The Town That Forgot How to Sleep

No one knew when it started. One night, the people of Elmbrook simply didn’t fall asleep. It wasn’t insomnia—no tossing or turning, no restlessness. It was as if the act of sleeping had been erased from their bodies, like a song they once knew but could no longer hum.

At first, they laughed it off.

"Too much coffee," joked Mr. Wilkes, the grocer.

"Must be the full moon," said old Mrs. Kessler, sipping her third cup of tea.

But when the second night came and still no one could sleep—no blinking, no yawning, no dreams—concern crept in. By the third night, worry turned to panic.

The news caught on. Cameras rolled into town. Scientists arrived with clipboards, neurologists with machines. Tests were done, blood was drawn. But the people were fine—alert, even cheerful. No damage, no fatigue, no signs of stress. Just... awake.

And then came the fourth night.

That was when the hallucinations began.

It started small. A girl named Ellie saw her dead cat curled on the couch, purring softly. Her mother wept with joy—until she reached out and her hand passed right through.

In the following days, the town was plagued with flickers of unreality. Shadowy figures at windows. Whispers in alleyways. Children spoke in languages they never learned. A boy named Adam drew circles on the walls and said, “These keep the dream-things out.”

That’s what people began calling them—dream-things. Creatures that didn't belong in daylight. Creatures that lived in the minds of those who could no longer sleep.

And just like dreams, they became stronger with attention.

You see, dreams fade when we wake. But Elmbrook never slept. The barrier was gone. What was meant to be fleeting and forgotten stayed and grew roots.

By the seventh night, the town was no longer Elmbrook.

Fog rolled in and never left. The clocks froze at 3:17 AM. That’s when people reported the first attack.

A man was found in his living room, wide-eyed, mouth open in a scream, though no sound came out. There were no wounds, no sign of struggle. Just that look on his face—pure terror. His wife swore she saw something with too many eyes standing over him before it vanished.

The dream-things were no longer content with being seen. They wanted more.

Fear spread like fire. Families locked themselves in. Windows were boarded up. But it didn’t matter. Dreams, after all, don’t need doors.

That’s when June Archer decided to act.

June was only sixteen, but her mind was different. She had always lucid dreamed—knew how to take control of her dreams like a painter with a brush. Her grandmother once told her, “You’ve got one foot in the waking world, and one in the dreaming.” It used to scare her. Now, it made her powerful.

On the ninth night, June climbed to the roof of her house and stared into the fog. She whispered to it. Not with fear, but with command.

And something whispered back.

She saw them—dream-things of every shape and shadow. They hissed, slithered, crawled, and hovered. But they paused when they reached her. Something in her gaze made them stop.

She didn’t run. Instead, she stepped forward.

June closed her eyes and let her body go still. For a second, just one second, she felt it—the edge of sleep. That old, forgotten rhythm. A flicker of dreaming.

And when she opened her eyes again, she wasn’t on the roof anymore.

She was in Elmbrook—but different. Sky full of stars. Streets glowing with golden warmth. It was the dream-version of the town, the one all the people had lost. And in that space, the dream-things weren’t monsters. They were stories. Memories. Emotions. All twisted from being ignored too long.

June understood then: the town didn’t need to fight them. It needed to remember how to dream.

The next morning, the sun rose—and for the first time in ten nights, people felt heavy lids and aching limbs. A yawn here, a drooping head there. And by nightfall, one by one, they began to sleep.

The dream-things faded with every breath, every snore, every whispered lullaby.

Not gone—but no longer angry.

Elmbrook never quite returned to normal. Sometimes, the fog still rolls in. Sometimes, people glimpse shadows from the corners of their eyes. But they know now not to fear it.

Because June Archer taught them that dreams are not meant to be locked away. They are meant to be seen, felt, and understood.

And as long as the town remembers to dream, it will never forget how to sleep again.