Nosleep - Vol 3.txt

8/12/2019 Nosleep - Vol 3.txt

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The Smiling Man

by Blue Tidal

About five years ago I lived downtown in a major city in the US. I've always been a night person, so I would often find myself bored after my roommate, who wasdecidedly not a night person, went to sleep. To pass the time, I used to go forlong walks and spend the time thinking.

I spent four years like that, walking alone at night, and never once had a reason to feel afraid. I always used to joke with my roommate that even the drug dealers in the city were polite. But all of that changed in just a few minutes of one evening.

It was a Wednesday, somewhere between one and two in the morning, and I was walking near a police patrolled park quite a ways from my apartment. It was a quietnight, even for a week night, with very little traffic and almost no one on foot. The park, as it was most nights, was completely empty.

I turned down a short side street in order to loop back to my apartment when I first noticed him. At the far end of the street, on my side, was the silhouette of a man, dancing. It was a strange dance, similar to a waltz, but he finished each "box" with an odd forward stride. I guess you could say he was dance-walking,headed straight for me.

Deciding he was probably drunk, I stepped as close as I could to the road to give him the majority of the sidewalk to pass me by. The closer he got, the more Irealized how gracefully he was moving. He was very tall and lanky, and wearing an old suit. He danced closer still, until I could make out his face. His eyes were open wide and wild, head tilted back slightly, looking off at the sky. His mouth was formed in a painfully wide cartoon of a smile. Between the eyes and thesmile, I decided to cross the street before he danced any closer.

I took my eyes off of him to cross the empty street. As I reached the other side, I glanced back... and then stopped dead in my tracks. He had stopped dancing and was standing with one foot in the street, perfectly parallel to me. He was facing me but still looking skyward. Smile still wide on his lips.

I was completely and utterly unnerved by this. I started walking again, but keptmy eyes on the man. He didn't move. Once I had put about half a block between us, I turned away from him for a moment to watch the sidewalk in front of me. Thestreet and sidewalk ahead of me were completely empty. Still unnerved, I lookedback to where he had been standing to find him gone. For the briefest of moments I felt relieved, until I noticed him. He had crossed the street, and was now slightly crouched down. I couldn't tell for sure due to the distance and the shad

ows, but I was certain he was facing me. I had looked away from him for no morethan 10 seconds, so it was clear that he had moved fast.

I was so shocked that I stood there for some time, staring at him. And then he started moving toward me again. He took giant, exaggerated tip toed steps, as ifhe were a cartoon character sneaking up on someone. Except he was moving very, very quickly.

I'd like to say at this point I ran away or pulled out my pepper spray or my cellphone or anything at all, but I didn't. I just stood there, completely frozen a


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s the smiling man crept toward me.

And then he stopped again, about a car length away from me. Still smiling his smile, still looking to the sky.

When I finally found my voice, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.What I meant to ask was, "What the fuck do you want?!" in an angry, commanding tone. What came out was a whimper, "What the fuu?"

Regardless of whether or not humans can smell fear, they can certainly hear it.I heard it in my own voice, and that only made me more afraid. But he didn't react to it at all. He just stood there, smiling.

And then, after what felt like forever, he turned around, very slowly, and started dance-walking away. Just like that. Not wanting to turn my back to him again,I just watched him go, until he was far enough away to almost be out of sight.And then I realized something. He wasn't moving away anymore, nor was he dancing. I watched in horror as the distant shape of him grew larger and larger. He wascoming back my way. And this time he was running.

I ran too.

I ran until I was off of the side road and back onto a better lit road with sparse traffic. Looking behind me then, he was nowhere to be found. The rest of the

way home, I kept glancing over my shoulder, always expecting to see his stupid smile, but he was never there.

I lived in that city for six months after that night, and I never went out for another walk. There was something about his face that always haunted me. He didn't look drunk, he didn't look high. He looked completely and utterly insane. Andthat's a very, very scary thing to see.

Fireflies

by Dyvyant

The first part of a series.

I've been told a lot of things in my life, and many of them were lies. As children we're told that magic is real and the bad guy always loses. As teenagers we're told deviation is dangerous, and conformity is paramount. And as adults we'repromised the perfect bliss of a family, and the peace that old age will eventually bring. None of these are true, of course, and being a slightly cynical man ittherefore came as a surprise to me when the most wonderful thing I'd ever beenpromised came true.

They say a mother loves her baby as soon as it's within her, and a father fallsin love with his child the first time he holds it. Staring down into those gorgeous baby blues as that bundle gently writhed in my arms, I wept. My heart pulsedand throbbed in overwhelming sensation, and I could scarcely believe I had everreally known what love was before that moment. She was perfect, and she was mine. We named her Sophia.

We never had any more children after Sophia, but we never wanted any either. Sophia became our world, and what a utopian world it was! Before long she had grown


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into a precocious little scamp with golden tresses, a button nose, and brilliant azure eyes that seemed to grow more deep and blue with each passing month. Those were the happiest years of my life, when every day seemed to leak into the next like a blissful dream that was without end.

But it did end, of course, as all dreams must. My wife's death was a shattering,chilling awakening, and the entire affair left me only thankful that she had passed swiftly on the operating table, and had not been forced to endure months ofneedless suffering. The grief was almost more than I could bear, and I found solace the only place I could think to look for it - at the bottom of a bottle. And things might have gone on this way forever - drunk and useless, throwing awaywhat was left of my life - had it not been for Sophia.

One dark night I was almost a handle deep when she crawled into my lap, curled her little arms around as much of me as she could, and buried her face in my chest. "Daddy." She said in that voice that would put a choir of angels to shame. "Daddy, please. Please don't be sad. She's waiting for us, Daddy. We'll see her again."

I had tried to believe this before, and even when she insisted it with such conviction, I still could not quite trick myself into accepting it. But it was enough for me that she believed it, and believed it hard enough for the both of us. Iput down the bottle in that moment, and I have not picked it up again in the two decades since. Things weren't okay that night, but in time they were once more

, and though the dream never returned, we again found happiness.

Seasons changed, years passed, and Sophia grew from an adorable scamp to a breathtakingly gorgeous young woman in what now seems to me like the blink of an eye.She attended school, made friends, found and lost aspirations, had her heart broken (and broke more than one, I am sure), and lived her life with an insatiablepassion for the world's wonders and mysteries. I could be forgiven for fearingthat my little angel would outgrow me, but blessedly, she seemed to realize eventhis.

Several times a week she would insist we go for a walk together, and on those walks she would tell me all there was to tell of her life. She was never afraid Iwould judge her or condemn her for the things she revealed to me, and I never di

d. I offered advice and perspective as gently as I could, and she always seemedin better spirits after I had counseled her on a problem. Our walks always endedin the same place - a small clearing in the woods a few blocks from our house.It attracted a lovely host of fireflies in the late Spring and Summer, and the dancing lights drifting away in the darkness always delighted her.

But children grow up, and they cannot remain ours forever. I knew that, and while I cannot say I was entirely without jealousy and concern when Sophia began dating, I did my best to respect her choices and her independence. It was harder still when she left for college, leaving me, for this first time in almost three decades, alone. Letting her leave was one of the most difficult things I've everdone, but standing in the way of her happiness would've been even harder. I grewaccustomed to solitude, though I was always overjoyed whenever she returned hom

e.

That is, of course, until she brought home Vaughn. You might expect that I hatedhim because he was almost ten years her senior. You might expect that I hated him because he'd been married to another woman only two years prior. And you might expect that I hated him because she was so desperately in love with him, but none of these is quite the truth. The honest truth is I just hated him, and for reasons I could only later put my finger on.

I hated the way he looked at her: a sly predator only barely masking its ravenou


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s hunger. I hated the way he smiled at me: a smug, almost sneering grin that seemed to hold as much malice as mirth. And most of all I hated the way he talked to me. "Oh, don't worry, sir" He would say in that intoxicating voice laced with honeyed venom. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of her. You just rest yourself.I'll take care of everything, sir." He talked to me like I was old, and the damnfact was I felt old. But I hated that he could see that, and I hated it more that Sophia seemed to see it too. He put me in the past, made me obsolete and irrelevant. He replaced me.

Sophia came home less and less after she found Vaughn, and every time she did, he came too. But I knew Sophia was smart. I knew she was clever and perceptive, and I hoped, I knew it would only be a matter of time before she saw through theslimy bastard's thin disguise and saw him for the cretin he was. And each passing visit, each heated argument with her, each cancelled trip and each strained phone call, I hoped a little less. Still, there were a few good times to be had, and Sophia still permitted me those summer walks to find the fireflies in our clearing.

Finally the time came when they visited without any begging or coercing on my part, and I secretly knew and dreaded what that meant. I'd expected them to just tell me, but they didn't. He asked me, pretended like I had any choice or say inthe matter. I saw through his game even then, but I fell into his trap anyway. Ican still hear her shrieking voice begging me to stop as I dragged him to the front porch and threw him onto the cold ground. I snarled at him, barking that he

would never have her. He would never put a ring on my little girl's finger. Shewailed and wept, rushing to pick him up, and as he rose he just looked at me, flashed me that sickly sweet smile and said, "That's alright, sir. I don't need your permission for what I intend to do."

They left, and when they did not come for lunch the following day as we had arranged, I began to worry. The next day I called, and the next, and the next. Now consumed with anxiety, I phoned the college to ask if she had returned only to betold she had not. I panicked. The police were initially reluctant to take me seriously, but after days passed with no word from her, even they began to grow concerned. Meanwhile I sat alone in my empty house, constantly fighting the urge to return to a place I'd given up that night Sophia had crawled into my lap decades ago.

And then it hit me. I don't know why it had taken that long, or how the idea struck me with such certainty, but I suddenly knew where my daughter was. I ran ata dead sprint all the way to the woods, slowing only when I began to see the faint glimmer of fireflies against the fiery horizon of the sinking dusk. By the time I reached the clearing it was almost pitch black, but the light of the fireflies made the scene all too vivid.

I cannot and will not describe what he did to her in any detail. The expressionof anguish on her face was so complete and profound that it tore my heart to pieces instantly. She was so twisted and mangled and gnarled that I could scarcelyattribute what had once been my angel to what remained before my eyes; it seemedmore like some grim doll, a gruesome mimic of what once had been. I collapsed,

crawling towards where most of her naked, violated corpse lay, and for how longI wept, shrieked, and howled in torment I cannot recall. The fireflies seemed toclose in around me, swirling about me and crawling within torn openings of herflesh, wriggling through her eyes and out of her gaping mouth.

They committed me to a mental institution for the next three months, but there isn't much of that time that I remember. My dreams were haunted by distant pinpricks of floating light, and the knowledge that my world was empty. The fury whenthe police told me that they could not find him was only matched by the nausea that overtook me when they told me she had been pregnant.


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I replaced my infinite grief with newfound purpose. I came to know everything there was to know about him: his name, his childhood, his friends, his family, hisfailed marriage, his public passions, and his dark desires. I went from being utterly computer illiterate to an Internet junky solely for the purpose of digging out every scrap of information there was on him. But try as I might, I could not find him.

Six months after Sophia's death, I was finally beginning to feel truly and inevitably defeated. Leads were becoming increasingly disparate and desperate, and Vaughn seemed so far gone as to be forever out of reach. I stumbled the few blocksthrough the woods, drunk for the first time in more than twenty years. The fireflies were still there, but they seemed now to taunt me as much as they welcomedme, their haunting lights looking just the same as the night I had found her.

I collapsed just as I had then, but I think I actually wept more this time. Several times I considered breaking the bottle clutched in my fist in a way that might allow me to finish myself, but some measure of resolve or cowardice preventedme. I wallowed away the witching hours in my sorrow until dawn's coming began to bathe the fireflies' yellow glow with an orange hue.

And in that new day, that fresh beginning, it came to me: an idea that erased the deep frown on my face and replaced it with a jubilant, beaming smile. I laughed where only moments before I had cried, rising to my feet with the thought that

filled me once more with purpose and anticipation. Really it had been there allalong - I had known the key to it for months, but it was not until that momentthat it clicked into place. I didn't need to find him at all.

Because he has a daughter. And I know where she lives.

My Son's Closet

by Cptnwalrus

I feel a tug at my side. Groggily, I open my eyes and in focuses my 5 year old son standing by my bed.

"Patrick..? What are you....it's 2:30 in the morning..." I whisper, tiredly squinting at my alarm clock.

"Can I sleep with you tonight dad?" he says, holding back tears.

I pat the area on the bed behind me to tell him to come up, as I make room for him, inching away from my wife, he crawls in between us and drowns himself in covers.

This has been the 4th night in a row.


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The next day, I'm making grilled cheese for lunch as my wife walks into the kitchen.

"I think we need to do something about Patrick's nightmares" she says concerned.

I don't take my eyes off the lunch in front of me.

"...Nothing really to talk about, I always went to my parent's room when I got scared as a kid."

"Yes but...consecutively..?"

Silence overcomes the kitchen, save the quiet grasp of heat on the sandwiches below me. She had a point, I remember going to my parent's room in seek of comfortevery now and then but to do it 4 nights in a row? Seemed a little bit overkill.

"I don't know," says my wife, flipping her hand in the air and breaking the silence, "maybe we should send him to a therapist or something"

"A therapist? Rachel he's 5 years old. This is probably just a little phase, I'msure he'll get over it."

"Alright..." she sighs reluctantly.

I finish my sandwich and serve it onto a plate. While part of me agrees with what I just said, the other part is screaming that something is wrong.

9:00 o'clock PM. Patrick went to bed an hour ago, and the wife has gone out witha friend. The house's creaks are the only thing to hear as I walk up the stairs, giving in to the fact that I have to work tomorrow.

As I pass Patrick's room something catches my ear. Quiet sulking.

I open the door and I see my son sitting up with blankets up to his shoulders crying on the corner of his bed. He jolts his head to me when the door opens, andthen lets out a louder cry, reaching for my safety.

I run towards him.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" I soothe.

Behind tears, he points to his closet and utters "I hear noises in my closet..."

I turn around and see his half opened closet across his room. Poor guy, I rememb

er when I was scared of my closet.

Walking over to the closet and closing it completely, I try to reassure him.

"Patrick, I know sometimes it may seem like the house makes scary noises, but you have to remember it's all natural. You can't let your imagination control you.Every time you think you hear a strange sound that you're not sure about, justremind yourself that it's just the house settling, alright?

He reluctantly nods his head, despite it being obvious he doesn't think that wil


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l solve any problems. I kneel down beside his bed and gently touch his arm.

"Now, I'm going to go to bed. If you get scared at all, just come into my room.But I want you to try and be brave, if a noise scares you, just ignore it and try to think of happy things."

He slowly nods again and stares in silence as I walk out of the room. There wassomething about his stare though that made me uneasy. Something that made me feel like I was abandoning him. Like he was trying to get as much time looking at me, an object of safety, before he was left alone in his room. I felt bad, but inthe end thought it would be good for him if he overcame his fear.

He didn't. What was probably only an hour later, as I'm about to drift off intoa deep slumber he comes running in the room, crying intensely. I pick him up from the floor and nestle him between me and a stack of pillows.

"What happened?" I asked.

He sat there, still crying, trying to get the words out.

"I...I...I...I saw a face..."

My heart sank. Please tell me this was just his imagination exaggerating something like a coat peaking out into his view.

Eventually his crying stopped and he began to close his eyes. When I was sure hewas sleeping, I softly moved out of bed. The fatherly instinct in me told me Ishould check out the closet, even if it was just his imagination.

I closed the door to my room behind me and turned on the hall lights. My hands grasped the doorknob of my son's room and I lightly turned it to ensure he did not wake up suddenly without a father beside him. The door opened slowly, and as Itip toed in I could see my son's room unveiling.

It was perfectly fine. I turned and looked into the closet, and just like I hadthought, an arm of a white dress shirt was peaking out from the depths into my son's room. In the darkness he most likely saw it as a pale face and became scared. I shut the closet door and calmly walked back to my room, stopping halfway when a thought occurred...didn't I already close the closet door?

I've come to terms with the fact that everything I know is a dream.

By Tiyafwons

As a preface, please note that this will probably be very long. I don't care ifnobody reads it; everyone in the world could read it and nothing would change. Ijust need to voice my concerns for my own sake. Perhaps by organizing everythin


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g on a page I can make sense of things.

Several years ago, I was in a brutal car accident. I was parked in front of a train track, waiting for the train to pass by. I was the last person not to make it across the tracks. For visualization, there was a solid stream of cars on either side. If I had tried to sneak across, I would have rear-ended the person in front of me before successfully clearing them.

I could hear the train approaching, and the black-and-yellow bars lowered in front of me. I am fascinated by trains, so I was delighted to be so close, finallygetting a front row seat. The train was about a quarter mile from the crossing when the driver behind me accelerated and nudged me forward a few feet. The barsbent and eventually snapped, and I was knocked joltingly onto the tracks. I panicked and threw the car into reverse, trying to back out. The other car apparently had more horsepower, however, and to my horror my car door aligned perfectly with the cattle guard on the front of the train.

I scrambled to get out of the car, but forgot about my seatbelt. I nearly strangled myself trying to get free. By the time I unlatched it, it was too late. Onefraction of a second of the loudest sound I had ever heard, and then blackness and silence. I was certain that I had died. I didn't feel any pain, and certainlyif I had survived I'd be in agony. I tried to open my eyes, but nothing would happen. I tried to make a sound, to wiggle my fingers, or do anything, but I couldn't. It wasn't that I was paralyzed; it was more like I didn't have a body to m

anipulate. I was just a mind submerged in a pool of nothing. The only sentimentI felt was that I had returned to that state after being gone for a long time; like forgetting how your parents' house smells until you visit home for the holidays.

Gradually, I started to have feelings of sensation. Passing waves of warmth andwetness finally allowed me to determine where the edges of my body were. Almostas soon as I became aware of my physical self, it began to ache. I felt as if every inch of me had been pummeled with a baseball bat--the heavy wooden kind. Even opening my eyes was a spectacular ordeal.

I was in a hospital. So I had survived after all. People moved to surround me. Faces that never fully came into focus hovered above my own, and sounds that vagu

ely resembled speech seemed to reach me through water. It wasn't long before I felt weak again and my eyes closed.

This fading in and out of consciousness lasted for what felt like a very long time, maybe months, though the doctors told me it was only a matter of days. Afterthat, I worked on speaking and swallowing food, which seems silly, but it was actually a challenge at the time. Finally, as more and more casts were removed, Iwas allowed to sit up and turn my head, for which I was incredibly grateful.

According to my family and my then-girlfriend Sarah, all of whom were overjoyedat being able to speak with me, I was asleep for several days on end after the crash. I remember Sarah specifically saying she had missed being able to "stare at those beautiful eyes."

Time passed at an excruciatingly slow pace until physical therapy finally escalated to the point where I could be pushed around in a wheelchair. The doctors were surprisingly hopeful that I'd be able to walk again, but it was what they called "cautious optimism." Nobody wanted to tell me I could be independent again and then have to admit they were wrong later. Obviously I was very hopeful myself,though even transferring from chair to bed was a painful challenge. It was around this time that I noticed I never dreamed anymore. When I slept, I only felt the same nothingness that I felt immediately after the crash.


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All the days blended together for a while after that. The next memory I can actually separate from the rest is the first time I tried walking on my own. There were staff members holding on to my arms and waist, just in case I fell, and withtheir help, I made it all the way across the room on my first try. The doctorssaid they had never seen such a rapid recovery. I was giddy.

Obviously I wasn't out of the woods yet, but soon I was allowed to live at homeagain with frequent PT sessions, and some weeks after that, I returned to work.Life was almost normal for a while. Except for a very slight limp in my left leg, the side that the train hit me on, I was feeling pretty normal. It was only after about a month of living in my own house that weird things started to happen.

The first thing I noticed was that I felt an occasional stinging on my right forearm, like a thin needle was puncturing my skin. It was a tiny prick, maybe twice a day at most. I figured it was just nerve trauma or something and blocked itfrom my mind. Feigning ignorance was harder to do when I started hearing things,though. While I was reading in bed one night, I thought I heard Sarah crying. Istrained my ears to make sure, and I definitely heard her sobs, but very distantly, like I was submerged in a pool.

I made my way downstairs quickly, concerned that she had hurt herself or something, but she was just washing dishes in the kitchen. "Are you okay?" I asked cautiously.

"Yeah, why?" She asked nonchalantly.

"No reason."

I dismissed these oddities as best I could. After all, how could anyone expect to recover from being hit by a goddamn train without some lingering effects? Every so often, mostly when I was trying to fall asleep or sitting in a silent room,I would hear occasional sounds that I couldn't connect at first. Gradually, I determined that they were hospital sounds--stretchers being rolled across tiled floors, beeping from machines, rapid chatter between nurses and doctors.

Although I figured anyone who had suffered as much trauma as I had would experience some degree of whatever I was experiencing, I decided to bring it up with my

doctor. He told me it was perfectly normal for someone in my circumstances, andhe could prescribe me a sleep aid if I felt it was necessary. I told him it wasn't a big deal; I was just satisfied that a doctor could explain my symptoms.

The odd glimpses of what seemed to be my past only increased in frequency. WhenI slept, I finally dreamed again, but it was always the same thing. If I saw anything at all, it was a hospital room. Sometimes there were other people in the room, and sometimes I was alone with the machines.

There was one night in particular in which the dream was more vivid and grippingthan usual. My eyes opened wearily to see Sarah asleep on the chair beside my hospital bed. "Sarah?" I croaked. She jerked awake.

"Henry!" She scrambled to my side, clutching my hand. At this point, it occurredto me that I was dreaming. I stared right into Sarah's eyes.

"I'm asleep right now."

She seemed concerned. "No, Henry. You're finally awake. I'm right here. It's been so long."

"Of course you would say that. You're a part of my dream." I smiled, amused. "I'll probably wake up any second." But as I spoke the familiar soreness caught up


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to me all at once. It practically knocked the wind from my lungs.

"Henry, no." Her distress was now evident. "I don't know what you're talking about. Stay with me, Henry. Stay awake. Look at me." I shook my head defiantly andclosed my eyes. When I opened them, I was back in my own bed. It was about 3:00in the morning. I sat awake, pondering what I had just seen. I thought I heard Sarah crying again, even though I could see her sleeping beside me.

When Sarah finally woke up, she rolled over and laid an arm across my chest. "Good morning, big guy." She smiled groggily.

"If I was asleep right now, would you tell me?" I asked.

"What?" She chuckled. "That's kinda heavy stuff to drop on a sleepy person."

"Just bear with me. If I was asleep right now--dreaming, you know--would you tell me?"

"Well, I feel pretty real," she noted, patting different parts of her body. "Doyou think I'm not real?"

"Of course not," I said. We got ready for our day. I couldn't stop thinking about my dream, though. I noticed that when I tried really hard to space out at work, and listened closely enough, I could hear the hospital sounds more clearly. I

was naturally concerned about this.

That night, I went to bed early, and just as I thought, I was transported immediately to the hospital bed. I felt the thin sheets beneath my fingers. I opened my eyes, and Sarah was reading a book in the same chair as before. I just lookedat her for a long time, trying to discern if she was real. She certainly seemedreal enough. She turned pages with the same flourish that she always had, and chewed on one of the temples of her reading glasses.

Eventually, she looked up and met my eyes. "You're awake again!" She gasped. "Victoria! Paul! He's awake!" My parents entered the room moments later, looking excited.

I talked with them all for a long time. Of course, my parents, too, denied the fact that I was asleep, but that topic passed quickly. Instead, we discussed my condition. I had been in a coma for almost three months with little response. They had been slowly losing hope for my recovery until my brain showed signs of activity. Since that time, they had been visiting me frequently, hoping that I would wake up. It seemed a pretty convincing story.

After many hours of talking, I had to stop; I was legitimately sleepy. Of course, they all understood and I fell back asleep. Only this time, I didn't wake up in my own bed. I woke up in the same hospital bed a few hours later. I had to think about it for a very long time, but eventually concluded that I must have imagined my miraculous recovery, and had been in a coma the whole time after all. Asyou can imagine, it was hard to accept at first.

Since then, I have been making a second recovery, which has been slower and lesssuccessful than the first. That's why, for a long time, I was mostly convincedthat I'm really awake this time. Nobody walks after getting blindsided by a train, at least not without lots of hard work. I've still only left my wheelchair oncrutches, and it's been six years.

It probably sounds like a bittersweet ending, and at one point I agreed. I was prepared to live happily-ever-after in my wheelchair, and maybe even graduate tocrutches someday, except for one thing. When I'm getting ready for bed, after I


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turn off my lamp and my head hits the pillow, I can still hear them; the faint sounds of a busy hospital.

I know that many of you will say "But I'm real. This is real life. Of course you're awake." But that's what you're supposed to say. Nobody's going to tell me "I'm fake. You're dreaming, wake up." I'm still asleep, and I've learned to deal with it. I know that nobody I meet during the day is real, but I'm tired, so I just pretend, and that will have to do.

Don't Turn Off The Webcam

by 0450AZ001

Linh and I met in 2008. She was from a very small town in Washington with a population of less than five hundred. I was working my way through college as an eve

nt bartender in Portland. Linh'scousin was getting married in Portland, and as fate would have it, the wedding reception was held at an upscale hotel on the Columbia River where I frequently tended to small wine and beer bars. I noticed herimmediately, as I often notice women that I quickly convince myself are too beautiful to ever date someone like me. Eventually as the night went on, she made her way over to my bar and ordered a white wine. We talked for a while about Portland. I sweated profusely as I tend to do around girls like her. She would be spending the next two days in the city, and I took a few moments telling her aboutthe most interesting sights to see and things to do in town.

Wow, you should just be my personal tour guide she said, grabbing my arm and smiling. This happened to me so infrequently that I really had no idea how to react,so I just mumbled Sure, what time? and laughed nervously to hedge in the event tha

t she was joking. How about 10:30 tomorrow morning she replied.

And so started my relationship with Linh. She was infectious, with a personalitythat was so innocent and warm. I immediately fell in love with her. There werea few issues that we would have to work through. She was still in Washington andI was finishing school in Oregon. Linh was Vietnamese with a very traditional father who would never approve of her having a white boyfriend. She lived alone in a house with her father as her mother had passed away several years earlier, so going to Yarrow Point to visit her was out of the question. She would come tosee me every three weeks under the guise of a prestigious internship program.

Being in a long distance relationship, we spoke on the phone and texted constantly. When high speed internet finally came to her small town in Washington, I sur

prised her with a webcam for her computer so we could have an even better meansof long distance communication. In the back of my mind, I was always looking forways to be with her as even after two years of dating I was paranoid a girl asbeautiful as her would eventually find somebody better to share her life with.

In 2010, Linh'sfather passed away suddenly in his sleep from a heart attack. He was everything to her, and she was heartbroken. When she returned from Florida where the funeral was held and her father buried, she was all alone in the house where she had lost both of her parents. With Linh'sfather deceased, she was open to finally allowing me to come to Washington to see her, which we planned on doin


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g in a few weeks after my college finals.

One night during our usual bedtime conversation, Linh mentioned to me that her father had been acting strangely in the days leading up to his death. She explained that he had taken to checking up on her multiple times throughout the day andnight, and scattering religious artifacts throughout the house. This behavior,she said, was highly uncharacteristic of him. Vietnamese culture and religion was something foreign to me, and at various points Linh had mentioned things likethis that I normally wrote off as just being a little silly. She explained to methat being in the house alone without her Dad was emotional and may be playingtricks on her. She hated the feeling of being so alone. She told me that being able to see me on her webcam was the closest thing she had to family, and asked that I promise to never turn off the webcam. She meant the world to me, so I washappy to oblige.

A few days passed and it was now the Tuesday before the weekend when I would finally come to see her in Washington. We spent our bedtime webcam session excitedly talking about our plans and I dozed off with my head on the kitchen table in mid conversation. It had been a long day. When I woke up, I saw Linh sleeping onmy screen and stumbled off to bed.

At 3:00am, my cell phone begin to ring. Disoriented, I rolled over, took a lookat the clock and knew it could only be her. She took great pleasure in waking meup in the middle of the night to let me know that she had just gotten a drink o

f water, or had an amusing dream. Anyone else would have gotten an earful from me, but her flirtatious giggle made me feel lucky to have my much needed sleep interrupted.

"I had a nightmare" Linh gasped. "...You danced in front of my friends". She burst into laughter.

"What are you doing up so late honey? You've got to work in the morning?" I said.

"I was thirsty, and went downstairs to get a drink of water."

"Great, well we really should go back to sleep, tomorrow is a big day".

"Allllright" she conceded, "Hey by the way, don't forg----"

After a few crackles and a brief burst of static, the call disconnected. I hatedLinh's phone, she had an old flip phone that dropped calls with no rhyme or reason at least three times a day. I held down the #1 on my own phone, my speed dial for Linh. No ring, straight to voicemail.

I tried to call several more times, and each time it again went straight to voicemail.

I was exhausted, and though I loved Linh to death, to be honest I just wanted togo back to sleep. My eyelids hung heavy.

A little annoyed, I decided to walk out to my kitchen for a quick drink of water. The two glasses of wine that I drank before bed had left me with a little bitof dry mouth. As I rinsed the glass and went to place it in the dishwasher, outof the corner of my eye I saw movement on the glow of the laptop perched on my dining room table.

It was the webcam. Two fluffy brown paws were making a swimming motion directlyin front of her camera. As I got closer I saw a close up of two grinning faces.One of that silly dog of hers, and the other of my giggling girlfriend, who knew


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that eventually after being unable to make phone contact I would wander out tothe webcam to say goodnight. I wouldn't put it past her to turn the phone off onpurpose to elaborately stage this scene. Me, standing in my underwear at 3am ona work night, half asleep staring at a girl and a puppy on a webcam.

I waved goodnight, and she kissed the lens of the webcam and pulled away.

I froze.

I wiped my eyes and looked again.

There.

It's... standing in the corner of the room. It's...

Staringat her.

Wrinkled. Angry, twisted mouth.

Hateful eyes.

What the fuck.

HATEFUL eyes.

It'swatching her.

Two hours later, I woke on the dining room floor. I had a ringing in my ears anda knot on the back of my head. I immediately knew what had happened. It wasn'tthe first time. Sudden, extreme stress has given me panic attacks and black outsa few times before. I had never felt such fear when what had happened came rushing back and I nearly had a second panic attack when my thoughts turned to Linh.I loved her more than anything in the world. It took me several moments to summ

on the courage the look in the direction of my laptop. When I finally did, the screensaver had long since turned on. I looked away from the screen as I flickedthe touchpad with my shaking finger. It took me another two minutes to open my eyes.

Linh laid sleeping in her bed. She looked so peaceful. Sleeping on her side, facing towards the webcam. As frightened and confused as I was, relief at her safety gave me a sense of comfort as I desperately tried to process what had happened. Maybe the wine had hit me harder than I thought. Maybe I slipped and fell on the slick tile floor, and it all had been a nightmare.

I stared at her. I loved her. Maybe more than even I realized. So peaceful and beautiful as she slept.

The light of her television danced across her room and illuminated the bed. As Iwatched on, her hand began to move.

Slowly.

Unnaturally.

She was sleeping but her fingers crawled across the bed slowly until they reached something. It was her cell phone.


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Her hand moved like a spider, fingers popping in several directions across the keys.

What the hell?

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

My phone was vibrating.

"New Message: DON'T..."


"New Message: TURN..."


"New Message: OFF"


"New Message: THE"


"New Message: WEB"


"New Message: CAM"

Complete terror set in as the messages came across the screen of my cell phone.

"New Message: DON'T..."

"New Message: TURN..."

"New Message: OFF"

"New Message: THE"

"New Message: WEB"

"New Message: CAM"

As I glanced back to my laptop, horror overcame me as slowly a shadow crept across the floor. Something was crossing in front of the television. Moving closer to Linh.

I told myself it was just her dog, right? The color drained out of my face whenI noticed the puppy sleeping in the far corner of the room.

I picked up my phone and dialed Linh. I didn'tknow what I would tell her, but I knew she needed to get out of there immediately and never go back. Dammit straight to voicemail! THAT STUPID OLD PHONE OF HERS.

The full shadow now hung completely over Linh.

Her hand jerked, flipping open her cell phone.


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My phone was ringing.

I answered, LINH! LINH CAN YOU HEAR ME YOU NEED TO"

A burst of loud static forced my phone reflexively away from my ear.

On the webcam I saw Linh'slips begin to move. Her eyes were shut, but she was speaking.

I heard her voice come across the phone, but something wasn'tright. She was speaking, but a second, deeper voice echoed hers in perfect unison.

DON'TTURN OFF THE WEBCAM. AGRAMON WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOU. DON'TTURN OFF THE WEBCAM. GRAMON IS READY FOR YOU NOW

Who? What? What does he want? I yelled in desperation.

HE WANTS TO EAT YOUR SKIN.

The line disconnected.

The shadow across Linh'sbed changed directions.

It started moving away from the bed and towards her laptop towards the webcam.

As the shadow moved closer small streams of gray liquid rolled towards the lens.

The images coming across my monitor began to shake violently.

It was almost here. I could now see the top of it'shead. It was CRAWLING towardsme. Wet strings of silver and black hair hanging over it'sface. I remembered those hateful eyes and I lost control of my bladder as it slowly begin to tilt it'shead up.

And then I did it.

In panic I slammed my laptop shut and threw it against the hard tile floor before collapsing to the ground.

I wished for a panic attack to take my consciousness and end this nightmare, butit didn'tcome.

I crawled to the panel of switches a few feet up on the wall and turned on everylight that I could. I noticed the bottle of wine still open on the kitchen counter and drank most of it down in a single swallow. I reached up and pulled openmy apartment door, and stumbled across the threshold, extending half of my bodyinto the common hallway so I wouldn'tfeel so alone. A pathetic coward sprawled out on the concrete.

My phone began to ring.

I crawled to it. Linh'sname was flashing on the caller ID. I held it in my hand,paralyzed by fear.

And then the ringing stopped.

I took another mouthful of wine and mustered the courage to call back. It went straight to voicemail. And then again and again as I tried to call.


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Eventually the shock and drowsiness from the wine got the better of me, and I passed out on the floor after making a few more attempts.

When I awoke several hours later, despite the broken laptop and empty bottle, Iwanted to believe that it was all some sort of horrible nightmare.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw blue flashing light on my cell phone.

You Have One New Voicemail

My hand trembled as I dialed my voicemail and entered my passcode.

The message was time stamped, and was from the missed call I had from Linh before passing out.

Her voice. She was in tears and frightened as though I had never heard her before.

You promised. Why.why did you.turn off the web webcam

His his tongue burns

With a crackle the message ended.

Two years have passed since that night. I never tried to contact Linh again. I never called her work to see if she came in the following morning. I never made it to Yarrow Point in Washington where she lived. She was my soul mate, and I letthis happen. I was probably right on the night we met when I told myself I wasn'tman enough for her.

The only reason I am telling this story today, under the cowardly vale of anonymity, is because my drug and alcohol counselor thinks it would be good for me. Sohere it is. I made the decision to let the love of my life face an unimaginable

nightmare to spare myself, and the worst part is that I may not even regret it.

Now if you will excuse me, I think I need another drink.

Signed,

Anonymous

Eidetic Memory

by TalksAtYou

Recently, my parents brought up that when I was much younger, I had several night terrors. They talked to a pediatrician and changed my sleep schedule and I nev


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er had them again. However, I was rather intrigued since I really don't rememberhaving night terrors. I asked my Mom to tell me what I was like during one of the terrors. She said it was a bit disturbing, as I would have a look of absolutehorror on my face and would not respond to anything my parents said. I also would say words, but they were in some sort of babbling language that was unintelligible.

Our minds tend to protect us from experiences or dreams that are often too disturbing for our psyches to handle. Combined with my young age, that's likely why Idon't remember night terrors, and why victims of trauma often forget such events. Our minds act as a barrier to horrifying input. It saves us from the terriblethings that would rip through our fragile heads. But that got me thinking- whatabout people who don't forget?

The phenomena known as photographic or eidetic memory is one in which people canremember anything they've seen just by looking at it for a short period of time. It seems like a wonderful ability, especially given how much information we'rerequired to remember for our jobs or school. But, it has the obvious downside of remembering EVERYTHING. There have been tales of people remembering every wrong that has been done to them in vivid detail, making it difficult to make and maintain connections with friends or family. And what about in my case? Would I want to remember those horrible terrors?

I met a man named Mark through a friend, and found out that he worked at a Learn

ing and Memory Center. I asked him about eidetic memories and their downsides, and it just so happened that he used to work with very rare and unusual cases. Atfirst, he didn't seem to want to talk about them, and was really closed-off about his work. After some prodding though, he agreed to meet me at a quiet cafe, and relayed to me his stories.

When Mark started at the CLM, he was asked if he wanted to take on the case of people with eidetic memories who have had near death experiences. Being a fairlyreligious guy, Mark thought that he would hear wonderful tales of life-after-death and as such readily agreed. However, his expectations were shattered after reading the file on the first recorded case of eidetics in life after death.

A 37-year-old man had been involved in a car accident and was legally dead for 2

3 seconds on the operating table. After several days of unconsciousness, he awoke as a nurse was checking up on him. Despite his injuries, he tore out both hisand the attending nurse's eyes, and tried to push his eyes into her empty bleeding sockets. The doctors ran in as the man began to scream at her, Do you see them?! Do you see them, too?!

Despite the horrible account, Mark traveled to different mental institutions, collecting other accounts from eidetics who had near-death experiences. While veryfew were quite as severe as the first account, they were still unsettling. No single near-death eidetic could be what any psychologist would describe as sane,but very few of them had any psychological disturbances before their near-deathexperience. They were all fairly well adjusted people until their various experiences.

Several things stayed fairly constant between the patients. Most of them were completely devoid of recognizable language and had to be constantly sedated and restrained, as many of them would attempt to remove their eyes or stab their eardrums. When asked why they would do this (and in the rare moment that they were coherent enough to answer), they would say in anguish that they didn't want to hear or see them anymore. When not sedated, they writhed on the ground as if they were experiencing a dehabilitating pain. Despite their self-destruction tendencies,they seemed to have a great fear of death and never injured themselves to the point of possible fatality. Despite all this, Mark still continued in his job unt


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il he met the rarest case of them all. After speaking with this patient, he demanded a transfer.

The final patient was a lesser known serial killer. His eidetic memory made himvery difficult to apprehend, and very dangerous to his victims. His near-death experience had been after a gunshot wound that was inflicted during his tense capture by police. However, unlike the other patients, this serial killer acted completely calm and lucid. It was as if nothing about him had changed. He did not try to mutilate himself or babble about seeing things. He was still quite insane,but certainly not in the same way as the others.

Mark sat down with him in a guarded and watched room, and asked him the same questions he asked the others. He asked the man if he saw anything and if so, whatdid he see? Mark told me his answer verbatim and I repeat it here.

I saw and heard what I always have. The Whisperers. They're inhuman, they are theexact opposite of what we are. We live and breathe, and they do not. Most of you can't hear them, and even the once-dead forget their words. Those that remember though, are changed. They can't handle the truth of death. Not me though...I've always heard them. They tell me that they want more of you. They tell me to bring more of you to them.

That was the last Mark ever heard from any of the eidetics.

I noticed though, as he told me the story, he began to get more and more nervous. His palms started to sweat and he wrung his hands. After he relayed to me hisstory, I asked him what was wrong.

He grabbed my hand then, and I could feel him trembling. His words chilled me.

The reason I started with that project is because I have an eidetic memory...

The Machine

by Nihilistic_novelist

My Grandfather was an inventor, and a skilled one at that. Over his lifetime heaccumulated over forty patents that allowed him to live quite comfortably afterhis retirement. After he retired he was able to focus on inventing stuff he enjoyed and found interesting rather than stuff that would earn him a paycheck. Naturally his wife and our family supported the viewings of his latest invention, ev

en though nobody really found them very interesting. But We loved being around him, and took every opportunity to drive the short distance to his house to see him.

My grandfather wasn't just brilliant, he also was gifted with exceptional socialskills as well as an intimidating IQ. He was the kind of guy who put a smile oneverybody's face, the kind of guy who everyone seemed to like, the kind of guyeveryone wanted to be around and be like, and I was no exception.

One day we get a phone call from my grandpa inviting us to the viewing of his ne


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w invention. His "life's work" he calls it, the invention he's been working on for the past twenty years, is nearly complete. He says it should be done in a fewmore weeks, but he just wanted to inform us on how close he was.

My grandfather hangs up the phone.

We would have dinner at my grandpa's house once a week every week, and in the weeks leading up the viewing he was ecstatic. He pranced around the house with a smile from ear to ear seemingly stuck on his face. His laugh was louder. His foodtasted better. Everything about him echoed happiness.

And then it stopped.

A few days before the viewing was supposed to take place we get a call. It's mygrandfather he tells us the viewing is canceled and so is dinner for the week.

My grandfather hangs up the phone.

After the phone call my grandpa is a ghost. He doesn't pick up any calls, doesn't visit our family, and won't allow us to visit him. My grandmother is worried.She doesn't know what's wrong either. My grandfather the man who used to be thelife of the party was now a reclusive old man who never left his room. The inventions in which he took so much joy into creating now gathered dust in his workshop.

The phone rings. I pick up the phone to hear my grandmother sobbing on the otherline. It's my grandfather he's hung himself. He didn't even leave a note.

My family goes over to the house to help my grandmother clean, and get rid of afew items that my grandmother doesn't want around anymore. My father assigns mysiblings and I all rooms to clean.

I get the workshop.

I walk in the workshop and the place is shrouded in a haze of dust. Relics of mygrandfather's creativity are scattered everywhere, each of them adorned with their own layer of dust. I grab a few items and throw them in the cardboard box I'

m holding tucked between my forearm and my hip. I have no idea what I'm supposedto be cleaning, so I look for the most dusty items first and I throw them in the box. Each item that lands producing its own cloud of dust.

In the corner of the room I see a object concealed under a sheet, like the way you see those cars before their unveiled in the movies. And out of all the thingsin the room it's the least dusty of all. I walk over the object. I hesitate fora moment before I pull the sheet from the object revealing what's underneath. Underneath the sheet is a chair, a chair that looks like it could be a futuristicversion of the electric chair. It's like nothing you've ever seen before. It'smade of metal, like some type of chrome. It shines so bright that you have to squint your eyes when you're looking at it. In a way it seems to give life to thelifeless room masked in dust. It's tall and intimidating with chords and wires r

eaching around from the back to plug into some sort of helmet in the front of the chair. And from the helmet some kind of looking glass hangs. Like a combination of binoculars and some sort of retinal scanner that you see in movies from thefuture. I see this throne crafted by my grandfather, and instantly I know whatit is.

This machine is my grandfather's life work.

I hesitate for a moment, take a deep breath, and take a seat in the chair. It'scold and uncomfortable. I think twice before pulling the helmet over my head, bu


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t I do it anyways. I pull the looking glasses to align with my eyes, and I waitfor something to happen.

Nothing does.

I turn to look around either side of the chair, and see a small switch. I flickit opposite of the way it's facing and pull the helmet and glasses to my face once more. This times there's a flash. It's more subtle than I expected, but stillreasonably bright. It's a flash about as bright and as loud as one you would see given off by those cameras in the 1930's. A single flash, and than nothing.

I got out of the chair moved around, and nothing had changed. I thought whatevermachine my grandpa had been working on was broken, and that the machine simplybeing broken is what caused him to be depressed. However upon seeing my father enter the room I knew it had worked. And I knew exactly what it had done.

The machine that my grandfather had crafted, his life work, is unlike any othermachine on the planet. The machine allows you to see people. To see who they arecompletely, without any deceptions. It allows you to see into their soul.

The visions you get come to you in the same way a day dream does. Two separate universes bleeding into the same reality. When you see a person after you've usedthe machine, you'll never see them the same way again. You see the good and theevil at the same time. The disturbing part is how little good there is compared

to the evil.

Anywhere you go you're surrounded by monsters instead of people. Wolves in sheep's clothing. Each person you cross is a terrible fabrication. The man who livesnext door is the man who touches his daughter every night after his wife goes tosleep. Your mailman is an alcoholic who beats his wife after he gets home fromwork. The man you just passed walking down the street is a serial killer. Everywhere you go you're haunted by the mythological creatures around you.

But that's not what drove my grandpa mad. It's not what caused him to take his life. Because the scariest thing of all isn't what you see when you go outside. The thing that haunts you the most is what you see when you look in the mirror.

Some Things are Better Left Unsaid

by DinosaurTheFrog

My memories of my childhood and adolescence have always been hazy at best. I always assumed that this was just the normal flow of life - that, with time, old memories, when not dwelled upon, often began to take on a dreamlike quality whereyou have a few brief glimpses into things, but never quite the entire picture. However, I have now reached the age where I, along with my friends, have startedhaving children. As such, we often find ourselves comparing our childhood experiences to those of our children. This sharing of memories has always been uncomfortable for me as I feel I am unable to match the vivid clarity of my peers whenthey share tales of their youth. It's these conversations with friends that havebrought me to spend a lot of time just trying to remember things...anything...a


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bout my younger days to share with the group. I'm starting to wish I had just let the dust settle on these lost memories because I think something else was buried along with them.

My curiosity led me to the most logical place to look for clues regarding my apparently abnormally fuzzy memories - my parents. I still remember that awkward conversation with my mother. I held the phone from my ear a bit as she always spoke loudly on the phone. Even with the phone held half an inch from my ear, I could hear that familiar voice of my mother.

Well, look who finally decided to call his mom!.

I laughed, knowing that she wasn'tactually upset. This was a game she played every time I called.

It hasn'tbeen THAT long since I last called! How are you and dad?

She proceeded to share details of projects my father had taken up since his health problems forced him to retire. She discussed doctors appointments and sharedher frustration over some problem she was having with her computer. This is whenI saw my opportunity.

Maybe I can come by tomorrow and take a look at it? While I'mthere, I'dlike to askyou about something.

I had to hold the phone out further as the idea of a visit from me also meant avisit from her grandkids. She quickly replied:

That sounds great. I'llmake fried chicken! I know that'syour favorite. What was ityou wanted to ask me about?

I paused. I don'tknow how, but something in my gut knew my simple question wouldend her jubilation.

Well...ummm...I was kind of hoping we could talk a bit about when I was a kid. Iknow it'ssilly, but I have had the hardest time remembering much about it and I'dlove to have stories to share with the kids.

Silence. I heard nothing. At least that'show it felt with the phone still a halfinch from my ear. I pulled the phone closer, wondering if perhaps the call had dropped.

Mom?

Then I heard her...her voice was no longer the loud boisterous mother I knew. Itwas soft, distant, and if I didn'tknow any better, I'dsay she sounded afraid.

I...I don'tthink tomorrow will work after all. I'llcall you after I'vespoken to youfather and let you know when might be a better time. Maybe I'lljust take the computer to Geek Squad or something. I...I have to go.

My stomach churned for the better part of the rest of the afternoon. It was a struggle to push the feeling of discomfort that came along with the abrupt end tothe phone call with my mother. I was able to force it to the back of my mind asI spent the remainder of the day playing with my children.

Hours passed, and with their passing, so did the sunlight. I tucked both kids into bed before trying to spend a bit of time just vegging out in front of the television. I don't think I actually watched anything as my mind kept drifting backto that strange phone call. That sudden change in tone. That eerie silence in h


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er voice. I had never heard my mother that way before. Then, I felt it. I felt the twinge of a memory. I HAD heard my mother sound like that once before! The memory started to take shape in my mind. It was later in my childhood - how old, Ican't really recall. What I do remember is that it was very early in the morning. I was sitting at the dining room table across from my parents. They both hadstark looks on their faces. I could clearly hear my mother's words in my mind "You don't talk to us or anyone else about that ever again, do you understand? It's not natural and it just needs to be left alone. If you don'ttalk about it, it will stop". And like that, I snapped out of the daze of the memory. I can't explain why, but I felt a wave of fear and anxiety flood over me.

Something...something had begun to happen. The mechanisms in my mind had begun to click, unlocking memories buried deeply inside.

The sharp noise of the vibrating phone on the table caused me to jump. It was mymother. What was she doing calling at this hour? They are never up this late. Istared at the ringing phone and for some reason, I hesitated briefly before picking up. Nervously I answered.

"Hello?".

There was a long period of silence before I heard that same quiet, distant voicecoming from my mother.

"We will talk about this once and it will never be spoken of again. I know you.You will ask questions and pry. This conversation will be the end of it becausewe can't go through that again."

I sat in confusion and, oddly, in fear. Why was speaking with my mother making me afraid? I started to raise a question when I was quickly cut off by her. She spoke quickly and directly. It felt like she had been practicing this exact speech all afternoon and that any interruption would make her lose her resolve.

"When you were a child, you had these...dreams. You would come to us in the morning and tell us...things. Things that you dreamt about the prior night. Horriblethings. Then..."

I could hear her starting to sob, but she pressed on.

"Then...they would happen. That tornado that took Sarah. The snakes and your uncle Henry. The murder of Alan. All of those people we saw on the news. Every time. Every damn time you would come and tell us about some horrible dream and then,within minutes, we would get a call or see something on television. Every timeit was exactly like the dream you had just told us about. This happened for years. I started to feel like you were to blame for every bad thing that happened. Ifinally made you stop talking about it. I just couldn't take it anymore and I told you to just stop telling us. I thought if I didn't have to hear it I could write off anything that happened without having to blame you. After a while, youseemed different. You slept better. I think keeping you from talking about it made it go away."

I started to speak, but then she cut me off again.

"Don't start talking about it now. If you bring it up again, I'll deny we ever had this conversation. I...I have to go. I love you."

With that, the call ended.

"I'm not dealing with this. I'm going to bed."


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I pretended like that bizarre conversation had never happened as I went about mynightly bedtime routine. However, as I settled in under my blanket, I found myself unable to push out her words. I closed my eyes, focusing on trying to push it out of my mind and then...the floodgates holding back my memories opened. My mother...she didn't tell me everything. That's because she didn't know everything. I was finally able to remember. It was like reliving many years worth of childhood nighttimes. I could see it all again and again. I would awaken nearly everynight at the same time - 3:33. I would always be on my side. I could see the clock clearly, but I couldn't move. I would feel overcome with fear and try to scream, but nothing would come. Then, I'd hear the footsteps. Sometimes they wouldbe slow and deliberate. Others, they would sound like someone sprinting, but they always led to the same place...my bed. I could feel the shadow looming over me. It felt like an eternity. The clocked ticked over to 3:34. The entity would just disappear. I would suddenly feel relief and calm. This was always immediatelyfollowed by an all-consuming sleepiness that would send me off into slumber. Then, over time, it got worse. I would start to feel the breathing on my neck andfinally, one night, it spoke to me. I could finally remember the words. They came in a voice that was neither clearly male or female. It merely said "I am coming and you will be my prophet". Then...the dreams, the visions, would begin. Theywere always horrific. This happened nightly. Every night, I would try to screamout the same thing, but nothing would come. "Please, no. Don't!". I sat up, pulling my knees to my chest. I felt a cold sweat covering me as I found myself struggling to catch my breath. The words of my mother started to seep in and I began to recall that as I stopped sharing my visions, my visitor stopped coming. May

be...maybe I was no good as a prophet if I didn't share the visions? Maybe it was just a series of odd occurrences explained away by sleep paralysis and an overactive childhood imagination? My adult mind wanted so desperately to believe thelatter. My breathing slowed and I finally began to cling to my rational conclusion on the matter. I slid back into a lying position and closed my eyes, forcingmyself to find sleep.

My head shook as I shot out of bed. She didn't say that. She couldn't have saidthat! I could have sworn I heard "Please, no. Don't!" from my daughter's room inher panicked voice. I sat on the edge of my bed, listening, hoping I was only dreaming. I glanced at the clock to check the time - 3:34. That's when I heard the small foot steps running into my room. I barely had time to look up before mydaughter slammed into me, throwing her arms around me, weeping.

"Daddy, I had a bad dream about grandma!"

Documents

Nosleep - Vol 3.txt