While this is something that, according to my mother, did happen to me, she was the one who experienced it. I was too young to remember it and, for a lack of better term, unconscious, so I only know the story from my mother and can only tell it in her words. A couple on notes, though, before I continue with this short story: my mother's family is extremely catholic religious, but she herself is not.
She believes, but isn't zealous, whereas I don't, at all. Never did. I tried to, but I simply lack the conviction to put everything in faith. Also, this is an isolated incident during which nothing extreme happened to me or my mother, but shook her to the very core.
It was the middle of the night when my screams woke mother up. I was somewhere between 5-7 years old at the time, nightmares were nothing uncommon, but I never screamed before so she was a bit alarmed. She opened the door to the room and felt her daughter's tiny tackle on her legs. She didn't notice it at the time, but my younger brother, with whom I shared the room, hadn't even flinched from his sleep, despite my screaming right next to him.
I was clutching at mom's legs, struggling to say something and my mother tried to calm me down, thinking I had a nightmare. But something was off about me. She realized what when she kneeled and saw my eyes.
They were open, but I wasn't awake. To this day she insists I wasn't awake. She swears I wasn't awake, but wasn't asleep either. That was the first chill that went down her spine. My glass eyes. There was no movement in them, kind of like a blind person's. They were fixated at nothing and I was moving my whole head when I wanted to "look" at something.
My mom asked me what's wrong, why am I so scared.
"They are at the ceiling!", I yelled.
"What? Who is at the ceiling?"
"They are at the ceiling, they keep watching me", I said, as I turned around and raised my finger, "but don't look at them!!"
I was frantic and kept pointing at the same spot, the corner of the ceiling above the window, crying, begging her not to look at them. I'm guessing a lifetime of belief and religion is what made my mom ask the two following questions:
"How many are there?", she asked.
"Seven! They are seven, mommy they are here for me! They keep watching me! Stop looking at them! They don't like it!"
The second I said the number, my mom said she could feel the blood drain from her face. She hugged me tightly and asked the second question:
"Are they pretty? Honey, tell me, are they pretty?"
"Yes, they are!" I answered.
As I write this now, I can't help feeling a bit irritated, her being concerned with aesthetics while her daughter was freaking out, but my answer relieved her, allowing her to breathe again. She started shooshing me, I closed my eyes, went back to sleep, she tucked me in my bed and that was it.
We never really talk about it, mostly because she says it still scares her like it did then, but the three or four times we did, she couldn’t explain to me why them being seven terrified her, why she was so relieved to know they were easy on the eyes or why ask these two questions in particular and leave it there.
When I asked her once what she thought they could have been, her answer was she didn't want to know, because something about me that night, made her think that knowing about the seven angered them.