Dream kill

Every night, Michael dreams the future. Not vague symbols or half-glimpsed omens—full events, clear as waking life. Sometimes he sees trivial things: a cat jumping onto a car, a couple arguing in a grocery aisle. Other times, he sees moments that change lives—accidents, arguments, even births. He writes them down in a weathered leather journal, each page dated, cross-checked when the moment comes to pass.

At first, he kept it secret. Who would believe him? But after accurately predicting an earthquake in Kyoto, he confided in his sister, Lena, a local reporter. She thought he was losing his mind—until the photos from his journal matched the aftermath perfectly.

Then the dreams started changing.

It began with a girl in a red coat, no older than seven, feeding pigeons in the park. He dreamed it Tuesday night. On Wednesday morning, he visited the park to confirm. She never came.

Thursday night, he dreamed of a jogger collapsing from a heart attack on 6th Avenue. But when he went there Friday morning, police tape blocked the sidewalk. The jogger was found—stabbed.

Michael stood frozen, the blood in his veins like ice.

Something, or someone, was altering the ful

By the second week, it was no longer an isolated glitch. Every dream he had—every face he saw—ended up dead.

Not by chance. Not by accident. Murdered.

He reported it, tried to explain to the police, but the story sounded like nonsense. The detective, a grizzled man named Rourke, humored him until he mentioned the girl in the red coat. Then Rourke’s expression hardened—she was his niece.

"Leave this to us," Rourke muttered, walking away with haunted eyes.

Michael stopped sleeping.

But the dreams came anyway, slipping in through five-minute naps, dozing off in taxis, involuntary eyelid flickers. Every time, another face. Another death.

Lena begged him to leave town. “You’re not safe here,” she said.

“I’m not the one dying,” he whispered.

Then came the nightmare that changed everything.

He saw himself.

Standing in his apartment, hands covered in blood. A body at his feet—Lena.

He woke up screaming.

He tried to call her. No answer.

He ran.

Her apartment door was ajar. Inside, overturned furniture. Blood on the floor.

But no body.

A note, taped to the mirror.

"You see them die. But you never see the killer. Why is that?"

Michael staggered back. He never did see the killer. Just the victims, alone, in the moments before death.

He returned home, desperate to sleep, to dream, to understand. The nightmare came fast—too fast.

This time, he stood in a room filled with old TVs. Static crackled on the screens, and in every one, a version of him watched helplessly as someone died. But in the corner of one screen—finally—he saw the reflection of the killer.

His own face.

But older. Smiling.

He woke in a cold sweat, and the truth hit him like a punch to the gut.

It wasn’t someone changing the future.

It was him.

Or some version of him. A fractured piece of his mind? A future self gone rogue? A twin from another timeline? He didn’t know.

But the killer was inside him.

Now, Michael writes this in his journal—the last page he’ll ever need.

Because tonight, he dreams again.

This time, he dreams of stopping it. Of changing his future.

Of killing the part of him that kills.

He places the journal on his desk.

Grabs the knife from the drawer.

Walks to the mirror.

And waits to see what dream comes next.