Tag: Nightmare

A departure from my usual humorous fare, enjoy this spooky Halloween treat...

Silently she lay, frozen, trying to once again catch the sharp noise that had yanked her from her sleep into electrified consciousness.

Nothing.

Then… there it was! A muted yet unmistakable desperate blood curdling scream – “help”. She strained to hear it once more, to learn where it was coming from, if perhaps a neighbour was in distress. There it was again! “Help! Heeelp!”.

Sitting up, rigid, hands scrambling for the bedside lamp, her glasses and her phone all at once, juggling the three until at once the room was illuminated and she could see that there was no-one else there and no accidental phone call. But still she could hear the faint, muffled yet very clearly identifiable terrified screams of a woman in fear for her life. 

She searched under her bed and behind the thick velvet drapes – nothing but dust bunnies and a long-dead spider, missed by the vacuum. No matter which corner of the room she poked in and tore at, the screams seemed to come from close by, closer than any of the drawers or closets. It seemed to be coming from… her.

She looked down and noticed a scab on her arm. A scratch no longer than a match that she didn’t remember incurring, that was now a thick crusted scab. And as she looked down at this trifling wound, she noticed the shrill panic-riven screams once more. Coming from the scratch.

She gently traced the scratch on her arm with her finger, feeling the crusted jagged ridges rising proudly on her otherwise smooth arm. How had this got here? Maybe while lugging a box of old shoes to the charity shop. She felt her nail catch on one end of the scab and noted the feeling of satisfaction as it lifted slightly, even while a sharp sting of pain shot up her limb. She recalled all those articles on skincare that insisted you leave scabs alone, but the unquellable screaming and the warped sense of pleasure were too much to ignore. Pick, pick pick. Stopping was not an option she could even remember.

As the last grainy, flaky strip was pulled back, the bright red wound grinned freshly up at her invitingly. She allowed her finger to trace the now slick line of scarlet that threatened to ruin the pale pink duvet cover. It stung. It stung with a spiteful acid twang that caused a vinegary taste in her mouth and a watery flooding under her tongue. But the sting was alluring, it was familiar somehow; it was sharp and grimly exhilarating, so she prodded it firmly; perversely enjoying the rush brought on by the wince-inducing pain. Prod, prod, prod. Ouch, ouch, ouch. It was morbidly moreish.

She allowed her finger to keep toying with the wound when suddenly she found her digit no longer merely dancing around the opening, but suddenly plunged far further into the cut than should be possible – up to the first knuckle. She drew her finger out, examining it and finding the pain no worse than before and her finger curiously unbloodied, she pressed it back down again. Further in it went, up to the second knuckle now. Eyes widening in sickened yet compelled curiosity, he pushed further still – up to her final knuckle, but how?! Surely her finger should be poking out the other side of her forearm, but it just seemed to go… in. So she allowed a second finger to explore with the first, feeling the smooth warm muscle and sinew she expected, but seemingly no bone, no obstruction, no end. Just warm moist flesh and addictive, irresistible pain. And that scream.

How far down would this wound go? She had to know and so she plunged her whole hand in. Feeling only slight resistance she pushed on – up to her elbow, her shoulder – noticing how the cut seemed to expand, to stretch to the size of whatever she thrust in it, and with her head now closer to the opening she was sure, without doubt, that she needed to reach the source of the screaming, at all costs, no matter what reason and logic cried out to her.

With a deep breath she jammed her head into the gap, wriggling her shoulders through as though navigating her way into a too-small dress under unforgiving fitting room lights. Forcing herself through the constrictive tissue inch by inch, shimmying and jerking until she felt her hips, her legs, her feet, all slide inside the claustrophobic slash in her arm and, just as panic was about to set in, she burst headfirst through the ceiling of what seemed to be a tunnel, slamming gracelessly into a heap of limbs on the floor.

Though no lights or lamps seemed evident, the rounded tunnel was filled with a peachy glow illuminating the oddly curved, angle-free walls that were glossy with a pale petal pink iridescence, like the lip of a conch shell. The air was cloyingly warm and smelled almost sickly sweet, like stale candyfloss and unventilated long car journeys, making it difficult to catch her breath. Only just tall enough to stand if she stooped, she reached her arms out to touch the walls, to explore the ceiling where she had burst through, feeling for some way back out. Rubbery-firm, strong and entirely smooth – whatever breach she had caused to emerge here was now entirely closed over and no other escape route could be seen.  

The scream that had drawn her here was louder, closer now. Crying over and over for help, desperate pleading to be released, to go home; intense and horrifying. She crept forward through the tunnel toward where the noise was coming, around waxy corners and meandering turns with no junctions or exits, only onward toward the scream through the pearlescent passageway. Then there, in front of her, stood a door. A white door carved with intricate patterns and decorative motifs; age-worn, dried and cracked, with a highly polished gold handle, filling the whole corridor. She longed to clamp her hands over her ears to drown out the screaming but instead she reached forward.

Grasping the handle with both hands she heaved her whole weight against it, expecting it to be locked or stiff or unyieldingly heavy, only to find herself caught off balance as the door easily swung open toward her, sending her staggering backward, landing once more in a heap on the glossy floor, now with the thick ornate door wide open before her, exposing nothing but darkness stretching back beyond the pink glow of the tunnel could illuminate.

The screaming had stopped.

Back on her feet, she called out “hello?”, but no answer came from the open door. “I’ve come to let you out – don’t be scared”. Still nothing. She tip-toed forward, squinting as she inched over the threshold into the inky thick blackness hoping for her eyes to adjust, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever had been screaming with such terror that it frosted the blood in her veins. Forward she edged into the darkness.

SLAM. The door swung shut. The light, gone. Trapped. She scrambled for the door, desperately fumbling and grasping for the handle, but there was none – not even a crack between the wall and the door, only cold smooth merciless tomb before her and choking impenetrable darkness all around. She beat her fists and clawed until her nails were ragged but there was no escape. She let out an unmistakable desperate blood curdling scream – “help”.