"Waking Into Darkness"

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It started on a cold, silent night. My chest tightened, my breath turned shallow, and my voice faded to a whisper. Alone in my apartment, the darkness closed in until everything went black.

I thought I had died.

But I awoke in a strange forest, beneath a sickly green sky. The trees were barren, their twisted limbs like claws. The silence pressed in, heavy and unnatural. Shadows darted through the trees, whispers slithered through the air. I was being watched.

Driven by instinct, I walked. Eventually, I came to a crooked bridge over a river of black water. A pale figure in a tattered cloak waited on the other side. He silently raised his arm and pointed behind me.

I turned—and saw a monstrous creature of shadow and flame. Its voice didn’t enter through my ears but pressed into my thoughts: “You have crossed into the realm of the forgotten.”

I ran.

I sprinted through darkness until I collapsed. The earth beneath me cracked open, and I fell—through layers of time, voices, and screams—before landing hard in a new nightmare.

Now I was in a fleshy hallway with pulsing walls and flickering lights. The air reeked of rot. At the end was a door... my apartment door.

Inside, everything looked normal. But the TV screen reflected silent figures standing behind me. I turned. Nothing. Then the TV switched on.

A news anchor’s voice: “The young man who died last night was buried today. Neighbors report strange occurrences.”

My picture flashed on the screen.

I touched my face—cold. My breath left no fog. I screamed.

Then I woke up.

In my bed. Safe. Breathing. Just a dream.

Or so I thought—until I saw fingerprints outside my window. My door, which I’d locked, was ajar. A shadow shifted in the corner.

I tried to dismiss it as sleep paralysis. I even called a friend. He laughed—until he glanced into the dark corner. His expression changed instantly.

“Who lives with you now?” he whispered. “Please tell me you didn’t actually die.”

He left in a panic, refusing to explain.

That night, I didn’t sleep. The shadow moved along the walls, lights failed, my phone died. My TV showed my funeral—mourners walking past my coffin as I watched from the couch.

Again, I screamed. No one heard.

Then I woke up. Again.

Now I was on a train. The passengers sat frozen, staring forward. I asked where we were going. No one answered.

Outside the window: the same dead forest. The same crooked bridge. We were going back.

Then it clicked. Each time I “woke up,” I was still dreaming—or sinking deeper into something else. Each layer peeled reality away.

Finally, I awoke once more—in a coffin. The lid creaked open to reveal my apartment ceiling. I sat up, gasping.

And I realized the truth.

I had never really woken up.

Maybe I never would.

Or maybe…

I was still dead.

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