Sleep No More – Part 5 . . .

Sunday 26 – Thursday 30 August 2018

Their coffee, poured more than an hour before, had cooled. Their discussion had not. Vincent was trying to get his head around how they could end up in each other’s dreams; Nyssa was trying to fathom how Vincent had managed to track her down.

‘I’ve not found much online about sharing dreams, so I don’t understand how we’re able to do it,’ Vincent pondered.

‘Exactly how did you find me?’

‘With great difficulty. I eventually found you via an art gallery site,’ he paused to consider his words. ‘Well, I found a Nyssa. Managed to track down a photo of you. That’s when I knew I had the right person. Then it was a matter of finding contact details. The internet is a fantastic resource if you know how to use it.’

A moment passed between the two of them as they wrestled with what to say next. It was Nyssa who braved mentioning the nightmares again.

‘I’ve never looked into it . . . how or why we’re able to – to – whatever it is that we do.’

‘So, where do we start trying to figure out what this whole thing is?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nyssa replied.

‘What was . . . what was the thing you thought was in your room? And why did you think he was in your room?’

Nyssa couldn’t give herself a satisfactory answer to those questions so there was no chance that she could provide Vincent with anything.

He sensed she was struggling with her reply.

‘How long have you been having them? The nightmares?’ he asked.

‘On and off for years. But they’ve been getting worse. In the last four or five months. I – I don’t know what it is but . . . almost every dream, he kills me. Rips me to shreds. You?’

‘Yeah, about five months too. This was the first one though that seemed –’

‘Real,’ Nyssa interrupted.

Vincent nodded. ‘Yes, real.’

The sound of crockery smashing on the floor drew their attention to the kitchen. Nyssa grabbed for Vincent’s hand. It was clear that she was thinking the worst.

‘It’s here. Isn’t it? It’s here.’

‘Calm down. We don’t know what that was. Stay here. I’ll go and have a look.’ Vincent cautiously stood, looked into Nyssa’s eyes, and wandered slowly into the kitchen. Nyssa sat pensively on the edge of her chair waiting for him to return.

There was silence for what Nyssa felt was the longest time.

‘Vincent? You okay? Vincent!’ She couldn’t wait for his reply, racing forward into the kitchen and rebounding straight off of Vincent’s chest. She fought every muscle in her body to remain upright.

‘Jesus! Are you alright?’ he asked, grabbing her upper arms to steady her.

‘Shit! You didn’t reply. I thought something had happened to you.’

‘It did. I nearly went arse up on some of your crockery. It’s all over the floor. Looks like a shelf has come away from the wall.’

Trepidation spread across her face.

‘What?’ Vincent asked.

‘My crockery wasn’t on a shelf on the wall. It’s in the cupboards under the bench.’

He looked confused.

‘What?’ Nyssa asked. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘How’d your crockery get all over the floor if it wasn’t on the shelf? Anyone else live with you? Got a cat maybe?’

‘No.’

Nyssa watched his expression change. His mouth contorted first, followed by the rest of his face, into a grotesque mask of agony and terror.

‘Vincent, what’s going on?’

His grip on her upper arms tightened as his feet rose from the floor, a garbled scream spewed from his mouth. Bubbles of blood and spit flew through the air and landed on Nyssa’s face.

‘Run,’ he managed to spit out in between screams.

Terror held her to the spot. All she could do was watch Vincent being ripped apart in front of her eyes. She knew she’d be next if she didn’t get moving, but her feet refused all orders from her brain to get into motion.

The beast had found her. It’d probably never left her home, just waited patiently for any opportunity to arise where it could kill her. The last thing she would ever see would be what was left of Vincent’s body. She’d got him killed, and now she’d follow. Worst of all for Nyssa was that she’d never know what this creature was or why it was determined to end her life.

. . . The end . . .

 

P.S. I’ve wanted to write a story like this for a long time. One where I set everything up, get you hooked, drag you in, and then let you down in a miserable heap of disappointment because there’s no real or satisfactory ending. *Insert evil laugh here* There’s really nothing else to this story.

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About Danielle

I like to write. What more is there to know?
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