These Bad Dreams Combined Read online



  These Bad Dreams Combined

  by

  Kristopher Mallory

  These Bad Dreams Combined

  A short horror story.

  Copyright

  www.StealthFiction.com

  These Bad Dreams Combined

  Copyright © 2012 Kristopher Mallory

  Cover Art Copyright © 2012 Janiel Escueta

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  ISBN-13 (EPUB Version): 978-1-30119-185-7

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  Edited by Emily Eva

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  eBook License Notes:

  You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.

  Disclaimer:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.

  Other Books by Kristopher Mallory

  I Know What They Are

  Master Stargazer

  Mega Millions

  What People Are Saying about Kris's Books:

  I Know What They Are:

  "This is absolutely amazing. Has me a bit paranoid as I get deja vu quite a bit, hopefully not too many good futures have passed me by..." – Niamhel

  Master Stargazer:

  "Hands down one of the best short sci fi books I have read" – Ricky G.

  These Bad Dreams Combined:

  "No idea WTF is going on here, but I'm fascinated!" – Ali

  Dedication:

  Dedicated to Debbie B. Thanks for all your help.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Book List

  People Say

  Dedication

  Quote - Truth.

  Chapter 1 - Confusion Terror Acceptance

  Chapter 2 - Child's First Nightmare

  Chapter 3 – Things Forgotten

  Chapter 4 – 36,000 Feet And Falling

  Chapter 5 - For Night Terrors Take Two

  Chapter 6 - Snowflakes

  Chapter 7 - Getting Better All The Time

  Chapter 8 - Laundry List

  Chapter 9 – Maximum Lucidity

  Chapter 10 - Everything I Love Is Gone

  Chapter 11 - Embrace The Dream

  Chapter 12 - Winding Down

  Chapter 13 - Child's Last Nightmare

  About the Author

  What's Next?

  More from Kristopher Mallory

  More from Stealth Fiction Publishing

  Truth.

  "There are moments when even to the sober eye of reason, the world of our sad humanity may assume the semblance of Hell."

  ~ Edgar Allan Poe

  Chapter 1 - Confusion Terror Acceptance

  Confusion, terror, and acceptance are often the feelings I have as I'm pulled from one bad dream into another.

  Suddenly I find myself lying down in a dark room. I realize that it's my bedroom, thank God, but even so, this doesn't always mean I'm safe. To be honest, there's no way I can say for certain that some evil isn't about to decapitate me…or worse.

  Most people don't know this, but sometimes horror has a time limit. For me, it's about an hour.

  The problem I deal with is that I might still be dreaming. The Doc calls it 'false awakening.' It's a condition in which a person can't distinguish between being in a dream state and being awake. From time to time I experience type III, the most severe form of the condition. And it means for an hour after waking, I'm completely screwed. The best way to describe it would be part temporary insanity and part living hell.

  So that's who I am. That's what I deal with. What usually happens next is this: I attempt to catch my breath. I lean over and switch on the lamp, then grab a notepad and pencil. If it's a good night, the light will instantly come on and I'll still be safely in my real bedroom. On a bad night though—well, I would rather not talk about a bad night because anything could happen.

  On this night, it could go either way. I take a deep breath and I write down my experience.

  The clock seems to be stuck at 2:12 A.M. I keep hearing terrible noises coming from the attic. Right above my head to be precise. I think it's that dark, faceless thing that was just chasing me. Or is it something else? I don't know. I don't want to know. It sounds as if it's ripping through the ceiling. They like to attack from above. There's no way to defend myself. No way to fight back. All I can do is wait. If a hole appears, I'm finished. I'm feeling fear absolute. I could be wrong. I could be wrong about everything. Maybe nothing is in the attic. Maybe I'm just writing so fast that the time on the clock hasn't changed. Maybe the noises are only remnants of my dark imagination. The thing was so horrible that my subconscious mind is trying to keep it hidden. Are pieces of the ceiling falling? Is that a claw? Is that a growl? Dear God, help me. I'm falling apart.

  The tip of the pencil snaps from the pressure of my fervent attempt to scribble the words. Not that it matters. All that could be written was written, leaving only the original question: Is this really happening?

  This is a collection of nightmares intertwined with an account of the previous day. I'm not sure which, if any, of these events are real, so I need someone to help me decide. There's got to be someone who knows if my actions have consequence. Someone other than myself to tell me if my life is still worth living.

  I hope that someone is you. Those answers are in your hands. Judge me. Tell me if all of this is in my head. Tell me if you think I'm fully grounded in reality or living in a nightmare. Tell me what I should do. I'll humbly accept your answer without a second guess.

  Of course, all of this depends on you being awake, being real. This could just be waste of time. So take a quick look in a mirror. Ask yourself if you are real. Ask yourself if you're awake.

  Are you sure?

  Chapter 2 - Child's First Nightmare

  I'm seven years old, and I'm in complete shock. Pitch black, the air is freezing, and I'm dangling from a rope. Even though I'm hanging on as tight as I can, I've no idea how far below the ground is. Somehow though, I know that if I slip, the drop will kill me. I don't know how I got here, my hands are like ice, and I feel that I'm seconds from death.

  I scream for help.

  In response, other people scream back at me. The voices come from far, far above. The echoes bounce all around me, letting me know I'm not in a void. The voices are distorted, and I can't make out what they're saying. What I hear isn't so much screaming, but more like the cheering of a psychotic mob.

  I wonder what I could've done which would cause them to treat me this way. There must be a reason why they hate me. I beg for help but no help comes, only more cheering.

  The voices trail farther and farther away. I realize they're lowering the rope deeper into the abyss.

  My hands are still slipping and in this pitch black darkness my mind is screaming hold on tighter! My burning fingers loosen against my will. I scream again. More cheering, more bloody cheering.

  I can't take it. I'm about to give up. The mob knows and celebrates louder.

  This rope is my only friend. I'm clinging on for dear life. As much as I dread losing my grip, I'm more afraid of is finding out why they have done this to me.

  My feet touch something and I recoil. I instinctively pull my legs up to my chest. But the rope continues to lower, and once again something touches me. This time I can't pull away, so I let go, finished.

  Instead of an endless drop, It was only the ground that had reached out to me. Now a prisoner of the dark, I curl up in a ball and rock back and forth. Where is my mother? Why hasn't she come to rescue me?
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  I hear something lurking in the darkness. I stay very still because I know that it will devour me.

  I wait but nothing comes.

  Reluctantly, I stand up. The ground feels like dried clay under my bare feet. Even though I can't see in the solid darkness, I want to know my surroundings. I walk forward until my fingertips touch what feels like stone. Feeling around, it extends in both direction. I follow the wall and make a mental map my position. The angle is concave, and I'm walking in a circle. The air is musty and stale.

  Suddenly I know. I'm in an old, dried-out well. I feel as if I've been down here many times before. There's more to all of this, some meaning, but I can't remember. As if waiting for me to make the realization, I hear the thing in the dark again. The sound is clearer. It's the hissing of snakes.

  Hundreds of them are drawn out by the smell of fear. Please don't, I beg. As soon as the thought comes, the snakes attack. They latch on, fangs pumping venom into every wound. I pull them away, but for each one I rip off, two more latch on. There's no pain, for that I'm grateful, but I still fight with all the strength that my seven-year-old self can muster.

  As they overrun me, trying to cover every inch of my body, I remember something important. I'm not afraid of snakes, the snakes are afraid of me. Let them bite. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt.

  I quit fighting. More snakes latch on, and I leave them withering on the wounds. I realize that I was only ever scared of the darkness, and I only hate the people above.

  The snakes let go and disappear back into the holes from which they came. I've passed their test. But the people above are still laughing like they always do.

  So this time I do something that they would never expect. This time I laugh back.

  Chapter 3 – Things Forgotten

  It's been little over an hour since I had woken up. My room is still my room. The clock is ticking away just fine. Most importantly, nothing came crashing through my bedroom ceiling. Nothing tried to torture and kill me. In other words it was a good night.

  I somehow managed to get close to five hours of actual sleep. The upside is that I'll actually be somewhat functional at work today, which my boss will surely appreciate. The downside is that the day will consist of a series of distinguished events that will tick by slowly, instead of passing in one blur like it normally does. I've gotten so used to those blurry days, and often I welcome them because time passes faster, making my job bearable.

  Looking out the window, it's still dark. The weather is nice, so I decide to go for a jog. The Doc says it's a wonderful way to get rid of built up stress. Trust me, there's a lot of built up stress that I would love to get rid of. Since it's a part of my on-going treatment, I try run in at least once a day. It got me in the best shape of my life. Sadly, it hasn't done a single thing to help with the stress, or the nightmares.

  Once back home, I take a hot shower, make a quick breakfast, and then sit down in front of the television to watch the end of some bad western movie while I wait for the early morning news. I don't mean to bore, I never claimed that my life was exciting, but for someone to know me, they need to know everything. My life isn't much different than any other white collar worker. I dress the same. I act the same. The only real difference is that I have darker circles and very bloodshot eyes.

  Something on the coffee table catches my attention, an envelope I don't recall seeing before.

  "What the hell?"

  The return address confirms that it's from the Doc's office. It's already been ripped open. Puzzled, I take out the letter and start reading.

  I expected another lame message from my insurance company, packed full of excuses as to why they're not going to cover the cost of this or that. Instead, it's a letter that I'd been hoping to get for a very, very long time.

  I read I've been accepted into a clinical trial for a new treatment option. I'm to meet with the Doc who'll issue me the prescription. The meeting is set for today. I look at the clock and realize that if I don't leave right away I'll miss the appointment.

  How could I have forgotten reading something this important? The answer is the short-term memory lapses I suffer from. It's another one of the many dysfunctional side effects of my overall sleep disorder. The lapses happen from time to time, usually because of my constant lack of sleep, but sometimes they can be triggered by too much sleep. It's a no-win situation.

  As I'm grabbing the keys to my car, the memory abruptly comes back to me. The letter was in the mailbox when I had come home from work yesterday. I threw the junk mail away and left the acceptance note lying on the table.

  Mystery solved.

  It's always a relief when I remember what I'd temporarily forgotten. If I had tossed it after reading, then I would've missed the appointment for sure. God help me if I ever win the lotto. I might forget all about it by the next day and never turn in the million dollar ticket.

  Joking aside, it's not a big deal. Of all the side effects of my condition, short-term memory loss ranks close to the bottom. The memory does come back to me eventually.

  Chapter 4 – 36,000 Feet And Falling

  Smoke in the cabin! No one is panicking, no one except me. I don't know what the hell is going on. Then I see someone taking a drag from a cigarette, and realize it's the source of smoke. A few rows forward, a majority of the passengers have either a cigarette or cigar in their hand. This is strange because smoking aboard American commercial airliners was banned in nineteen eighty-three.

  The flight attendant comes over, having witnessed my moment of panic. She's dressed like she belongs in the nineteen sixties, same as everyone else. She asks if I want a pillow. I tell her no, and then I ask her where we're going. She says we will reach our destination soon. Then she walks away, leaving me wondering if she purposely didn't answer, or if she simply misheard my question.

  I'm in the aisle seat, my wife is in the middle, and our young son is looking at the wing out the window. I hate flying with them. What if something bad happens? What if?

  A stewardess screams from the back of the cabin. I look over my shoulder and notice a few of the crew members fumbling with a fire extinguisher around the galley. Aa tiny blue-tinted flame is licking up the wall.

  They're about to make a horrible mistake, and I want to yell out, but my voice is frozen in my throat. One of attendants begins spraying at the fire. Immediately the flames triple in size. Small popping noises erupt from the panels above. The fire is now in the wall.

  I find my voice, scream at them for being so stupid. Class-A extinguishers only make an electrical fire worse! But they're not listening, and the wires inside the wall continue to burn. The more they try to stop the flames, the worse the fire becomes.

  My wife asks if we're going to be all right. She's scared, but she's not crying like a lot of the other people aboard. I say we're going to be fine. It's my fault, I could've warned them sooner, but they have it under control now. My son smiles. He says that he's glad I helped save the plane. I lean over and hug him, and I whisper something into his ear to let him know how much I love him. I'm doing what I can to show my family that we're fine, but in my head I'm counting.

  It takes fifteen-seconds for an electrical fire to consume a galley's wiring system. This causes a rapid decompression.People are terrified and fighting to get the oxygen masks over their faces. Behind the screams and the noise of the rushing wind, I hear the hydraulic failure happen. Without hydraulic, a Boeing 777 slows to less than 150 knots, stalling speed. Then all four engines cut out, and the plane does an uncontrolled pitch to the left. There's a feeling of weightlessness as the G-force disappears. I've lost track of time and the only truth I remember is that from thirty-six thousand feet a plane in free-fall will hit the ground in—

  Chapter 5 - For Night Terrors Take Two

  One of the florescent lights in the ceiling of the Doc's waiting room has reached the end of its miserable life. The flickering of the bulb is giving me a migraine, and I can't stand it much longe
r.

  I check the waiting room for something heavy I can throw at the fixture. If the Doc asks about all the glass shards, well, I figure I'll pretend it was already like that when I got here. Knowing him though, he'll say something like, 'don't bullshit a bullshitter, son,' and then add the cost of a replacement bulb to my bill. Probably two replacement bulbs, just to teach me a lesson.

  Not seeing anything worthy of the job, I consider my shoe. As I'm chuckling at the thought of actually trying to explain why I took it upon myself to finish off the dying light by means of a size-twelve projectile, The Doc opens the door and asks what the hell am I laughing at.

  "Nothing," I say. "Just day dreaming."

  He half-apologizes for the wait. I follow him through the door and take a seat on the couch.

  The standard questions are asked: How many hours of sleep? How many false awakenings? Any more sleep paralysis? How many lucid dreams? Have I been recording my nightmares? Still running? Still taking the medications? Depression issues? Thoughts of suicide?

  I answer everything exactly the same as I did on my last visit. "Not much has changed," I say.

  After recording my answers on his clipboard, he asks the big question: "What about the night terrors? Have you had any more of those?"

  The damned night terrors—pavor nocturnus—the main reason why I sleep in a locked room every night. I've experienced four since the last visit, but for some reason, I lie. I tell him that I've only had one minor episode.

  The Doc wants all of the details. As I'm recounting what I remember, his demur changes as if he can relate to my fears.

  In case you're unfamiliar, night terrors typically occur during non-rapid eye movement sleep. To an observer, someone suffering an episode will appear extremely frightened. Gasping, moaning, and screaming are common. Sometimes the person will get out of bed and harm themselves, or others. Sometimes even fatally. It's often impossible to fully waken them. After the episode the subject can settle back to a true sleep. Often, the incident can't be recalled.