Dreams
It started small, barely noticeable. She would wake from her dreams in the early hours, her heart racing, her mind blurred with fragments of someone else's life. In these dreams, she was in the house, but it wasn't hers—everything looked older, the walls weathered and dim. She felt herself slipping into someone else's skin, the strange familiarity of movements that weren't her own. She knew it wasn't her house in the dreams; it was the woman's, and yet, somehow, it felt closer, more intimate, with each night.
At first, it seemed like an echo, but slowly, pieces of the dreams began seeping into her waking hours. She'd notice small things—paintings that were down stairs were upstairs, strange smudges on the walls, and once, the faintest scent of perfume she didn't own lingering in the hall. The air felt colder, like someone had just walked through, and every so often, she'd find herself pausing, almost as though she'd catch a glimpse of something shifting in the corner of her eye, something that vanished before she could turn to look.
Every night the dreams would intensify. She'd feel the pull of dread in her stomach, the cold bite of fear as she walked through the woman's footsteps. Shadows seemed to stretch and follow her, whispers echoed from corners she hadn't explored, and the same mark that darkened her own hand grew darker and more vivid in the dreams, pulsing with a pain that felt all too real.
One night, she awoke with a gasp, heart pounding, and found herself sitting upright in bed, the mark on her hand hot to the touch. Her breathing was shallow as her eyes darted around the room, every corner seeming to shift, to breathe. And then she saw it—the mirror across from her bed. It looked just as it did in her dreams, grimy and dark, like it hadn't been touched in decades. She knew she had cleaned it days ago, but now it appeared untouched, the filth as thick as it had been when she first moved in.
Her hands trembled as she closed her eyes, telling herself it was only a dream, a trick of her mind. But as the days passed, her grip on reality grew more fragile. She began avoiding the mirrors, covering them, yet every time she looked, she'd see traces of her dreams lingering in the glass, shadows that seemed to move even when she was still.
Then, on an evening when the air was thick with silence, a knock echoed through the house.
Startled, she approached the door, her heartbeat quickening. It was him. The neighbor, the man who had given her that strange feeling of comfort mixed with unease. He stood there with a smile, his eyes warm, yet somehow piercing.
"Good evening," he greeted, his tone casual, but there was something about his presence that felt heavier this time. "I was hoping to get your opinion on something. Just a small thing—figured it was a good excuse to stop by and get to know you better."
She felt her mouth go dry, yet she nodded, forcing a polite smile. "Of course, come in," she replied, though a voice in the back of her mind screamed to keep him at a distance.
He stepped inside, glancing around as though he belonged here. As he settled into the chair opposite her, his gaze lingered on her, like he was waiting for something. The room felt colder, the shadows deeper, and she couldn't shake the feeling that he knew something she didn't.
"So," he said, his eyes glinting as he leaned forward. "Tell me, have you been sleeping well?"
YOU ARE READING
Veil of Shadows
Paranormal--The world fell into darkness as she called to it, her voice swallowed by shadows before her words even reached her lips. She fell, hands dragging her downward, as if they would finally end the desire, she felt for the creature that had tormented h...
