The Mask Beneath

I had a nightmare.

It was of me waking up in a house. Not my house—this place had too many shadows, too much silence. The air was thick, like the breath of something waiting just beyond the walls.

I sat up in bed. The sheets were damp with sweat. My chest tightened. Something was wrong.

The lights didn’t work. Figures. The only glow came from a dim streetlamp outside, barely shining through cracked blinds. I stepped onto the hardwood floor, and it groaned beneath me like it didn’t want me there. That’s when I heard it—

CRACK!

BOOM!

The front door shattered. Wood splintered like bone.

And standing in the ruins of the frame—towering, silent, breathing like an animal—was him.

Not a man. Not really. Something shaped like one. Masked like Jason. Body heavy with menace, holding an ax that still dripped from something it had already found.

I didn’t scream. I moved.

Keys. Phone. Charged at 87%. Good enough.

Watch. Wallet.

I grabbed everything with precision—like I’d done it before.

There was no time to think. I sprinted across the hall into the living room. I flipped a table. Barricaded a window. Shoved a chair under the doorknob of the kitchen door. My hands moved like muscle memory. I knew where every drawer was, every creaky floorboard, every loose panel.

It felt like I’d run this maze before.

I dashed to the front closet and yanked out my favorite sneakers—the black and purple ones, the ones with the little goose on the side, wearing a cape and tiny sunglasses. My superhero goose. I jammed my feet into them like armor.

And then I ran.

The back door was jammed. I shoved my weight into it—twice—then again. It cracked open an inch. The ax hit the floor behind me with a sickening thunk. I spun.

…He was there.

Closer

How had he moved that fast?

I ducked into the side hallway and knocked over a shelf. Books fell. A lamp shattered.

I kept moving. Up the stairs. Bad choice—I knew it. But instinct overruled logic. Every stair I took felt familiar. Too familiar.

Each breath came faster. My heartbeat roared in my ears.

I slammed the bedroom door shut behind me. Locked it. Barricaded it.

Then I stopped.

Breathing. Listening.

Nothing.

Just the slow tap… tap… tap… of footsteps below.

Then a voice. Not from outside the door.

From inside the room.

“You always run.”

I turned.

The closet door creaked open.

And out stepped—me.

Younger. Shaky. Terrified. Drenched in sweat.

“I’ve done this before,” he said. “You left me here.”

“No,” I whispered, backing into the wall. “That’s not possible.”

“I died here. That night. You buried me. You grew up. Forgot. But I remember.”

Suddenly, it all clicked.

The traps. The layout. The goose sneakers.

The nightmare wasn’t new.

It was remembered.

Flashes hit me like lightning—Phoebe Halliwell, running through a house on Charmed, breathless, panicked. Shadows chasing her. She ran and ran, only to realize the truth—

She was running from herself.

…And so was I.

The killer’s footsteps were closer now. Almost melodic.

“I didn’t kill you,” I whispered to my younger self. “I became you.”

The door exploded open. Splinters flew like daggers. The figure in the mask stepped forward. Towering. Silent.

I didn’t run.

I stepped toward him.

I peeled the mask off.

And there I was again—older. Angry. Afraid. Eyes sunken from too many nights like this. From hiding. From avoiding what hurt. From avoiding me.

I understood then.

This wasn’t about surviving a killer.

It was about facing the parts of myself I locked away in the dark. The fear. The failure. The guilt. The version of me who never got to grow.

I looked back at the younger me. He was smiling now. Free.

And I?

I woke up.

Breathless.

Alive!

And for the first time in a long time,

I wasn’t running anymore.