When I Died in My Dream

The story begins on a cold, gloomy night when I felt my chest tighten and my breath grow shallow. I was alone in my apartment, silence screaming around me. I tried to call for help, but my voice cracked into whispers. Darkness started to blur the edges of my vision until everything went black.

I died.

Or so I thought.

When I opened my eyes, I was lying in the middle of an unfamiliar forest. The sky above me was a sickly shade of green, and the air was heavy with an unbearable silence. The trees had no leaves, only crooked, bony branches that reached out like claws. I stood up, confused and terrified, and started walking. I didn’t know where I was, but something deep inside told me that I shouldn’t stay still.

As I walked, I noticed strange shadows moving behind the trees, too quick to fully see, but always there. I could hear whispers—soft, unintelligible words that made my skin crawl. I wasn’t alone. I was being watched.

Soon, I reached a crooked bridge hanging over a river of black water. On the other side, a figure waited for me. A tall, pale man in a torn cloak with hollow eyes. He raised his arm and pointed behind me.

I turned.

Behind me stood a massive creature—half shadow, half flame. Its voice entered my mind, not through my ears, but like a memory being inserted without permission. “You have crossed the realm of the forgotten.”

I ran. I didn’t know where I was going, but I ran until my legs gave out and I fell. The ground opened beneath me, and I fell through darkness, through centuries of whispers, through layers of screams and laughter and silence, until I hit the cold, hard ground.

I woke up in a narrow hallway. The walls pulsed like veins, and the floor was soft like flesh. Lights flickered above me. I stumbled forward, gagging from the rotten stench in the air. At the end of the hallway was a door, and behind it... my apartment.

I walked through.

Everything looked exactly as it had before I “died.” But I wasn’t alone. In the reflection of my TV screen, I saw them—figures standing silently behind me, staring, waiting. I turned quickly. Nothing.

Then the TV flickered on by itself.

A news reporter’s voice said, “The young man who died last night was buried today—neighbors report strange sightings in the area since his passing.”

My photo was on the screen.

Panic filled me. I touched my face. I was cold. My breath didn’t fog the window.

I screamed.

Then I woke up.

In my bed. Safe. Warm. Breathing.

Just a dream. I laughed, shaking. Just a horrible nightmare.

But when I looked at my window, I saw fingerprints from the outside. My door was slightly open, though I remembered locking it. And in the corner of the room...

A shadow moved.

Not everything you dream is a dream. Some dreams follow you back.

I tried to convince myself it was sleep paralysis, a leftover echo of the nightmare. But every time I blinked, the shadow seemed closer. I called a friend over, needing someone to confirm reality. He laughed when I told him the story, but when he looked into the dark corner...

His smile vanished.

"Who lives with you now?" he asked, backing toward the door. "Tell me you didn’t actually die."

He left in a rush, refusing to explain what he saw.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

The shadow crept along the walls like ink spilled in water. My lights wouldn’t turn on. My phone stopped working. Every time I looked at the TV, it played my funeral. I was sitting there, watching mourners walk past my coffin.

I screamed again. But no one heard me.

And then...

I woke up. Again.

Now I wasn’t in my room, but on a train. Everyone around me was silent, motionless, staring ahead. I asked where we were going. No one responded.

I looked out the window and saw the same forest, the same bridge. We were going back.

I began to understand. Every time I woke up, I was still dreaming. Each layer brought me closer to something real—or perhaps further away from it.

The final time I woke up, I was in the coffin. The lid creaked open slowly, and I saw my apartment ceiling. I gasped, sat up, drenched in sweat.

This time... I knew.

I had never really woken up.

I was still dreaming.

Or worse...

Still dead.