The Lake Only Exists in My Dreams

I started dreaming of the lake three weeks ago.

In the dream, it’s always twilight. The sky is bruised purple, the wind still. I stand barefoot at the edge of a lake I’ve never seen before, surrounded by thick pine trees, the air smelling faintly of smoke and algae. The water is impossibly still, like black glass, stretching wide in every direction with no shore in sight but the one I stand on.

And always, in the center of the lake, there’s a figure. Motionless. Facing away. Half-submerged.

At first, I thought it was just a dream. A weird one, sure, but not much more than a product of stress or insomnia. I was barely sleeping after the divorce, and I’d moved back into my childhood home, trying to restart something—I don’t even know what.

But then came the mornings.

The first time, I woke up to find my bedsheets damp. Not sweat—wet. My T-shirt clung to my chest, and my feet were coated in what looked like dried mud. I laughed it off. Sleepwalking, maybe? I stripped the sheets, tossed them in the wash, and told myself not to think about it.

But it kept happening.

Each night I returned to that same lake, always at dusk. And each morning, I’d wake up soaked and shivering. The air in my room smelled like wet earth and mildew. Once, I found pine needles on my pillow.

I checked my door—it was locked from the inside. The windows too. No signs I’d left the room.

And yet… I was bringing pieces of that dream back with me.

On the seventh night, the dream changed.

I wasn’t alone anymore.

I still stood at the water’s edge, but now the figure in the lake turned slightly toward me. I couldn’t make out a face—its hair was long, wet, tangled. A pale arm rose from the water and beckoned. Slow. Deliberate.

I felt myself step forward.

The mud squished under my feet. The icy water touched my toes. I screamed—except I couldn’t. I had no voice. The dream ended before I went under.

When I woke, there was water pooled beneath my bed.

Not dampness—a puddle. Clear, cold, and still rippling.

That’s when I stopped sleeping.


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I tried everything: caffeine, cold showers, white noise, sleep meds. But exhaustion has its way of winning.

I finally crashed after being awake for 48 hours.

This time, the dream skipped the lake. I woke up in the water.

I was floating, fully clothed, the sky overhead swirling with dark clouds. Something brushed past my ankle—slick and strong. I kicked toward shore, but the figure was there, blocking the way.

Its face was mine.

Mouth open, eyes empty. It reached for me.

I thrashed—and woke up screaming.

There were bruises on my ankles. Long, thin, finger-shaped bruises.

I called my doctor. They told me it sounded like sleep paralysis, a stress-related hallucination.

I called my mother. She paused when I told her about the lake.

“You’re staying in the old room, right?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

She didn’t speak for a few seconds. Then she said, “That’s where your uncle used to sleep.”

I didn’t even know she had a brother.

“He drowned,” she continued. “In a lake. We were kids. He’d walk in his sleep and talk about a girl in the water. We never found out where the lake was—just that he never came back.”


---

The next night, I dreamt again. But this time I had a plan.

I wore a GoPro to bed—strapped tight. I figured if I was sleepwalking, I’d have proof.

I watched the footage the next morning with shaking hands.

At exactly 2:17 a.m., I sat up. My eyes were open, but unfocused. I turned my head to the corner of the room and whispered, “She’s waiting.”

Then I stood. Walked slowly to the center of the room. And stopped.

Nothing happened for ten seconds.

Then… my body lifted.

Not jumped. Not climbed. Lifted, as though pulled by invisible hands. My feet hovered six inches off the floor. My head tilted back. My mouth opened.

And water poured out.

Last night was the worst.

I fell asleep without realizing. No pills. No coffee. No warning.

The lake was gone.

Now I was in the bed, in my own room.

But I wasn’t alone.

She was there.

Wet hair hanging over her face. Her breath smelled like rot and pond scum. She leaned close and whispered, “You belong to the water now.”

When I woke, my bed was dry. The window open. My clothes folded neatly on the chair across the room.

But I was soaked. Naked. Covered in pine needles and bruises.

And in the bed beside me… were wet footprints.

Leading toward the closet.

The door creaked open on its own.


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I don’t sleep anymore.

Because I know what’ll happen if I do.

She’s waiting at the lake.
Or in the bed.
Or in me.

And one night, I won’t wake up alone.