A Touch of Madness

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He’s dreaming, he knows he is, but he can’t wake himself up. Do you know that feeling?

It’s been something Jack grew accustomed to over the last few weeks; every night the same dream – or rather nightmare -, every night worse than the night before and he won’t wake up until it’s over.

He’s in a room, not bigger than his bedroom, even though it seems like a vast endless space, darkness surrounding him. He’s not really standing or sitting on anything, there are no walls and no ground. He’s just there, all by himself.

Except for that voice, distorted, dark at first, high-pitched at times; calling his name, over and over and telling him that it’s time soon.

Jack.

I’m coming.

It haunts him, echoing through his head, a broken record stuck on repeat. He can’t escape it inside this endless room, but he still tries, tries to take up as little space as possible, hugging his knees to his chest and his hands to his ears, anything to drown out that horrible voice.

It feels like he’s been there for an eternity when the voice stops as suddenly as it started and Jack feels relieved, if only for a moment because Jack knows that when he opens his eyes again it will be worse.

The darkness is gone, replaced by an endless sky, the sun above him blinding him with its bright beams, but no warmth comes from them. He’s falling, wind rushing past and squeezing all the air from his lungs as he keeps spiraling down; falling faster and faster. His fear of heights seems worse in his dreams; having no control over what happens and no way to stop it leaves Jack scared out of his mind. He can’t see the ground, doesn’t know if there is any at all or if he’ll fall forever, but he’s falling towards something. Something he can’t see, only feel it’s presence. And it feels dark - as dark as the room - and horrible – like that voice inside his head.

Before he can reach whatever it is, he finally wakes from his dream, covered in cold sweat that chills him to the bone, his heart racing a mile a minute, gasping for air because he can’t breathe. Of course, he knows that he’s breathing perfectly fine, oxygen filling his lungs with every hurried gasp of air he takes in, but that doesn’t keep his mind from screaming at him to breathe faster, take in more air and it doesn’t help with the crushing feeling in his chest.

When at last the shadows in his room turn into familiar shapes, the memory of freefalling through the air replaced by solid fabric against his skin and underneath him, a shaky laugh escapes his lips, scolding himself for getting so scared once again.

Jack wonders if he’d be able to fall asleep again now and if it’s even worth trying when a sudden noise – like the buzzing you get whenever when the phone line is interrupted - from outside his bedroom startles him.

The light flickering through the crack under the door isn’t supposed to be there at all and after waking up from that horrible dream just now his mind jumps to the worst conclusions; someone in his house that shouldn’t be there, thieves, murderer.

He leaves the warmth and comfort – at least the last bit anyway - of his bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor right beside his bed, a shiver running down his back; he should put a carpet there.

I probably just forgot to turn the lights off, he thinks to himself, not sure if he’s trying to convince himself of that or not. Regardless, Jack grabs an old microphone mount from behind the door, holding it up ready to strike, cursing under his breath that he doesn’t keep anything heavier in his room; he should do that, too.

When he opens the door to the hallway, body tense in case anything comes at him, the light gets brighter, it’s source somewhere in the living room down the hall; the buzzing getting louder as he slowly walks towards it. Once he steps into the living room he sees that it’s the TV, no actual picture showing, just the static black and white distortion lighting up the room and a low electric hum coming from the loudspeaker. It’s creepy, but at least it’s not a murderer waiting for Jack in the darkness. He turns the TV off, his body relaxing a little when the room turns dark and the noise stops.

He’s about to turn and go to the kitchen when the TV turns itself on again.

“Now that’s really creepy,” Jack whispers to himself and turns it off again, waiting for a few minutes to see if it happens again and when it doesn’t he leaves the living room, switching lights on left and right on his way to the kitchen.

But he’s not alone there, a dark figure whose silhouette Jack can barely make out in the darkness of his kitchen, someone that doesn’t disappear when Jack flicks the lights on, no matter how often he blinks. His heart speeds up again, the memory of his nightmare still fresh in his mind, cold dread running through his body.

“Who- who the hell are you?”

The figure turns around, that buzzing noise ringing in Jack’s ears again, mixed with a giggle that doesn’t sound endearing at all.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” is all that comes to his mind when they come face to face, all the tension in his body snapping at once, the microphone mount hanging loosely from his hand as he can only look at that familiar face in disbelief.