How Dreams are Made

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Have you ever wondered where dreams come from and where do we go when we're asleep? I have. Have you ever tried to find out? I have...

Submitted: January 23, 2012

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Submitted: January 23, 2012

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Do you ever lie in bed, awake and afraid? Do you jump at strange shadows in the room, do you see shapes you “know” cannot be there? Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night during the witching hour and are sure that there is someone or something in the room, a tall shape just outside your view? If you’ve answered yes to any one of these questions, then you know what dreams are made of, for those of you unaware, read on.

You wake up and immediately you know you’re not alone. Sometimes you see it as something that’s even darker than the deepest shadow in your room. Sometimes you will only hear its ragged breath or the hiss of air escaping through sharpened teeth. Other times you may even smell it, a thick and heavy scent, sweet and repulsive, so familiar and alien at the same time. And always, no matter what sense accompanies this, you feel it. Surrounded by an aura of intense dread that cannot be ignored and that seems to take your will away. In response, your heart beats faster, each pump sending blood surging through the jugular veins in your neck. Those two soft pulsing spots about two inches off centre on each side, just below your jawbone. Those seductively vulnerable spots that always seem to draw it ever nearer. You wish you could cover them, but you cannot. You’re paralysed. Unable to move, pinned down by a blanket heavier and denser than lead. As a last ditch attempt at rescue you try to scream. You scream silently in your mind but on the outside, your mouth never moves. In fact, each breath now becomes a struggle and takes every bit of your remaining willpower to expand your ribcage.

Rolling your eyes wildly about you’ll catch glimpses, even though you’ll wish you hadn’t. A spreading darkness, growing and inching towards you, staining the night with its tendrils that stretch out across the room from a far off corner. Small shapes darting to and fro just at the corner of your eye. Moving effortlessly through the air, sometimes silently, sometimes accompanied by a sickening flutter of webbed wings. Your heart beats even faster, you feel the pressure on the walls on your carotid arteries increase alarmingly. Cold sweat appears on your forehead. Terrified you close your eyes hoping to block out the advancing shadow.

Then you hear it. With your sight impaired, your hearing kicks into overdrive. The sound is always steady and mortifying. It’s the cold ring of a blade as it is dragged along a whetstone. Time after time after time in a manic rhythm until you begin to feel the ice cold edge cutting into your flesh with each pass along the stone. It’s the creak, a sound of straining wood and rope. The pendulous and repetitive sound continues until you can feel the rough fibers of the slipknot digging into your neck.

The sound continues getting louder and louder.

And Louder.

LOUDER.

You feel like you cannot bear it anymore. You heart is doing cartwheels, and you wish it would stop, except you’re afraid that it really will, never to start up again. The blood pressure is by now high enough to cause a dull throbbing ache in your neck. By now you don’t feel your body, it’s turned cold and numb. The only thing you feel is the heavy blanket covering you. After a while, you feel it getting heavier, but not everywhere, only in several spots. Two on each side of your chest and two on each side of your hips. Someone, something, it, is right on top of you, straddling you and leaning its face inches above yours. You can now feel its breath like a cold wind that comes only on certain nights when the moon forgets to come out. Like something that’s been born over the cemetery.

The darkness now gets deeper, so deep you can’t imagine anything darker. The sounds now blend together, into a roar that grows ever louder. A roar that can only be described as the sound air would make if it was torn like a piece of paper, molecule from molecule. You no longer feel your heart, the blanket, or even it. The void welcomes you. Soon your body begins to shiver. The shiver grows to a quaver, and eventually you flutter like a flag caught in high winds. The vibrations increase in frequency and intensity, now you are just another tattered shadow darting around the room, or the endless void, you’re not sure anymore. Splotches of light flash before your eyes. You feel like you are falling (or flying upwards there is no longer any sense of direction). Blobs of light form patterns, intricate gossamer webs and interlacing knot work. Enraptured by the sight, you watch them as they form objects and then a complete scene. Before long you find yourself in it. You’re dreaming wake up…

The threshold between our world and the world each one of us goes to at night, is a terrifying place. Perhaps it is precisely the reason why we lose consciousness during the transition and have no recollection the next morning. Some, however, make an attempt to brave that threshold, to see the edge of the world with lucid eyes and waking memory. Those that do, always remember and have a story to tell.


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