The Nightmare - Part 3

Ryder hated going to sleep. Lately, it felt like an open invitation to the nightmares that haunted him. He’d spend hours lying awake, hoping sleep wouldn’t come. But it always did, and the dreams never seemed to bring him anything good. They left him waking up in a panic, drenched in sweat, and Alice was never there when he opened his eyes. Ryder’s dreams mirrored whatever his imagination had been wrestling with — sometimes grand adventures, sometimes unsettling journeys through fog and shadow. But there was one recurring nightmare he couldn’t seem to shake.

It always started the same way. The mirror sat across the room, ordinary and still, until those two dark, blood red orbs appeared, hovering where his eyes would be in the reflection. The grin below them twisted into something unnatural, a wide, gaping mouth that seemed to stretch far beyond what should’ve been possible. And then, the laughter started — low and distorted, echoing through the room and settling into his bones.

Ryder’s heart would pound, but he couldn’t look away. Something about those eyes held him there, rooted in place. He always moved closer, as if pulled by some unseen force. The reflection in the mirror was wrong — darker, sharper, with glowing eyes that seemed to bore right through him.

He reached out, lifting his hand to touch the glass. But the reflection didn’t match him. What stared back was a twisted version of his own hand, dark and misshapen. Ryder’s pulse quickened as he pressed his fingertip to the surface, and the mirror rippled like disturbed water. The laughter deepened, turning into something guttural, almost mocking.

Unease settled in his chest, and Ryder tried to pull his hand away, but the mirror seemed to resist. Without warning, the dark hand on the other side lunged forward, breaking through the surface with a sickening ripple. Long, jagged fingers emerged, reaching for him. A voice, low and almost inhuman, laughed at his terror.

Panic took over, and Ryder stumbled backward, trying to float away, but his legs felt heavy, unresponsive. He managed to reach his bed, scrambling to bury himself under the covers. But the shadowy arm kept stretching from the mirror, the hand searching for him. Ryder’s breaths came in short, sharp gasps, his vision blurring with fear.

He felt the cold, skeletal fingers wrap around his arm, their grip like iron. He tried to pry them off, clawing at the dark hand, but it held tight, pulling him closer to the mirror. The room seemed to warp around him, the shadows deepening, closing in.

Ryder tried to scream, but his voice was trapped in his throat. The silence was suffocating. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the nightmare to end, and for a moment, everything seemed to freeze. The pulling stopped, the grip loosened, and the room fell eerily quiet.

When Ryder finally opened his eyes, he found himself staring at the familiar ceiling of his bedroom. The eerie laughter was gone, and the shadows had retreated. It was just his room — plain, real, and undisturbed. But as he sat up, he felt a sharp pain in his arm. He glanced down and saw a dark bruise forming where those spectral fingers had held him.

Reality set in like a cold rush of air. This wasn’t just a dream. The bruise was proof of something lingering beneath the surface, something that reached out from the dark corners of his mind and left its mark on him. Ryder stared at the mirror across the room, half-expecting those red eyes to reappear.

But only his reflection looked back, pale and shaken. He wrapped himself in the damp covers, and tried to convince himself it wasn’t real. “It was just a dream… just a dream…” he whispered, though he knew deep down it wasn’t so simple.

Sleep was no longer just a place for rest — it was a doorway to something dark and unknown. And as he lay there, the memory of those red eyes and that cold, relentless grip stayed with him, a reminder that his nightmares were only beginning.