, and hear a man in such a clear and factual manner — for it to not be real!

My mind raced as my heart thumped hard and fast, and I hoped and prayed that it was a random ‘dream’. At that time, I had been piercing through a traumatic and painful shit show with my ex-fiancé, who had shut down on me and moved on in the space of a day. I became morose, obsessed, and tearful, and trapped in a miserable place. And so, I decided to park this paranormal liaison as sleep paralysis. I had had so many of these before; granted, this was too real, but what does one do with a situation as strange as this?

Until the early hours of the following night, in the depths of my sleepy dawn slumber, I was jolted by the sudden movement of my bed; the mattress sinking as a body compresses its shape with its heaviness. The shifting of my duvet and the person move up and touch me; the energy of another person right up and close to me, so tangible. Again, I was one hundred times a billion percent certain it was my daughter.

But it wasn’t!

Four days passed, and each twilight morning, this young male spirit woke me. I named him Manni. I don’t know why — it just came to me. Manni was a slim young male, in his early twenties, with ivory black hair, tanned skin, and ocean blue eyes. Out of all the apparitions I had seen over the years, up until that point, he was the only one who appeared perfectly human, and the only ‘spirit’ that repeatedly visited me.

On the sixth or seventh morning, woken once again by Manni slipping into my bed, and even though I was familiar with him by then — the paranormal situation of it happening continued to terrify me each time.

I decided to fight hard to get him out. His demeanour changed, and from being placid all week, he turned pretty nasty and attempted to turn on me, which was frightening in itself — yet thankfully, he left and never returned.

I had learned over the years to fight these unwelcome apparitions; instead of being scared, I would force myself towards them and push my face right up into theirs, breathing over them — purposely, with all my strength. For some reason, doing this deters them, or the dream? Maybe that’s why we all have morning breath — it may be a thing? Or if this is real, human breath is stronger or terrifying for them — maybe they are lesser creations?

The Western world has detached itself from the possibility of another dimension, and as weird as that sounds, we don’t really know how real or unreal these experiences are. There are a multitude of layers to our reality, and that is to say — even if reality is an actual presence, or a mindset, or a changeable stance that evolves from our given perspective.

I have questioned myself over the years why I am privy to this alternate universe and have often wondered if it truly boils down to science, and as simple as a sleep disorder. This explanation doesn’t always marry up in how, in certain properties I have lived in — I am free from the ordeals, and in other properties, they are horrendously active.

Fortunately, I haven’t had as many episodes in recent years, although I admit — a handful, having moved recently into my partner’s home. I imagine it was my partner’s late brother, who I have seen come up and lie against me in my sleep — and one time — saw his spirit move across the bedroom as a large shadow. It’s strange to witness these sightings, and not truly be believed when I share my stories. It can be attested to one being insane, yet aren’t we all somewhat?

Last year, I read an intriguing book called: ‘The Haunting of Alma Fielding’, written by Kate Summerscale. In brief, it’s about a young housewife: Fielding, who is being plagued by a perturbed poltergeist. Stories fill the book of objects, like her china and trinkets being thrown about the house and wardrobes toppling over, all by themselves, and a whole array of other hair-raising rollicks.

This unprecedented charade had occurred just before the onset of WWII, and in fact, many other homes in and around the London borough were reported to be experiencing similar paranormal events. Yet what caught my attention in all of this was the parapsychologist, Nandor Fodor, who investigated Fielding and her paranormal episodes over the course of a year or more.

Fodor had suggested that Fielding’s poltergeists were the psychic manifestation of her childhood sexual trauma, and therefore part of her buried unconscious. And the same with the residents who reported paranormal activity — the idea of War had had a massive impact on their psyche, it seems.

When I read Fodor’s findings, it brought me to the attention of my paranormal dreams, and even the time around Manni, when I had walked into my kitchen, and the two main spotlights exploded one after the other, right over my head. I was aware that my energy had been utterly distraught and lost — my childhood traumas were rising from a buried place — triggered by the gaslighting and ghosting that happened all too regularly, by my ex-fiancé.

I often contemplate how our past is intertwined with our present, and if unpacked or hidden, they grip with a similar strength as Ivy, as it takes root in crevices and cracks, worsening the condition of an already damaged foundation.

My memoir writing has changed so much for me, combined with my past talking therapy; there has been so much acknowledgement, although painfully uncomfortable, to be able to look into the very face of my inner wounds, betrayals, and disappointments — and breathe the breath of fire, just the way I do at my paranormal apparitions.

And so nowadays, there are fewer manifestations of paranormal dreams, for me (so far).

© Chantal Weiss 2025. All Rights Reserved