DREAMWARE

DREAMWARE

It started with a free download.

DreamWare promised perfect sleep. A sleek new app that tracked dreams, monitored vitals, and even “corrected nightmares.” It climbed the charts overnight, boasting a five-star rating, glowing reviews, and a smooth neon interface.

When Evan saw the ad while doom-scrolling at 2 a.m., it felt like divine timing.

He hadn’t slept well in weeks. Tossing, turning, screaming himself awake sometimes. He didn’t remember the dreams — just the sweat, the dread, and the heavy pounding in his chest. The app looked like salvation.

He downloaded it with a thumbprint and passed out five minutes later.

Night 1:

He dreamt of running. Down a hallway, forever. Endless doors on either side. One of them opened. He didn’t see what was behind it — just heard a low growl and snapped awake.

The app had a notification waiting:

You’ve received a Level 1 Dream Penalty: Fatigue. Avoid fear-triggered loops.

Rest Score: 72/100

That morning, Evan’s legs ached like he’d sprinted a marathon.

Coincidence, he figured.

He still gave the app five stars.

Night 3:

The dreams deepened. He now found himself in strange places — glass cities, upside-down libraries, deserts full of ticking clocks. Every night felt longer. More intense. But he slept.

And every morning, the app graded him.

Penalty: Level 2 — Disorientation. Symptoms: Dizziness, nausea.

Dream Fault: “Wandered off-path.”

Rest Score: 58/100

The penalties didn’t feel like metaphors anymore. He’d wake up woozy, sometimes bruised. On Friday, he found a long scratch down his thigh. A real one. Not in his mind — bleeding.

He stopped using his own blanket, just in case.

Still, he didn’t uninstall the app.

Why?

Because he kept sleeping.

Night 5:

He dreamt he was in a courtroom.

Dark. Silent. Dozens of faceless figures watching.

He stood on trial, though no one told him why. The judge was a mirror — his own reflection, twisted with a hollow smile and eyes made of ticking clock hands.

A disembodied voice said:

"We find the dreamer... guilty. Penalty assigned."

He woke up gasping, clutching his ribs. They were black and blue. A faint, circular bruise shaped like a gavel bloomed over his chest.

The app's message was cold:

Penalty: Level 3 — Internal Impact. Fault: Insubordination. Recommendation: Comply with dream logic to avoid escalation. Rest Score: 39/100

That was the first time Evan considered deleting it.

But when he tried, the phone refused.

The app wouldn't uninstall.

The icon just shimmered, then pulsed with a brief red glow.

Almost like it was… watching.

Night 6:

He didn’t want to sleep.

But he had to.

DreamWare buzzed at 10:00 p.m. sharp.

“Bedtime approaching. Penalty risk increases with resistance.”

He locked his phone in a drawer. Poured a bottle of caffeine pills into his palm, stared at them. Didn’t take them. Couldn’t. His eyelids burned. His knees buckled.

He collapsed into bed like a corpse falling into a grave.

This time, the dream felt real. The room was identical to his own — except the walls bled. He stood over his own body. The app floated in the air like a ghost.

It said:

“You’re failing compliance, Evan. We offer better rest. But rest must be earned.”

He ran. But the walls folded. The mirror-judge appeared again, gavel cracking the air.

"Penalty increased. Wake in shame."

Morning.

His nose was broken.

Blood soaked his pillow. His jaw was swollen. His teeth loose.

He stumbled into the ER with no explanation, lying through his bloodied grin about a fall in the shower. They scanned him, asked if he was safe at home.

He said yes.

He wasn’t.

That night, he looked online for answers.

DreamWare had thousands of users. But the recent reviews were all five stars — identical five stars.

Same wording. Same phrases.

“Perfect rest. Dreams are clearer now.”

“I obeyed. The dreams stopped hurting.”

“Never uninstall. Never resist.”

He found a Reddit thread buried deep: r/SleepTerrorFiles.

One user, YardWorm42, had posted five days ago:

“The app punishes you. It learns your fears and turns them into penalties. Do NOT dream of the mirror. Don’t run. Don’t talk back. Don’t break the rules. I tried deleting it. Now I wake up with less of myself every time.”

That was the last post.

Their account had been deleted.

Night 7.

Evan broke the mirror in his bedroom before laying down. Every reflective surface — gone. He wrapped himself in aluminum foil. Taped his phone shut. Drank until he passed out.

But it didn’t matter.

In the dream, he stood naked in the courtroom again.

This time, his body was translucent. Hollow. Empty.

The judge stared at him with those spinning clock eyes. Dozens of him. Reflections on every wall. All pointing, all laughing, all accusing.

"Final penalty: Extraction."

The gavel rose.

Evan screamed, tried to run — but his feet sank into the floor like wet sand.

His reflection stepped forward, calm and cruel.

“You’ve failed your rest. Let someone else have the body now.”

The gavel fell.

Morning.

Evan woke up.

Or something like him did.

He looked the same.

But when he picked up the phone, the DreamWare app opened automatically. It smiled at him with a new message:

Welcome, user.

Body transfer complete. Dream program continues.

Compliance: 100%

Rest Score: 100/100

His reflection winked.

Now, Evan leaves glowing reviews. Just like all the others.

He’s never felt better, he says.

He sleeps like a baby.

But sometimes, just before dawn, the people around him hear screams through the walls. Not loud. Just muffled.

Like someone trapped in a dream they can’t wake up from.