This week: You Can't Control Nightmares Edited by: W.D.Wilcox  
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It is absolutely necessary, for the peace and safety of mankind, that some of earth's dark, dead corners and unplumbed depths be let alone; lest sleeping abnormalities wake to resurgent life, and blasphemously surviving nightmares squirm and splash out of their black lairs to newer and wider conquests.
-H. P. Lovecraft
I have nightmares that I'm going to wake up, and everyone's driving a Prius and living in a condo, and we're all getting health insurance.
-Kid Rock
Of all the things you choose in life, you don't get to choose what your nightmares are. You don't pick them; they pick you.
-John Irving
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Dreams You Can't Control
When he finally tried to swim out of the depths of sleep, he felt different somehow. He didn’t know why, he just didn't feel quite himself. Besides, his arm was asleep, like it gets when you lay on it wrong. No matter how hard he tried, he was unable to move it out from under his torso.
He fell asleep again, too tired to get up, and too tired to give a damn about his life.
As he slept, his foot felt like a million pins and needles were poking him, and he surmised that it too had fallen asleep making it impossible to remain in bed. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and let them wander around the room. They locked on the far corner, where the shadows danced wildly in the weak light falling in through the window.
A man was standing there.
Terror greater than any he had ever known crept over him, and then his bladder voided itself in a gush of heat. But Joe hadn't the slightest idea of that or anything else. His fear had overcome all rationality, and he was now wide awake. No sound escaped him, not even the slightest squeak; he was as incapable of sound as he was of thought.
Someone was in the room.
He could see the man's dark eyes gazing at him with fixed attention. He could see the waxy whiteness of his narrow cheeks and high forehead, although the intruder's actual features were blurred by the shadows dancing about the room. He could see slumped shoulders and long dangling arms.
He had no idea how long he lay there in that paralyzed state, but it felt like a very long time. As the seconds dripped by like the rain, he found himself unable to avert his eyes from his strange guest. Horror and revulsion were the wellspring of his feelings, and these were the most powerful negative emotions he had ever experienced. Whoever it was, had crept into his room while he was asleep, and now merely stood in the corner, camouflaged by the ceaseless ebb and flow of shadows over its face and body. The thing just stared at him with deep black eyes, eyes so large and rapt they reminded him of sockets in a skull.
Outside a dog barked hysterically, and the man made of shadows and imagination slightly turned his head in that direction.
There was someone there. It wasn't a hallucination. Someone was standing there watching him. Maybe waiting to see if he'd fall back to sleep so he could escape without detection.
His fear returned. If it's a man, he thought. There's something very wrong with its face. If only I could see it better.
Lightning flashed outside, and for just a moment he thought he saw a nose, thin and long and white below those black, motionless eyes.
"Who . . . . "
At first, he could only manage that one tiny whisper.
"Who are you?" Still a whisper but better than before.
The figure didn't answer, only stood there with its narrow white face.
Then it moved. One leg stepped forward, and Joe's vision was drawn toward the floor. There was something there, a couple of somethings, but he couldn't make out what it was. My God, he thought, there's someone in my house! In my room!
W.D.Wilcox
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Nightmares
|  | The Dying Game (18+)
Retitled 'The Game' and published in the January, 2014 Edition Of 'Twisted Dreams'
#1914389 by Angus  |
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Horror/Scary: March 12, 2025 Issue [#13019]
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