Digital Art Music from Pixabay

Fantastic Aural Sensations #1

A tale of viral maniac covetous leading to terrifying possession.

Screaming, screaming in my head. Burning, pinching fills my mind in ripping torture, tears me from the sheets, drenches my bedding with sweat. The night is wasted.

Screaming In My Head by Gregory Prince

Flames devouring my soul, scratching out my eyes, and pricking at the saneness I believe is still a part of me.

Head against the pillow. Eyes open. I’m deaf or in some kind of haze except for a hushed monotonous tone irritating and whining and distant yet right next to me.

The dream suddenly flashes before me as I close my eyes attempting to block the world out and fall back into a few moments of rest before the day begins. Cruelty and shivering anticipation fill the atmosphere. I see an unspeakable latent fear crawling toward me.

The shape is forming. It’s human and alive but only clinging to it’s last flirting with a spark of animation. Covered in blood and clear cut in slashes the body slithers in a crawl, head down inching its path in my direction.

We’re in a field of weeds, anthills, and small daffodils. The darkness of night is fleeing. Sunrise is just beginning to spew its brightness over the horizon.

The anonymous crawling cut body has a knife buried in the back of its skull. I notice the blade catching a glimpse of morning light on its edge. Bloody fingerprints are stamped on the knife’s handle.

Closer, closer, closer.

My breath is shallow and fast. Feeling the confines of this dream I want to wake but the gravity of my rest will not allow me to exit and escape. Looking down shocks my senses.

My hands are stained in dried brown and dark muddy red.

The crawling body is only steps away from me and I am frozen unable to move in my sleep bubble. The head is quivering and it looks up at me. The tip of the blade of serrated polished steel pushes through its skull and nose as the knife’s handle pushes against the body’s shoulders.

Knife Blade Sharp Arm from Pixabay

I do not know the dying person looking at me but the eyes glare at me in question. My mind is screaming, “Why?” and “Who?” Something about its eyes is attractive and comforting.

The body is unrecognizable and sexless. I have no point of context to give me a reason for this image or the horror.

Still, the monotonous beeping and shrieking behind the fantastical. It’s a maddening soundtrack. Gives the scenery a tense and irrational unreachable itch.

Aggravation with the sound is building. Crawling death is beginning to bore and the vaguery of the murder scene is running away with my interest. Have to get to work.

I jolt awake like my reality fell off the face of a thousand-foot-high cliff. My damn phone alarm’s incessant dinging has me in small rage. I want to just smash it to stop the tones like one of those old Flinstone alarm clocks but paying another $800 for a phone is not in my budget.

I press the volume button and the alarm stops. This phone can be so annoying. I don’t remember what made me think I had to have this model.

Julie calls to me from the kitchen, “ You know… I’m not making you breakfast. Your turn.”

“Whatever”

“Wife duties don’t exist anymore asshole.”

“Can you at least pour me a cup of coffee?”

“What’s wrong with your hands and legs? They don’t look broke to me.”

“Fine.”

Julie laughs at my last reluctant reply. Then she says in a concerned tone, “I think you might need to see a doctor. Blood on the pillow from last night.”

I glance down at the pillow and the sight is subtly stabbing me like the worst migraine headache.

Blood is on the edge of the pillow and it’s wrapped around the side with very faint curved lines imprinted in a palm shape. One distinct smudge of a sepia fingerprint stained the pillowcase above the curve of the palm.

My dream has faded from my thoughts and it’s memory in a cloud. I must have wiped my nose with my hand again. Hopefully, the stain will come out with bleach in the wash.

Hand Murder Cold from Pixabay

Join me for more episodes in this tale of horror and intrigue.

Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.

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