Vilifying Visions

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: The Imaginarium
A story about an individual plagued by terrifying dreams that make little sense.

Submitted: June 08, 2019

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Submitted: June 08, 2019

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You reach the end of a really long day. It’s so bad that you almost fall asleep watching television from the couch. But, in the last second, you summon enough energy to get yourself into your bed. Kicking of your sweaty socks, you’re essentially dreaming of sleep. Your head hits the pillow and then the real thing takes you away.

The last thought in your head is the desire that work doesn’t find you in your dreams. To tarnish rest with environment of political campaigns will be the equivalent of a nightmare. Not that you’re a politician. No, you only play the game of would rather crook on the right or the crook on the left. And they pay you for your services.

You dream and it’s only 7:30.

 

It feels like a movie. You focus on an elderly man fleeing the scene, but then you recognize him. He’s that history teacher that really pushed you to learn. Professor Carter. The guy always asked tough questions in class and he often assigned essay topics that discussed the multiple sides of a historical issue. You hated him for it then, but it helped prepare you further in life. You respect him for it now.

You think—wow, it seems kind of late for Carter to still be at Nightingale… Then you remember Carter’s extracurricular activities—the clubs he sponsored. Does the debate team do late night contest? Or maybe he a student invited him to see the choir performance. The man was always a fan.

Too bad book-smarts does Carter few favors in the dream. He flees through the school parking lot in search of his car. He occasionally turns his head back to see if his follower is still close behind him. He turns forward. Kapaool—a bullet blows through the back of his head like Abraham Lincoln. Except, this time there is no one to take the wounded man to a hospital. As far as you are concerned, Carter is alone to as his skull empties onto the street. A murderer doesn’t count as company.

 

You wake in a cold sweat. “What kind of monster would do such a thing?”

You make your way to the bathroom to gage yourself in the mirror. Besides bed hair, you look healthy with your icy clear blue eyes. No bags hang under them. You run both hands through your curly brown hair. It soothes your nerves some in addition to improving the bed hair look. You resolve to start the day.

 

Two days later, you catch the news. Nightingale High teacher slain on campus! Naturally, the words get your attention. You’re breathless as you watch on, awaiting a key detail to confirm your dream has come true, but it never comes. No name—no photo! Perhaps the family hasn’t been notified by the police yet, but, regardless, you will never know the answer.

It’s just a coincidence—you tell yourself as sleep takes you this night. Dreams come again.

 

The dream closes in on a homeless man outside a bar. He holds a tin cup, begging for change. He sits there collecting money. What a waste… I don’t mean to attack his character. I just feel the time this man spends there is time he could spend working a job. The money people throw his way is money they could use to possibly give him a job. Homeless individuals have talents—they just often go unappreciated. Some collect government money while others don’t qualify. Some play the system while others have any need to pretend. Some don’t get what they need while others get more than they deserve. It’s the sad way of the world.

You hear footsteps approach the poor man down on his luck. “I’m sorry life is often unfair,” comes a stern voice. A woman’s voice. “You don’t deserve this. You deserve better. But there’s not enough perfect to go around. All there is to do is to get rid of the painful symptoms. Put an end to pain…”

The homeless man stares, not understanding her meaning.

In a split second, a knife crosses over his throat. He falls to the ground, choking on his own blood. None of the occupants inside the noisy bar notice a thing. Meanwhile, the killer does nothing to hasten the process. She decides it’s better to flee the scene. The pain she sought to end is the pain of future days, not the pain in the present.

 

“How evil…” you murmur, waking up on the couch. It’s Saturday morning and your surroundings puzzle you. “Shoot, I slept on the couch?” Your hands apply pressure to your face with a massaging rhythm. “Hell, if I’m not careful I’m going to have a permanent crick in my neck…”

Feeling better, you remove your hands from your face. Now you find the television is on, but the volume is low. You can barely hear it, but you see it is on the five o’clock news. All you see is a weather forecast, but the dream returns to your mind. It makes you feel sick inside. You don’t want to think about that monster’s work, and you really don’t want to be alone.

Taking a deep breath to calm the mind, you find you are still in your work suit. Good enough… You find your phone and car keys in opposite pockets. That settles it—you’re going home to see a friendly face. You’re going home to see your mother.

It takes no time at all to get into your car. Without a seatbelt, you start the engine and pull out of the driveway. It might not be the safest choice, but you’re not submitting to the same logic that your normal, everyday self would. After your messed up dream, you just want to feel safe again. You want to be comfortable with your surroundings. And you want this as quick as possible.

You call Mom to announce your visit, but you get the voice mail. It’s fine by you, you just leave a message. Fingers crossed she gets it in the next half hour. If not, seeing your only daughter can’t be the worst surprise in the world. Either way, you arrive at the house soon enough. You step out of the car and ring the doorbell a few times.

No one answers.

Of course, you halfway expected this. With cancer, Mom was always fighting to get some sleep. Even if she isn’t dosing off at the moment, she is probably feeling too weak to get the door herself.

You find the spare key under a rock and let yourself in. “Mom? Are you awake?”

Still no answer.

You find her asleep in her room and decide to let her rest. You sit on the couch and turn on the TV, carefully avoiding all news stations. For some reason, you settle on the history channel. You laugh thinking this sight would make your former history teacher proud. He was definitely one of the teachers that had the passion to make you appreciate the subject he loved enough to teach every day. Hours later, the television puts you to sleep.

Another dream.

 

You see your mother making a couple cups of tea with a smile on her face. She has a cup per hand that she tries to lift off the counter but’s it too much for her. Instead, she reverts to carrying a cup at a time, from counter to kitchen table. The flavor is Rose Hip—your favorite.

Then your mother seems to smile at you watching her.

“No more suffering…” Again you hear the voice of a stern woman, but this time you recognize it. It’s slightly different voice that you hate on the voicemail—your voice mail! The sound makes you sick to your stomach.

The speaker steps closer to your mother, pulls her close, and then—without a hint of hesitation—snaps her neck. NOOO!!! Yells your inner voice, but real words fail to materialize. The killer takes the cup of tea prepared for you outside the room.

 

You wake, catapulting up till your back becomes straight. You find the half drunk cup of tea on a card table in front of the couch beneath you. You tap it, afraid of the touch.

It’s still warm.

You get up and run to the kitchen. There, the awful sight evokes a full-fledged scream. Nothing will ever make sense to you again. You take your phone as if to dial 9-1-1, but then you reconsider. The monster never left the house!

 

 



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