The dream always began the same way. With the scent of rain on dry earth and the taste of rust in his mouth. Elias would find himself standing on a desolate moor, the sky a bruised canvas of purples and greys. A lone, skeletal tree clawed at the clouds, its branches like the arthritic fingers of a forgotten god. And then, the figure would emerge from the gloaming.
He called it the Somnambulist.
It was a creature of impossible angles and elongated limbs, draped in what looked like decaying finery. Its face was a smooth, featureless oval of bone-white, yet Elias could feel its gaze upon him, a cold and heavy weight. The Somnambulist would drift towards him, its movements silent and fluid, and as it drew near, the air would grow thick with the scent of lilies and grave dirt.
This time, as the figure raised a slender, three-jointed finger, a voice echoed in Elias’s mind, a sibilant whisper that was both melodic and deeply unsettling. It was the first verse of a sonnet he had never heard before, yet his dreaming mind recognized its structure, its iambic pentameter.
“A crimson tear on alabaster skin,” the Somnambulist whispered, its voice like the rustling of dry leaves.
Elias awoke with a gasp, the words hanging in the air of his small, book-cluttered apartment. He was drenched in a cold sweat, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. The dream was always vivid, always unsettling, but the addition of the verse was new. He fumbled for the lamp on his bedside table, flooding the room with a warm, reassuring light.
He was a poet. Words were his trade, his passion, his very essence. But these words felt different. They were not his own. They were a seed of dread planted in the fertile soil of his subconscious. He tried to shake off the lingering unease, attributing it to a late night of reading Poe and a questionable takeaway curry.
The next day, a semblance of normalcy returned. The sun, a rare and welcome sight in the city’s perpetual autumn, cast long shadows across his writing desk. Elias worked on a new collection of poems, his pen scratching against the parchment, the familiar rhythm of creation a comforting balm to his frayed nerves. He was crafting a piece about the fleeting beauty of a sunset, the words flowing with their usual grace and precision.
He was so engrossed in his work that he almost missed the frantic knocking on his apartment door. It was his downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Gable, a woman whose face was a permanent mask of anxiety. Her eyes were wide with a genuine terror that made the hairs on Elias’s arms stand on end.
“It’s Amelia,” she cried, her voice a strangled sob. “Something’s happened to Amelia!”
Amelia was Mrs. Gable’s prized Persian cat, a creature of regal indifference and pristine white fur. Elias followed the distraught woman down the creaking stairs to her apartment. The scent of lavender and old lace was overpowered by a cloying, metallic smell that turned his stomach.
In the center of the living room, on a cream-colored rug, lay Amelia. Her once immaculate fur was matted and stained. And there, on her pristine white coat, was a single, perfect droplet of blood. A crimson tear on alabaster skin.
The words of the dream slammed into Elias’s mind with the force of a physical blow. He felt a wave of nausea so intense he had to grip the doorframe to keep from collapsing. It was a coincidence, he told himself. A macabre, terrifying coincidence. But the Somnambulist’s whisper echoed in his memory, and a cold dread began to seep into the very marrow of his bones.
The days that followed were a blur of sleepless nights and caffeine-fueled anxiety. Elias tried to lose himself in his work, but the words of the dream were a constant, intrusive presence. He saw them everywhere. In the splash of red wine on a white tablecloth. In a single red leaf on a field of snow. The world had become a canvas for his nightmare.
He stopped sleeping. Or rather, he was afraid to. He would sit in his armchair, a book open on his lap, the words blurring into an incomprehensible mess as he fought to keep his eyelids from drooping. But exhaustion was a relentless tide, and eventually, it would pull him under.
And the Somnambulist would be waiting.
This time, the dream was different. The moor was shrouded in a thick, cloying fog, and the skeletal tree was gone. The Somnambulist stood directly before him, its featureless face inches from his own. The scent of lilies and decay was overpowering. And then, the second verse.
“A silent scream in a hall of mirrors,” it whispered, the words slithering into his consciousness like a venomous snake.
Elias awoke with a scream of his own, the sound swallowed by the four walls of his apartment. He was trembling uncontrollably, his teeth chattering as if he were freezing to death. He stumbled to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, his reflection a pale and haunted stranger in the mirror.
He had to tell someone. He couldn’t keep this to himself any longer. He thought of his sister, Clara, a pragmatic doctor who dealt in logic and reason. She would think he was losing his mind. But the alternative, that this was real, was far more terrifying.
He called her, his voice hoarse and desperate. He tried to explain the dreams, the Somnambulist, the verses that seemed to be coming true. Clara listened patiently, her voice a calm and soothing presence on the other end of the line. She suggested he come and stay with her for a few days, get some rest, and see a therapist.
Elias agreed, a sense of relief washing over him. He would go to Clara’s. He would be safe there. He packed a small bag, his hands shaking so violently that he could barely zip it closed. As he was about to leave, he caught his reflection in the hallway mirror.
And then he saw it.
Behind him, in the reflection, stood the Somnambulist. Its elongated form was distorted by the glass, its featureless face a terrifying void. Elias’s heart stopped. He spun around, but there was nothing there. Just the empty hallway.
He looked back at the mirror, and the figure was gone. But his own reflection remained, his mouth open in a silent scream. A silent scream in a hall of mirrors. The second verse. The nightmare was no longer confined to his sleep. It had followed him into the waking world. And he was trapped in its terrifying poetry.
