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I immediately knew where I was. The withered branches of the dead tree around me wailed weepingly, a familiar tune. This was the ninth fucking dream I've had about this place. Well, nightmare was the more fitting word.
These cursed nightmares, marked with death and suffering, haunted me for nine months straight with no respite. I wonder every time I am pulled into one if it will be my last.
It never is.
These night terrors have ruined my life. Completely.
I trudge up the broken, neglected dirt path, waiting for the orbs of glowing red to appear. Like clockwork, they appear by my feet and light the path I must take.
I admit the glow of the crimson wisps fascinates me; they seem more alive than something my feeble mind can come up with. As I amble along the path, the orbs pulse in an enchanting rhythm, one that brings me a twisted comfort for what is to come.
The dried and lifeless trees slowly dwindle in numbers, and a dark, lightless hill stands before me. Upon that hill stands a single red door, what I affectionately call it, the opening to Satania's asshole.
It was a gleaming red door, echoing forgotten prayers and etched in curses. The ominous plumes of smoke emitted from the frame make me apprehensive every time I arrive before it.
This is it.
The beginning of another session of mental torture and grim delusions brought on by my fucked-up mind.
"Here we go again." I groan with reluctance, trepidation filling me. Despite my fear, I opened the door without hesitation. "Let's see hell one more time."
The black abyss beyond the door sucks me in, a wildly uncomfortable feeling that I can never get used to. Slowly, the darkness molds into the setting for this nightmare.
It transforms itself into a speakeasy bar, setting off alarms in my mind. My tattered nightgown morphs into a gold off-the-shoulder sequin gown that seems to make my brown skin glow. I look around as the furniture pieces take shape and faceless people pop into place, talking and laughing as if everything is normal.
I feel a ticklish, light sensation on the crooks of my elbow, and look down to see a white, feathered boa around me.
My coily hair is gently pulled into a bun near the base of my neck. Gold accessories materialize in my hair as if they were always there.
The last of my transformation is a string of gold pearls with a red, glowing orb as my pendant, reminiscent of the wisps that guide me here. The pendant also serves as a cruel reminder of what is to come.
I take my place by the bar, a drink appearing as I sit. I take a sip despite knowing that it's flavorless.
Soon after, soft, sultry jazz music drifts through the crowd, like a lover's sweet caress, promising more than they can give. As the tempo slows, the conversations hush, and the faceless yet animated humanoids around me get up to dance.
Some of them go to the dance floor; others stay near their tables and gently sway to the tune.
I observe the bar puzzled by the choice the red door made this time. In previous scenes that the door showed me, the setup was simple. A victim in a dingy basement, creepy cabin, or dirty alley is tortured, mutilated, and finally, all life is sucked out of them.
The door has never shown such an opulent setup. I have so many questions. Why is it a jazz bar? What makes this nightmare different? What is my mind trying to tell me?
I know I won't get answers, no matter how much I consciously or subconsciously will them to come to me.
My thoughts halt as a chill, I know all too well, descends over the place. The smooth, silky music distorts slightly, tries to correct itself, and fails.
Now, an eerie melody corrupts the music like an announcement to welcome the Heralds of Death.
At least that's what I call them.
The heralds, three mysterious beings dressed in black robes and cloaks, with smoke emitting from every opening. They were faceless like the extras, but instead of flesh tones, nothingness, their faces were hidden under the cloak, a boundless shadow in place. Even when light shone directly on them, they absorbed it and reflected nothing.
Like the red doors, glowing orbs, and the winding path leading to the hill, they were a constant in these lucid nightmares. The Heralds of Death, beings that appeared in my dream nine months ago, who administer devilish torture to unassuming people.
The victims are always strangers; people I've never met or do not remember meeting. I usually see the victim somewhere in the scene set; they are the only being with a face amidst the faceless.
The Heralds always start by cutting a part of the victim's body, then slowly drain the blood from the wound. Next, they draw a circle below the victims' bodies, a ritual as I've come to recognize. Once drawn, the circle glows a gloomy, deep red, almost black in shade.
For the next few hours, the victim is tortured to the brink of death, then the three heralds summon an orb of light to drain what I think is the literal life out of the victim.
Thinking about it fills me with dread. I question my reality and sanity as I wonder where my mind is getting these images.
The heralds float through the crowd, smoke billowing where their feet should be. I watch them with bated breath as they head to a dark corner of the speakeasy where a couple is laughing at something one of them said.
As the heralds move through the crowd, the faceless beings are ignorant, programmed to be extras to brutality. The couple, doubling over with laughter, notices the heralds, confusion with a hint of fear bleeding into their features.
Features that I recognize immediately.
I spring to my feet, dread knotting inside me. Marie? Damon? Have I fucking lost my mind?
"Brain? Why the fuck would you imagine them as victims of torture? Are you fucking sick, Selene?" I am full-on rambling to myself as I storm over to the corner.
"Hello~ Hey, sick fucks! I'm right here!" I know the attempt is futile, but I reach for one of them. My hand rebounds, helpless frustration filling me. I turn to my surroundings to find something to throw at them, even if it doesn't work.
"Come on!" I clamor irritably, desperate to disrupt the pending death of my sister and friend. I spot a steak knife a couple of tables from me, and leg it. Without care, I barge through the crowd, diving for the knife when I am close enough.
I swivel towards the heralds as one of them cuts Damon's ear off. I waste no time and plunge the knife towards the heralds, but it slides off them yet again as if protected by a barrier.
"No! Please, anyone but them. Choose someone else!" I swing the knife, trying to break through what's between me and them. I know I won't change anything, but I still fight to get to them.
As the torture begins, the hair on my body raises. The sound of multiple bones breaking at once has me freeze in place, despair consuming my being. The warmth of Marie and Damon's blood coats my face, hands, and body, sobering me up.
Without waiting another second, I kick, punch, and push at the heralds, futilely hoping they will stop.
My hair is a disheveled mess, my boa discarded somewhere, and my dress so drenched in their blood, it sticks to me like a second skin.
But I do not care.
I am still hacking at the invisible blockage, the soreness of my effort stinging in my arms. Their screams die down with my stamina, my arm trembling as I try to raise it one more time.
"Why them?! Why?" I sob as I peer over the heralds' shoulders to see Marie gasping and gurgling her own blood in her effort to breathe. "Stop…please…"
Damon is unresponsive, the lingering look of fear etched in his face evidence of the painful ending he experienced.
I collapse on the floor as the light around me brightens to a red color, letting me know that I failed.
Their voices weave together, chanting a prayer- no, a curse, one that feels older than Teleria itself. I hear a slight whistling as their life drains, a deafening reminder of my failure.
I wail so loud, I swear I shake the very foundation of my nightmare. Wrecked with grief, I slap myself, hoping to wake from the torment.
"Get up! Get. Up." My hand eventually drops limply to my side as the little strength I had left leaves me.
Before I knew it, the three disappeared, leaving the cold, gaunt, and shriveled corpses of my sister and friend.
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I jolt awake, sweat drenching my entire body. The events of my dream are still vivid in my mind, the grief just as poignant. I try to regulate my nerves; the shaking serves as a brutal reminder of what I experienced.
The familiar pounding in my head nearly drowns out the prattling woman on the TV.
"...nth ...tim... found...tilat...burned."
I don't waste much time and reach for the knife resting on my night table. I turn to my wooden headboard, going over the words carved into it.
'# of Lucid Drems'.
If this were months ago, the error would drive me insane. Now, I consider a day to be good if I wake up at all. I stab the knife into the messy tally, bringing it to a nine. Nine times. I've witnessed pain, torture, and suffering nine times in great detail.
I could not even count on my memory to fail me. If I forgot everything else in my life, the scenes I witnessed are engraved in my very soul. I fling the knife somewhere across my room, then drag my sweat-soaked nightgown over my head.
I add it to the mountain of clothing on the right side of my bed that I tell myself every day I'll move. Dragging my body out of bed, I make a half-ass attempt to spread my bed, and by that I mean covering where I sleep with the half of the comforter not buried under clothing.
"...police have narrowed down the area where the...avoid alleys after ..."
I was a neat woman, a stickler for organisation, routine, and color coordination. Anyone who knows me knows how true this is. My sister Marie loves to give me flak for it to the point of calling it a compulsion. That word always irritates me. It makes me feel like I am broken and need to be fixed.
In hindsight, none of that matters now. If only Marie could see the state of my apartment now. Ever since these nightmares began, no one has entered my apartment. My previously pristine and proper life is a tainted, weary mess.
I pat down my bed, feeling for my phone. I lift the pillow, hoping to see it there, but it is nowhere to be seen.
"Hey Siri?" When I get no response, I start lifting the clothes on my bed to look for it. "Siri, where the fuck are you?"
"You'll need to turn on Location services for that. Want to turn it on just this once, or while using Siri?" I stop digging through the clothes and walk to the couch where the muffled Siri prompt is coming from.
There, I find my phone between two of the cushions with six percent. I check the time, and my eyes widen. "Fuck! It's almost ten o'clock." I scroll through my notifs, praying Marie isn't angry, but what I find is more daunting. I don't see a single notification from her or Damon. Not a text, call, or voicemail.
The dread returns, but as a light, steadily building pressure, not quite explosive.
I plug in my phone to get some charge, then flit around my apartment to get ready. I pull on the arm of a green sweater that catches my eye in the mountain of clothes. I slip it on hurriedly, then head to my bathroom mirror to do my hair.
I fluff out my tangled, coily hair as it falls lightly around my shoulders. I try to stick some odd-looking pieces down, but 4c hair will do what it does best: reach for the sky.
I grab my worn white sneakers on the way back to my room, putting them on as I hop to my phone. As I slide the second foot on, I straighten up and grab my phone. The charge is now twenty-five percent, good enough for me. With charger in hand and my dying phone, I head out for the night.
It's ten minutes past the time I am supposed to meet Marie and Damon when I arrive at the bar, but I don't think they'll crucify me for being a little late.
I can hear the excited chatter from outside, and the hoots from men I know are playing beer pong. Before I go in, I pull my phone out to check my notifications; nothing new.
Now I'm concerned about Marie and Damon. The dread that's been building slowly grows in intensity. I ring Damon first, but get nothing. Marie's phone goes straight to voicemail, but I try again. And again. The tension in my body mounts with each call that goes to voicemail.
My mind helplessly flashes back to the graphic death of my sister; her gurgling scream resounding in my ear.
"She's fine, she has to be; it was just a dream. Just a fucking dream, it isn't real." At this point, I am muttering like a deranged madwoman. With each droning beep, I feel my sanity slipping and my twisted delusions taking over.
I bite my thumbnail, gnawing at the nail, the longer each beep gets. I try three more times, my hand shaking more with each call. I am about to start another attempt when Marie's face and name pop up.
I let out a trembling sigh of relief and quickly answer the call. "Marie? Where are you? Are you okay? I've been trying to call you for ten minutes straight, I'm pretty sure my minutes are almost-"
"I'm fine, Sel, I just got caught up in some last-minute stuff." Before I can even answer her, Marie starts speaking again. "Look, I will talk with you later, okay? I know I was the one who invited you out, but something came up. I will try to make it later, so drink for both of us till then." The playful tone she uses in the last sentence makes me smile.
"So, you want me to poison myself?" Marie laughs softly, and I know she is rolling her eyes at me.
"You are so dramatic. This is why people think you're no fun. Live a little~" I laugh at her attempt to sing. Hearing her voice and how light she sounds makes me feel infinitely better about my dreams. She is fine, and I am sure Damon is fine.
"Hey M, did you let Damon know you'd be late?" Damon owned the bar we were meeting at, a convenient perk when I needed a place away from home to relax.
I turn to open the bar door when a tall, brisk stranger bounces into me and enters the bar. I candidly apologize, then turn away from the door to finish up my conversation.
"He's with me right now." I freeze, shocked by the information. Oh? Like a veil being lifted, memories of the two being weirdly close resurface. I've noticed the longer glances, the flirty banter, and the two being unavailable at similar times.
Marie and Damon are two attractive people; I smile at the thought of the two of them finally getting together.
"Ah~It all makes sense now." Marie issues a weak admonishment, further cementing my belief. "Yeah, I'm right. Are you two just fucking or dating?" I know I caught them when I heard Damon's choked coughing in the background.
Got 'em.
"I'll explain later! Bye!" I cackle at how flustered Marie sounds. Now that I know both of them are alive and together, my initial worry withers. They are definitely not coming out tonight.
Another round of cheers erupts from the bar, drawing my attention back to the door. I linger outside, contemplating whether I should enter or not. My head is pounding, but I know a sleepless night is all that is waiting for me at home.
"Being here beats being at home." Making my choice, I swing the door open and enter.
'Intrusive Shots' is a generic college bar. The thing that sets it apart from the rest is the drinks. Cheap, fast, and hits like a truck. The massive TV screens that hang on different walls are another defining feature, especially for sporting events.
Damon's father, Gilbert, spares no expense when it comes to Damon.
After completing his Master's in Business, Gilbert gifted the fully renovated and stocked club to his son. Fast forward to now, the bar is my favourite place to be when I loathe being alone.
The crowd is fairly small; most of the people in tonight are huddled together near one of the bigger screens watching a reality survival show that I am not familiar with.
I scan the place to see if Seth is working tonight. He is Damon's right-hand guy, and he is also in charge of supplying me with anything I need.
I find him at one of the side bars, handing a shot of vodka to a lithe, leggy woman in white, wearing a twisted 'bride-to-be' crown. His face is all smiles as the inebriated woman reaches over for the drink while singing his praises.
He pours a couple more shots in succession for the four other ladies surrounding the bride. I make my way over to him as he is wiping down the counter.
"Sethly, do you have any cans of ginger ale here? I want a couple before I head up to my section." Without missing a beat, he reaches under the counter and hands me a chilled basket with four drinks. He stretches somewhere else and fishes out a bag of trail mix and cotton candy.
"Ugh. This is why you're my favourite bartender, Sethly!" He smirks, shaking his head at my antics. I say this to anyone on shift who gives me my snacks. However, Seth is the only one with a nickname, so there is some truth to the statement.
"Time to relax." I shuffle past the groups of partying students to the VIP staircase that leads to the upper rooms. The bouncer by the ropes steps to the side and unhooks the velvet rope. "Thanks, John." I hop past him, taking two stairs at a time, praying I don't drop my snacks. I reach the hall leading to my private room to see the door already slightly ajar.
Thinking nothing of it, I use my foot to nudge the door open. Once inside the room, I set the snacks on the coffee table by the couch, then reach down for my blanket stored underneath. The dull thump of the bass downstairs, periodic cheers, and the low lights ease my wired body.
I plop on the couch that is next to my table of snacks and groan as my muscles relax. This is the first time today that I don't feel like it's the end of the world.
I close my eyes while the pounding in my head slowly subsides. Eventually, the thumping pressure is now a steady, dull pain, manageable.
Then I hear it.
A clicking sound as if someone is trying to light something. I turn to the door, then to the dark corner at the edge of the room where the sound is louder. The black couch that I previously glanced at now has a man sitting there, trying to light a cigarette.
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