Oscar Sparkes
You wake up, snatched away from a dream that is already fading.
It all feels sudden, not at all what you were expecting to wake up to. The night outside is still. You slowly raise your head from the warmth of your pillow, now exposed to the cold air. All is quiet, and all is dark. No trace of a deafening toilet flush is heard, nor a heavy patter of rain beyond the walls of the house. The thin veil of light from next door is peeping its way behind the curtain, directly into your eyes. Eventually they adjust to the darkness of the bedroom, fixing on the same, bland white wall you stare at hours before drifting into sleep. Its slim cracks and chipped paintwork are just visible through the utter blackness.
You tell yourself that everything in the room was left just the way it was.
It was nothing. There is nothing and no one here.
But for reasons impossible to explain, you don’t believe that.
Some feeling prevents you from rolling over to face the door behind you. It’s as if your inner self is tugging against flesh and bone, begging not to look over your shoulder. This moment feels completely absurd, but that dominating presence behind you is undeniable.
You lay still and tighten, listening for even the faintest breath, dreading that it will touch the back of your neck and shiver down your spine. The dream becomes distant in your mind and all you can remember is a faint voice calling out. The voice was urgent, yet the words instantly perished along with their comprehension. They are confined to the realm of dreams, and all their meaning begin to drown once they float into consciousness.
After some minutes, the sensation has yet to wane. You are certain that something stares at you from across the room without a trace, only a feeling.
Like an invisible predator.
Watching you.
Studying you.
Mocking you.
You repeat to yourself it is just a figment of your imagination. But then you find yourself endlessly wandering through the doors of possibility, thinking it could be so much more than that. The sea of darkness all around you starts to flood your mind with the most troubling thoughts.
Then, you strain to remember that vague dream from which reality had torn you away. Like a conjuring from a different plane, extracted into the real world to remind you the nightmare is not over yet.
Indeed, if this is the real world.
But you tell yourself it must be real, for you can feel the sweat tracing your bare skin, and your body beginning to bake in the uncomfortable warmth beneath the covers. And yet, you remain a hostage paralysed to fear, stirred either by a strange presence or your own treacherous imagination.
You believe that the slightest flinch, the smallest of shuffles, or to even dare move your eyes away from the wall will betray you. But betrayed to what remains a mystery. The only reassurance is to break free from this darkness that cocoons you and renders your body rigid.
You attempt to visualise the scene behind you, empty of all harm. There are the shadows that wash over the large wooden wardrobe. There is the moonlight glistening off photo frames of cherished friends and family hanging from the wall. And there, in the far corner of the room, you picture your bedroom door and strain for every detail. The glossy, metal handle; its stark white paint blending with all the walls. Then you remember the crucial detail: the black overcoat hooked behind the door. You begin to remember all the wakeful nights peering at it from your bed as it loomed high above, almost shrouding the entire door with its hooded form. Because of this you could never bring yourself to ever wear it, to brace its leather gripping tightly on your shoulders as it cloaked you in its mass as dark as moonless night.
Now, the presence feels like it’s creeping up on you. The thought of something else in place of the overcoat becomes unshakable.
The image eludes you for a moment as you notice the strain of leg muscles sharpen, and that your neck is still tense. In a lasting effort, you concentrate on your breathing, in and out.
You picture the door once more and assure yourself that it will be all that awaits you from beyond the swarm of pitch-black.
But in the fleeting moments of that thought, the dream returns to you. The muffled words echo again and again until you finally recognise them.
‘Wake up!’
Oscar Sparkes is an aspiring writer and avid reader with interests in horror, Gothic and weird fiction. Originally from England, Oscar lives in South Australia where he is currently undertaking his PhD in Creative Writing at Flinders University. In 2022, he submitted a short story that was featured in an anthology, Last Call: We’re Dying for a Drink, published by Glimmer Press. Outside of reading and writing, Oscar enjoys drinking tea, tending to his cat Whiskas and being a part of the audience for the creative arts scene in Adelaide.
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