Short: Strange Dreams

The horrid slime of putrefied flesh led inexorably onward into the dimly lit hall. Under that flickering florescent was the awaiting disquiet of silence. I followed the dark trail unsure if I was in a dream. I had seen it, with its decayed flesh peeling off its skeletal face; and those eyes, I looked into those drooping, empty eyes.

The cold tiles were under my bare feet, and I felt a chill through my hospital gown. The abandoned place seemed so unreal, and yet, I touched it, smelt the odor of death, saw it in every detail—this nightmare seemed too real.

The old trick: I pinched myself. It felt real. But how could I have seen what I saw? The trail led to a door without a window. I placed my hand against the wood, felt the grain against my ear: Inside I could hear weeping.

I tried the handle. Locked. The thing behind it was suddenly silent.

“Hello,” I called.

A rasp, a clearing throat, “Go away.”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“No one,” it shot back, “Not anymore.”

“Not anymore,” I repeated to myself. “Who were you?” I tried after a moment.

“A man,” it said, “a man afraid to die.”

I nodded, waiting.

“But I saw my face in the glass, before that how they looked at me, how they looked away. You saw me. You’ve seen what I’ve become.”

Suddenly a hand was grasping my arm.

Back in my hospital bed, I awoke to the face of a doctor. He beamed in that way paid people smile.

“Well, how’re we feeling?” he asked.

I glanced at the door where I had seen the thing come in before.

“I’m afraid you were out a bit longer than was meant.”

“There was—” I tried to say.

“I suppose you had all sorts of strange dreams,” he went on.

“Yes,” I said.

“Everyone has strange dreams,” he added. “It is the price we pay for the benefits sleep.”