Nightmares and Memories

The day was dark. I could feel a storm approaching. The gentle sunlight glistening through the clouds, now covered by a heavy mist. Drop. Drop. Drop. The coldness of the water tinged my face. And the earth shook, as a large boom erupted from the sky followed by a light crackle. By now, I was soaked, like that night. I continued walking through the deserted streets when a large flash erupted from the sky. Oh, great lightning, today was getting better and better. A woman and her young child was running towards their car to seek shelter. The walk was a long and dreadful one, I found myself looking at the place I left 15 years ago. The house was still dark and foreboding as ever, the shutters hanging off its hinges and the roof in a state of disrepair.

The tulips were the same as I remembered a long time ago; a dark purple like the night sky, and I used to enjoy looking at them, but over time I got tired of it. The air stings my nose, but this isn’t an uncommon thing, I never was much of an outdoor person anyways. I look at my house and notice the bricks that he laid up halfway the wall, and the columns he was so proud of making all those years ago. I look at all this and it makes me sad in a way, for all the good times I’ve had in the past; I know those days will never come back. The wind picks up getting stronger, meanwhile the grass plays gently with the blades moving back and forth along with the trees as if it was a symphony of some

What was once a beautiful but small lawn with grass is now a patch of dead grass with dirt exposing itself under the grass. What was once the creaky barn doors are completely destroyed, with broken glass on the ground on the outside, leading to the inside. What was once the living room where I had spent so much time watching television and playing games with my siblings, now has its carpet completely torn up, walls indented, and closet in complete shambles with light gleaming sharply through the holes of the closet from holes that were made by vandals who never knew the true value of the humble abode that I used to reside in. My old home, since being lived in by me and my family has since been abandoned by the family that we had entrusted the house to previously. Now the house just stays there, an eerie empty shell of what it used to be. A place where I was safe and happy, now a dark and scary place that no one deserves to live in, a place that humans have indeed used well, so well that there is nothing left of what it used to be. That image of the house was the last I saw it, back in 2010, It is possible now that the house had since been destroyed, with the memories that have been carved into the walls, fireplace, windows, closets, and bedrooms, are now nothing more but a blur of destroyed objects that will one day be removed, as people pass by the home that once was will never be able to see its clarity, but instead will only be able to see the blur of colors protruding from the exterior of the house, or perhaps the brown of the barn like doors, or the patches of green still rising from the dead grass that surrounds it, until eventually, it simply disappears completely invisible to the city that used it ever so

At the front gate, there were weeds all over what used to be a garden. The door suddenly swung on its creaky hinges. Pitch black. You couldn’t see a thing in the cabin. Every couple of minutes shingles would fall off the roof. I was scared. Terrified. Then I heard creaking floorboards.

It seemed like my world was slowly ending yet everyone else’s world was pristine, clear and perfect. Mine was dark like a shadow slowly creeping upon me, it was basically apocalyptic and I could never get out of it. Everything was gloomy, unhappy really, it seemed as though I couldn’t change that fact. I couldn't make it seem beautiful, all this new revamping in the cities can't mask the fact that everything is dirty and scared. Painting something cannot cover up the cracks and dings, demolished edges. That is what I see in myself. The buildings are not actually buildings, they are my personality, they are representing me. All the demolished edges, dings and cracks are my own skin and what I do to myself. The dark of my world/life is sometimes unbearable; I haven't seen a light in my life for so long I've forgotten what it looks like and that is the saddest part about what this sickness is. Forgetting the happy things, the things that make me, me really.

A morbid melancholy stole over me. Anxiety gnawed at my heart. I was a living corpse. There was a feeling of chill in the air every day as I felt. I faked illness so as not to go to school. Despair hangs heavy in the stifling air. It was a dreary day for me , cold and without sunshine. I dread people and always avoid people. The door was locked from the inside. A cold grey light crept under the curtains. The windows were secured with locks and bars. The room felt cold and sterile.The flowers faded for want of water. A single lamp was suspended from the ceiling. The clock ticked louder and louder in a quiet room. I regarded the room as a refuge from the outside

The US National Library of Medicine defines a nightmare as, “a bad dream that brings out strong feelings of fear, terror, distress, or anxiety.” A dream, then, is a series of thoughts or images that happen during the rapid-eye movement (REM) stage of sleep. Research has shown that the biggest amount of common adult dreams are in a category known as “pseudonightmarish” dreams, which is essentially any dream of being in trouble or in danger, being alone and/or trapped, something you don’t have control over (like losing your teeth), or facing natural forces.

I just ran. Before I knew it, I was out of the trailer and walking back down the trail. That’s when the real fear set in, it’s strange how you feel so open and exposed walking on a trail. The trailer was sitting there it looked almost evil. I turned a corner and it disappeared out of sight. But the feeling of being followed remained. The trail was almost a trench carved in along a steep hill one side it sloped down and you could see a small pond. I began to visualize what could've happened. The different ways it could’ve ended. I wanted to go back and see if someone was really there, but I knew that would be a waste of time. I summed it up in my head as the wind pushing the door open. I still constantly turned back, looking over my shoulder to see if there was some truth to what I thought, if something was actually following me. It was a windy day out and as the wind the blew the trees would creak and crack. Branches fell off and slammed on the ground crashing down and taking other branches with it. The sound was amplified through the quiet and almost sleeping woods. It was strange, there were no animals, no squirrels or chipmunks. The woods were dead. I was still looking over my shoulder every now and again, still startled by what I had experienced. The walk took way longer than it should’ve. It felt like the seconds were minutes and no matter how fast I walked I couldn't keep up with the pace in my mind.

I heard a feminine voice call out to me as I blazed out the front door. "Good morning Amber! Oh, where are you--" I cut her off with a sharp slam. I couldn't look back. With each step towards my car, I inhale painful sobs of air. I feel as if I don't know who I am, as if I was that 18 year old girl hearing the news of his death for the first time. I couldn't think of the name that belongs to me, or any one else but my father. Any face my subconscious offers had the resonance of a total stranger, then was replaced with the haunting image of

When you wonder at night the door will shriek across the moldy floor. The shutters will open and close, and open and close. OPEN HOUSE, there is a new house on the market. One that has lots of character. One with exterior that is crinkling and washing away. With blood of the last calling your name. The front porch is caved in like someone was murdered just before coming in. The lawn not mowed. When you get to the rough and cracked concrete you would enter but you can’t the black shadow that passed the door faster than i light. the blood marks on the rails down to the deck and on to the door handle. Now it's your turn, when the deep wail of the wind carried with dirt gets in your eye now you start to cry. this is not a place for children no no sir this is for all those who don't believe

I looked up at the black sky. I hadn't intended to be out this late. The sun had set, and the empty road ahead had no streetlights. I knew I was in for a dark journey home. I had decided that by traveling through the forest would be the quickest way home. Minutes passed, yet it seemed like hours and days. The farther I traveled into the forest, the darker it seemed to get. I was very had to even take a breath due to the stifling air. The only sound familiar to me was the quickening beat of my own heart, which felt as though it was about to come through my chest. I began to whistled to take my mind off the eerie noises I was hearing. In this kind of darkness I was in, it was hard for me to believe that I could be

The snow had finally began to fall in our quaint little neighborhood, I could see my own breath each time I exhaled. I would spend most of the winter days playing in the snow with my friends. During the winter, each day was routine for the most part: wake up, get dressed, eat breakfast and stroll around the neighborhood. Although, during my walks, I would get a cold glare from my neighbor, Mr. Hansen, every time I passed his house. His face was wrinkled, and his hair was grey and withered like a decayed flower. He looked shocked each time I saw him, as if I had done something terrible to him. To my recollection, I had never even uttered a word to him before. Perhaps his old age was the cause of his scornful glares. In fact, he would look at everyone the same way. Some of the local women would try to greet him with a smile, but he would just remain silent on his porch sitting in his eroded old rocking chair. The whole neighborhood judged him for his distasteful expression. Rumors about Mr. Hansen being some kind of lunatic began spreading amongst the neighborhood kids. I remember I would get chills down my back each time I imagined the look on his face. He was a phantom, haunting the neighborhood with his unsettling aura.

I took a deep breath before I opened the car door and stepped out. The too perky social worker in a too colorful pantsuit walked out from the driver side of the car and immediately strode towards me. She gave me a sickening sweet grin before walking forward onto the porch of the puke-green house. Are they trying to force me to call this house my home? I knew the truth, though; my home was back in Florida, not here in this Texan dump. Florida held my childhood memories, my friends, and my parents. Well, had held my parents. Now, Florida only housed their gravestones. It was still such a strange thought to think. My therapist told me that I was still in shock and that their deaths hadn’t settled with me yet. Lately, I tried not to think about them, but it was inevitable. I was soon torn out of my thoughts by an extremely high pitched voice.

It was early one summer afternoon, shortly after lunchtime, when I heard my mom scramble towards the door. There was little noise, besides her loud stomps and faint cries through the drywall. The wind whistled faintly through my slightly open windows. Suddenly, the air conditioning kicked in startling me. It sounded as if it was a faint boat in the distance. I could make out the sound of the air conditioning through my vents. My brother’s television powered on, as well as my dad’s. They whispered silently through the insulation. Eventually, it all turned off and once again there was my mom’s loud stomps and faint cries.

Once it was a rainy, stormy, just all in all a dreadful day, and Bellamin was loving it. They couldn 't believe how much the dreary outside had made the once dreary inside of they 're resting place so much nicer. They could hear the rain splatter on the ground above them, and the frogs chirping in the creek a few blocks over. Bellamin loved this moment, as they loved every moment, as they loved every moment since they had become awakened. That was a moment they could not remember however; it was more like the sleepy crawl of your own memories starting at some non existent but totally real point some time in your toddler years. And Bellamin knew as much as a toddler waking from a slumber would know, that they had to get up. And so they