This is a true story.

I would like to know what you think about this...It still shakes me now...and is partly responsible for my love of science and technology. I think I'm forever searching for the truth of that incident...

Comments as always appreciated.

It really blew my mind, and now, over two decades since, it still does.

Until that moment, I’d always been sceptical. Not having experienced anything of such a nature, I had no way to really come to terms with what happened. I had no frame of reference, and therefore no understanding.

That’s why, even now, I struggle to comprehend what really happened? Did I dream it? Did I imagine it?

You make up your own minds. Here’s my story.

It was around 8.00 pm, I’d had enough of watching television. Some predictable sit-com graced the squeeze box and I was getting bored.

“Mum, I’m going upstairs. Got some homework. Okay?”

Mum muttered something vaguely intelligible along the lines of, ‘quiet darling, it’s the good bit,’ while simultaneously drinking her tea and waving her hand like the head of state, dismissing her subject. Eyes trance-like, hypnotised by events on screen, fearing if she pulled away, she’d miss a crucial scene, Mum barely acknowledged I was there.

My Dad had long since fallen asleep, not entirely from exhaustion, although he’d had a heavy day, but more to avoid my Mum’s incessant nagging.

I pulled up out of the sofa and ascended the stairs behind. I didn’t really have any homework. That was an excuse, just to get out of the lounge. The feeling of claustrophobic coach potato land was getting to me, and I needed to breath. I needed to feel alive, instead of some zombie on a life-support system called prime time TV.

Inside my bedroom, I breathed again. It felt good to be alone, to have space around me, existing there, only for me.

I switched on my record player. Like most 14 year olds I was hooked on a band. It was 1983, and the band of the moment was Duran Duran. I was, without a doubt, their most avid, admiring fan in the country. Willingly spending whatever money I had sweated for serving cakes and selling shoes between school time, on LP’s, singles, 12 inches, extravagant imports and any other number of goodies the marketing men kicked out to subtract serious bunce from impressionable, gullible teenagers.

My room was more a shrine to Simon Le Bon and Co, than a place where I slept. Every inch of wall and ceiling space was taking up with their faces, displaying whatever expression was asked for on the photographers’ brief sheet.

I didn’t care, they could all have been doing dopey, tongue-out ‘Benny Hill’ styled impressions, and I would still have thought them later day gods, deserving of the inordinate amounts of hero worship I gave them every waking minute.

The stylus touched the record and I listened to the burr and crackle, my anticipation  growing, of course, I’d heard Rio a million times (hardly an exaggeration, believe me), so what was there left to anticipate. I didn’t understand, all I knew that when I wasn’t hearing it, when I was forced by necessity to do something else, my body and soul longed to hear the heavy bass, emotional vocals and synth riffs.

The music burst out of the speakers, shaking the room. I looked instinctively towards the door, half expecting an irritated call of: ‘turn that damn music down’, to emanate upwards from the lounge. But no call came.

Relieved, I pulled out my writing pad and began to write. I’d had a story whizzing around in my head all day. Hurriedly, I wrote as the pictures in my mind coalesced to form full blown scenes.

Writing straight for 2 hours barely pausing, except to flip the record. During one of those ‘flipping’ moments, I heard my Mum and Dad coming upstairs.

“We’re going to bed love, there’s still some tea in the pot if you want it!”

“Okay Mum, night night.”

It was an auto-response. Why Mum thought I’d want tea at 10 O’clock at night, deserted me. But to say so would have been immature and churlish.

She never quite understood how to treat me. Oh yes, she was an efficient mother. All the rules: what to do, what not to do, had been drilled solidly into me. I’d been moulded into a good girl. Someone to be proud of. But we never bonded, like a mother and daughter should.

You see, my mother was insanely competitive.

From a young age, I realised there was something not quite right. She would always be vying for the attention over me.

In family gatherings, I would often sing with my Gran, either hymns or war time songs. Not to be immodest, but I’d been blessed with a powerful, haunting voice and like my Gran, more than capable of captivating an audience.

Mum would glare for a few minutes, envy etched in every line around her tight, begrudging smile, while Gran and I soaked up the adoration, then she would leap from her chair, her mouth open wide, and she would sing at the very top of her voice.

Imagine someone bursting into impromptu song in the House of Commons. The stunned silence, the shuffling embarrassment, the bemused looks and finally, the obligatory courtesy clapping. That was the scene that faced Mum.

Not sure why, but she always thought the silence was a reverential thing. Like the family were in awe of her, and she persisted to hog the attention, as if her existence was tied to the applause she received. Now, looking in retrospective, I can see that it was. She had to be the constant centre of the party. Anything less failed to define her being.

By my teens, I was finding Mum’s continual competitive attitude much harder to deal with. I would buy clothes, show them to her, and she would issue a catty comment on ‘the size of my bottom’ or ‘the colour wasn’t right for my complexion’. Thereby, eroding the confidence I had mustered and the happiness I’d felt buying new clothes.

Within days of such belittling confrontations, she would be prancing round the house in similar, if not the same clothes, saying ‘don’t I look great!’ In truth, she did look great. Mum always had a fantastic figure, and she looked more like my attractive older sister than my Mum. That was the role she liked. It offered all the fun and none of the responsibility.

Ironically, my friends thought Mum was ‘really cool’. The kind of Mum they wanted. And as long as it was her singing arias, writing epics, or painting masterpieces, everything in the garden was very rosy. The moment the attention turned the talons came out.

I think, deep down in her warped psyche, Mum knew what she was doing was wrong and every now and then she tried to act the perfect Mum, hence the caring but ill-timed ‘tea offer’.

I heard Mum and Dad in their bedroom. Mum was talking loudly to Dad about something. His monotone replies, just barely enough to communicate could be discerned through the wall.

I got up, selected and played ‘Duran Duran’ their first album, and continued to write.

Easily an hour must have passed. The sounds in my parent’s bedroom had dulled and eventually extinguished some 15 minutes before. Rising from my chair, I headed for the door, intending to use the bathroom.

On the landing, I could hear loud snoring. Both Mum and Dad were sleeping heavily.

Returning to my bedroom, I turned the volume right down. It was then that I heard it.

At first, I thought Mum and Dad had woken. Hurrying to the landing, I listened, the unmistakable melodic monstrosity of sound emanated instantly from my parent’s room, confirming their continued slumber.

So who was making the noise downstairs?

I peered over the banister and noticed the lounge light was on. Our house was an open plan design, with the staircase running through the middle of the lounge. I knew if I dangled far enough I might just be able to see more of the lounge. With the wood pressing hard into my stomach, I suspended like a crazy acrobat over the top of the banister.

I thought I could see two people. I knew they had to be burglars. With this thought, I wondered what to do. The only telephone we had was downstairs. I could, of course, wake Mum and Dad. But Mum would panic, and Dad would play the ‘Action Man’ role for real. As the debacle acted out in my mind, I realised I couldn’t wake them. I reached a somewhat crazy, but nevertheless courageous decision, I had to get to the telephone and call the Police.

Breathing deeply, rhythmically, I tip-toed down the first few stairs. The voices increased.

“Oh love, you can’t say that he’s a good actor!”

I froze. It couldn’t be… I listened, but my heart held on to its beat, filling with blood, and refused to expel the crimson liquid round my body. I felt I’d gone stone white.

“You’re a cruel sod. He’s a lovely bloke!”

The male murmuring and the laughter that followed sealed my utter confusion and escalated my fear.

Something inside me obstinately refused to descend any further. Shaking, I returned back up the stairs. I had to see. Had to witness with my own eyes. Slowly, my hand still shaking, my ears still ringing with the background laughter, I pushed the door forward. Two large heaving mounds encased in a delicate rose duvet met my gaze. My parents, in bed, where I expected them to be.

I retreated from their room, once on the landing, the voices rang out clearly. This time, there could be no avoiding the shattering conclusion…

Somehow…my parents were also downstairs.

Sweat erupted on my forehead and round my neck. I wanted to vomit. I ran to the bathroom, the voices growing in intensity as I passed the top of the stairway. I grabbed some toilet tissue and dabbed away my sweat.

How could this be? What was happening?

Instinctively, just to confirm that it was really 11.10 pm and not 7.40 pm when Mum had had that conversation she still seemed to be having downstairs, I stared at my watch.

The hands were spinning first clockwise, then anti-clockwise at great speed.
Dizziness swept over me, and I felt an immense surge of energy engulf me. Unable to withstand such a sensation, I pitched forward, clutching at sudden darkness.

‘Tel Aviv’ had just finished playing.

I looked at my watch: 11.10 pm, breathing hard, I ventured back on to the landing. Lights were off. No voices, no sound, save my parents nightly rumblings.

Had it been a dream? Had I imagined it? What had really happened?

I looked inside my curled up fist. Toilet paper, squeezed tighter and smaller than I’d ever seen, was in the palm of my hand.