The House at the Edge of Sleep

Part 1: The First Room

In his dreams, Rowan keeps waking up in a house he's never seen—until pieces of it start appearing in the real world.

Rowan opened his eyes and knew, immediately, that he was dreaming.

It wasn’t the softness of the mattress beneath him or the dim glow of the antique lamp in the corner. It was the silence.

There was no wind outside, no hum of electricity, no rustling sheets. Just stillness—so deep and wide it felt like he was inside the lungs of something holding its breath.

He sat up, slow and cautious, not wanting to disturb the strange calm. The room was unfamiliar. Its walls were papered with pale blue flowers, peeling in the corners, and the ceiling bore a spiderweb crack that fanned out like lightning above his head. Everything smelled faintly of dust and dried lavender.

He didn’t recognize the bed, or the standing lamp, or the warped wood floor beneath his bare feet.

And yet…

There was a weight in the room. A pull. As if he’d been here before.

Rowan rose and padded to the door across the room. Its brass handle was worn and cold. When he turned it, the door groaned open with the slow complaint of old hinges. Beyond it lay a narrow hallway, lit only by the flickering glow of a bulb in a ceiling fixture that buzzed like a dying insect.

There were five doors. Each exactly the same, except the one at the end—it was cracked open just enough to show a sliver of something beyond.

The hallway stretched farther than it should have. Rowan stepped forward, and the floor creaked under his weight. The sound echoed strangely, like it didn’t belong to this world.

He hesitated at the final door, breath catching.

Inside, the room was tiled and damp. A clawfoot bathtub sat beneath a frost-covered window, and in it was a woman. Her back to him, her shoulders bare. Her long black hair clung to her spine like seaweed.

She was crying, softly. It sounded almost… rehearsed. The kind of cry that had been practiced in silence, again and again.

Rowan’s voice cracked the stillness: “Are you okay?”

The woman froze.

He stepped forward, slowly, careful not to startle her. But just as he reached the edge of the tub, she began to turn her head.

He only caught a glimpse—just enough to see that where her face should’ve been, there was nothing.

Only skin.

And then—

Snap.

The dream broke apart like ice beneath his feet.

Rowan jolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps. For a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Just listened.

There was no sound but his own breathing.

His room was dark, familiar. Posters on the wall. Books stacked near his desk. Phone charging on the floor. Everything exactly as he’d left it.

But something was wrong.

The air smelled… damp.

He swung his legs out of bed, feet landing on cold wood. As he stood, his heel slipped slightly. He looked down.

A trail of water, faint but clear, led across the floor—from his bed to the hallway.

He followed it, heart thudding in his chest.

In the bathroom, the light flickered once before turning on. The mirror was fogged at the edges, though he hadn’t used any hot water. A single droplet of water fell from the rim of the tub.

Rowan leaned forward to wipe the mirror—and stopped.

There, just above the sink, was the faint outline of a handprint. Not his. Too small. Too delicate. Fingers spread wide, as though someone had pressed their hand flat against the glass from the inside.

A shiver rolled down his spine.

He turned, expecting—he didn’t know what.

Nothing. Just his own reflection.

The handprint remained.

Rowan didn’t sleep the rest of the night. He kept every light on and stared at the ceiling until dawn bled into the sky.

And yet, in the back of his mind, he already knew:

The house would be waiting for him again.

It always was.

To be Continued Part 2: The Clock That Counts Backward