Lucid
(You chose: Paranormal Horror)
Part 1: Look at Your Hands
“Dreams are neurological maintenance. Nothing mystical. Just chemistry.”
You pace in front of 150 students.
“The brain creates meaning out of stray neural activity. That’s why dreams feel like stories. That’s why they’re bizarre.”
You teach a course called Perception and Constructed Reality at one of the best colleges in the state. Every semester you explain how the brain builds reality from fragments. How memory fills gaps. How certainty is often manufactured.
You believe that.
You have to.
Six months ago your divorce was finalized. The apartment is quiet now. You fill the hours with grading, lectures, research. Your colleagues call you disciplined. Your ex called you emotionally unavailable… a workaholic.
The headaches started in late fall. A constant pressure behind your eyes. Therapy doesn’t fix it. Coffee doesn’t touch it.
Hell, you’ve even tried the sleep meds.
The bourbon neat with colleagues at happy hour.
The one-night stands that feel transactional and leave before sunrise.
Nothing works.
The Chinese restaurant two blocks from your place has become routine. you’d even say it’s a highlight of your day.
You just can’t get enough of their General Tso’s.
You don’t have many friends, but the owner here has always felt like one. He never seems to stop smiling. You like that about him.
The first time he says it, you nearly laugh.
“You look very tired,” he tells you. His voice is concerned, but still smiling. “Clinic next door. Acupuncture. Good for sleep. Good for the running mind.”
You laugh. “I’m a scientist.”
He nods. “Then treat it like experiment.”
He gestures to next door, “I tell them you will stop by tomorrow.”
⸻
Two nights later you’re having tea with Simone.
Simone and Fred live next door. Retired. Kind. They check on you without making it obvious.
“You’re thinner,” Simone says.
“Work,” you reply.
“Work doesn’t hollow out your eyes.”
You half change the subject, “You know I had this real smart ass in my lecture the other day. Trying to tell me that what I’m teaching isn’t accurate, because they have experienced lucid dreaming before.”
“Lucid what?”
“Well, essentially it’s this idea that you can evoke awareness during REM sleep and actually control your dreams. Do whatever you want in them. They even claimed they’ve visited real places… even other worlds in that state.”
Simone laughs to herself, “Honey, you know I have a hard enough time controlling Fred. Why would I try to control my dreams?”
But she’s curious. “Are you saying this because you think it could help?”
“I’m saying this because at this point I’m willing to try anything just to get a good night’s sleep… and to stop having these headaches.”
You take a moment to think about last night after work - the acupuncture clinic.
You almost left. The smell of sesame oil drifting in from next door nearly convinced you to grab dinner instead.
Then a woman stepped through the dangling beads.
“Ah, the one who can’t sleep,” she said, not looking at you. “Tonight, look at your hands in your dream. Come back when you can see them clearly.”
She shuffled back through the beads.
“And leave fifty dollars.”
You thought there would be weird needles involved.
You shake your head at the memory and look up at Simone.
“The technique to start seems simple,” you say. “Find your hands in the dream. Count your fingers. If you can do that and they look normal, you’re lucid.”
Simone stirs her tea. Studies you longer than necessary.
“Uh huh. I just say, be careful what you try to control.”
You shrug.
“I have nothing to lose at this point.”
⸻
That night you decide to test it.
You lie in bed and repeat the phrase silently:
When I’m dreaming, I will look at my hands.
Sleep comes faster than usual.
Then—
You’re standing in a hallway.
It isn’t your hallway. There is a sort of dated flower wallpaper on either side of you. Some picture frames you can’t really make out. Oddly familiar.
The air smells faintly metallic. The floor is smooth beneath your bare feet. There’s a door at the end.
You don’t panic.
You remember.
You lift your hands.
Ten fingers. They look normal.
You feel a small surge of satisfaction combined with disbelief.
Lucid.
The hallway doesn’t distort. It doesn’t flicker. It remains stable. Quiet. Waiting.
You attempt to take one step toward the door.
You wake up.
⸻
The next morning, the headache is gone.
Not reduced. Completely gone.
Your lecture flows effortlessly. You don’t need caffeine. You don’t need Advil.
You pull the smartass student aside and whisper, “You might be onto something with that lucid dreaming nonsense.”
They laugh. “Good one, Professor Gray.”
Later, alone in your office, you have second thoughts.
You tell yourself it’s deeper REM sleep. Placebo. Stress reduction.
But you’re willing to try again that night.
Just to be sure.
⸻
You are back in the hallway.
Same stupid wallpaper. Same metallic air. Same door.
Recognition settles in your chest.
You lift your hands.
Normal.
You turn them over.
Dirt is packed beneath your nails.
Dark. Embedded deep.
You scrape one nail with your thumb.
The dirt flakes off.
The hallway feels darker than the night before. There is an ambient light present, but you don’t really know from where. You stare forward at the door.
Something shifts behind it.
A shadow. A… pressure.
Then you hear a loud POP right in your ears.
You jolt awake.
Your ceiling swims into focus.
For a moment you can’t move. Your eyes are open but your body won’t respond.
Weight presses down on you.
Sleep paralysis. Explainable.
You calm yourself. Feel like you’re floating above your body.
One. Two. Three. You yell at yourself internally to wake up!
You hate that feeling. You hate when this happens.
After a few minutes you’re able to sit up slowly.
Your hands rest on top of the blanket.
You exhale.
You walk to the bathroom to get some water.
Turn on the light.
Start the faucet.
Look down.
There is dirt under your nails.
Not faint.
Not imagined.
Real.
End of Part I.
***
(You chose: Decide to try again tonight. This time, you’re opening the door)
Part II – The Door
You find yourself a bit freaked out after finding the dirt underneath your nails last night.
Part of you feels like you might have imagined it.
But you still see some of the dirt under the corner of your ring finger.
If this is a phenomenon, it can be measured. Repeated. Observed.
You spend the day almost calm.
No headache. No pressure behind your eyes.
Tonight you’re opening the door.
On your way into your apartment building, you run into Fred.
“Oh well, look who it is! Dr. Alice Gray… you talk any sense into those young minds today?”
You laugh. “Well, it seems the tables have turned. They may have talked some sense into me!”
“Be careful, Doc… we need you out there. Don’t forget to check in on the missus before you call it a night. I’m headed around the corner to pick up her favorite.”
“You have a good night, Fred.”
He tips his fedora hat to you on the way out.
The truth is you have a lot on your mind. You’re not really in a mood to chat. It’s really that you’re not ready…. There is more to understand.
You decide to walk by Fred and Simone’s place.
You can check in with her tomorrow.
⸻
You lie in bed and repeat the phrase again.
When I’m dreaming, I will look at my hands.
Sleep comes quickly now. Almost too quickly.
You’re standing in the hallway.
Same flower wallpaper. Same picture frames. Same faint metallic air.
The door at the end feels closer this time.
You lift your hands.
Ten fingers.
Clear.
Lucid.
You remind yourself… this is an experiment.
You take one step forward.
At first, there is this feeling of vertigo.
As if you were stepping onto a ship with high swells.
Another step.
The wallpaper looks worse now.
Not peeling. Just… older.
The pattern faintly water-stained, like something once seeped through it.
You didn’t notice that before.
The frames on the wall are still blurred.
You lean closer to one trying to make it out.
The glass reflects you.
But not exactly… almost like a different you.
Your hair is pulled back. Your face looks thinner. As if you haven’t slept or eaten in days.
A knock in front of you grabs your attention back towards the door.
You’re hesitant at first, but keep moving. Nothing can hurt you here.
The color of the walls comes into focus. Faded blue flowers. You find something comforting about them.
The air grows heavier near the door.
There’s no handle.
You hadn’t noticed that before.
Just a flat surface. Painted white. Slightly uneven.
You hold your hand briefly over the crack of the door.
It feels like a cool breeze.
You push your hand against it.
It doesn’t swing open.
It gives.
Slowly.
As if something on the other side is pushing back.
The door cracks an inch.
The metallic smell intensifies.
You widen the gap.
Beyond the door—
It’s dark.
You hear something.
Breathing.
Scraping.
An animal maybe?
You remind yourself: auditory hallucinations are common in dream states.
You open the door wider.
There’s a shape in the darkness.
Kneeling.
Hands in the dirt.
Digging frantically.
Your stomach drops.
You cross the threshold of the doorframe.
Suddenly the floor changes beneath your feet. No longer smooth. Uneven. Packed earth.
You look around you.
The wallpaper is gone.
The frames are gone.
There’s no hallway.
There’s just soil.
You’re outside.
You look down.
Wet dirt now covers your hands and arms.
You don’t remember kneeling.
You don’t remember digging.
You don’t remember—
The shape in front of you stops moving.
Long straggly hair covers its face.
It heard you.
All you hear right now is its rapid breath in the dim light…
Your pulse in your chest rising into your ears.
You hold your breath for a moment.
Trying to pretend you don’t exist.
Slowly, it turns its head towards you.
It’s
you.
Emaciated like the reflection.
This version is wearing medical scrubs.
Dark stains dance in the darkness on the sleeves.
Your double looks at you like you’re the intruder.
Her lips crack as they part.
Soil spills from her mouth.
“You came back… killer,” she says.
She leaps towards you galloping on all fours like a rabid dog.
Dirt shooting up around her.
Then she stands.
You scream yourself awake.
⸻
Still screaming as you sit up and gasp for air.
Heart pounding.
You throw the covers back and stumble to the bathroom.
Slam the door behind you.
And turn on the light.
Look at your hands.
Dirt covers both hands and arms.
The vertigo feeling from the hallway returns.
The floor beneath you feels as though it’s swallowing your feet.
Strong.
You run to the toilet and throw up.
You yell at yourself, “Alice, what the fuck is going on with you?” And let out a small sob.
You feel exhausted. Drained.
You fall back against the bathtub. Hands on your head.
You look down at your hands. Making sure the dirt is still there.
It is. Everywhere.
You stumble to your feet to wash your hands.
You lean closer to the mirror.
Letting your eyes focus on your reflection from the light change.
Everything softly comes into focus.
Wait.
You’re wearing scrubs.
knock, knock, knock
You jump. Someone is on the other side of the door.
A man speaks, “Mara, what’s going on? Everything ok?”
End of Part II
***
Part III – The Threshold
(You chose: Open the door. Confront the voice.)
The knocking comes again.
Harder this time.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Mara.”
You wonder for a moment if it’s even real.
You must be still dreaming.
You stare at the door.
You know what you heard.
You know what he said.
Who is Mara?
You reach for the handle.
Pause.
Breathe.
This IS real.
You open the door.
—
No one is there.
The bedroom is empty.
The lights and sounds of the city dance over your bed sheets.
The anxiety creeps up from your stomach.
You step forward slightly, leaning into the bedroom.
Nothing.
You swallow and your voice cracks out a subtle, “Hello?”
Silence.
You close the door to collect yourself.
The click echoes louder than it should.
You stand there for a moment.
Listening.
Nothing.
You exhale.
You look at your hands again wondering if you’re still dreaming.
Nothing there. Nothing in the sink.
A small laugh escapes you… sharp, brittle.
“Okay… okay.”
Explainable.
Auditory misfire. Stress. Residual dream state.
You turn back toward the mirror—
BANG.
The door shakes in its frame.
You freeze.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
“Mara!”
It’s him!
Closer this time.
You feel your heart begin to race.
The adrenaline silencing the noise resonating in your ears.
You don’t move right away.
Because now…
Now you’re not sure which version is worse.
You step toward the door again.
Slowly.
Carefully.
You reach for the handle.
Open it.
—
He’s… there.
Breathing hard.
Eyes searching your face.
He looks worried.
Scared even.
“Mara—what the hell is going on? I heard you screaming.”
Your throat goes dry.
He’s real.
He has weight. Presence.
You can feel it.
You nod slightly.
“I… I’m fine.”
The lie comes too quickly.
A part of you feels comfortable with him.
It surprises you.
He studies you.
Not convinced.
“You don’t look fine.”
His eyes drop.
To your hands.
You follow his gaze.
Still clean.
No dirt.
No blood.
Nothing.
Your stomach twists.
It’s probably best you play along.
He looks back up.
“You hit your head again?”
Does he know something?
“What?”
He exhales, reaches out and runs a hand through your hair.
You don’t resist the contact.
Again, it feels natural.
“Mara… you’ve been doing this. The sleepwalking. The confusion. Calling yourself—”
He stops.
Your pulse begins to spike again.
As if your own body knows something you don’t.
“Calling myself what?”
He hesitates.
You can see the moment he decides whether to say it.
“…Alice.”
You immediately feel sick to your stomach.
You take yourself to sit onto the edge of the bed.
He watches you carefully.
“Mara, talk to me… please.”
You hear a scuffle in the hallway and shoot up to your feet.
“What was that?”
He responds like it’s nothing, “Oh, that’s probably just Digger.”
“Digger? What is that?”
His face drops with concern, “You’re joking, right?”
You can’t find it in you to lie.
“You’re not joking. You’re scaring me, Mara. Digger is our dog!”
He’s joking right?
This HAS to be a dream.
“This is a joke, right? A dream?”
“I think you’ve just been working too many long hours at the hospital. I told you that it isn’t healthy after what happened.”
A sharp pain hits you right between the eyes.
Excruciating pain.
Then the flashes start.
The rain.
The dirt.
The scraping sound resonating in your ears.
You hold your head.
Nearly shaking.
He tries to comfort you.
“Mara, just calm down! I can help you!”
No.
You need to get away!
You stumble into the hallway.
There it is.
The blue flowered wallpaper.
But it’s missing the door.
You NEED the door.
You turn back to him.
“Where’s the door! Tell me where the door is!”
He has tears in his eyes.
You can tell he feels helpless.
Something slowly starts to emerge from the darkness behind him.
In the corner of the room.
That thing.
The straggly creature from the dream.
It opens its mouth.
Dirt pours out… again.
Wet hair drips what looks like blood onto the carpet.
You reach out with your hand towards him and open your mouth to speak… to help.
Nothing will come out.
It takes a step closer and whispers… “Killer…”
End of Part III
***
Part IV – The Fracture
(You chose: Rush toward him—trying to pull him away from whatever is behind him.)
You don’t think.
You move.
Your hand grabs his shirt, pulling him toward you.
“Come on. Move.”
He stumbles forward, caught off guard.
“Mara, what are you doing?”
“Just move.”
You don’t look behind him.
You don’t want to.
But you feel that THING standing there.
Closer now.
Watching.
Your grip tightens.
He’s warm.
Solid.
Real.
For a second, everything feels calm.
Your breathing slows.
You find comfort in this human.
You try to keep your head down.
You don’t want to make the figment real.
But then, something touches you.
Cold.
Your body locks.
You slowly lift your eyes.
It’s the entity.
No, it’s your hand.
Mud packed beneath your nails.
Blood smeared across your skin.
Your vision pulls inward.
Like something is pulling you apart.
A wormhole forms in your mind’s eye sucking you into another place.
Parallel to this moment.
Suddenly, you’re standing beside a hospital bed.
The lighting is softer. Early morning.
You know this is pre-op.
The woman lying there looks up at you, searching your face.
“I don’t want to die.”
You feel the words in your soul.
A gut punch.
A responsibility to her.
You step closer without thinking.
You’ve done this hundreds of times.
You know exactly what to say.
“You’re not going to,” you say gently. “You’re going to be dancing at your daughter’s wedding this fall before you know it.”
The woman studies you, trying to believe you.
A voice comes from your right.
Warm. Familiar.
“She’s right.”
You turn slightly.
Simone.
You know her immediately.
Not from memory.
From instinct. From repetition.
Not your neighbor.
Simone here is your nurse.
Was she ever your neighbor?
She’s adjusting the blanket, efficient but gentle.
“You’re in the best hands we’ve got,” Simone says to the patient.
She glances at you with a small smile.
“Don’t let her fool you though. I’m the one who keeps her on track.”
The patient lets out a faint breath that almost becomes a laugh.
Simone leans in slightly, softer now.
“We’ve got you. I promise.”
You feel it.
The shift within your patient.
Fear settling just enough.
You nod to Simone.
“Let’s get her ready.”
The room transitions.
Fades.
You’re already moving.
Bright light floods your vision.
The operating room.
Everything is sharper here.
Louder and focused.
“Clamp,” you hear yourself say.
The nurse places it in your hand immediately.
“Vitals are a little unstable,” she says quietly.
You don’t react.
You’ve seen worse.
You can correct this.
You always do.
“Let’s proceed.”
Your hands move with precision.
This is where you don’t make mistakes.
But something feels off.
You don’t have time to pay attention to it.
But you’ve been ignoring it for some time now.
The headaches. The exhaustion. The feeling of being lost.
Your hand pauses.
Just briefly.
“Doctor, her pressure is dropping.”
“I see it.”
You adjust.
You commit.
You move forward.
The monitor spikes.
Then drops.
Fast.
“BP crashing.”
“Loss of signal.”
“Dr. Morton!”
“No. No, I’ve got it.”
Your hands move faster now.
Trying to fix it.
Trying to correct.
“Suction. Now.”
“Doctor, we’re losing her.”
“I’ve got it.”
You don’t.
You can feel you messed up.
“I’ve got it.”
The room starts to narrow.
The sound dulls.
Like you’re underwater.
The beep. The silence. Flood your ears all at once.
“Time of death—”
“No—Not until I call it!”
You don’t stop.
You keep going.
Because stopping means you were wrong.
Because stopping means she was right to be afraid.
“Mara! Look at me.”
The world snaps.
What you’ve been holding onto isn’t real.
Suddenly, you’re back in the bedroom.
Your hands are still gripping him.
They’re shaking.
His face is right in front of you.
Terrified.
“What is happening to you?”
Your head throbs.
You pull your hand back.
Blood.
Behind him, in the corner of the room, the figure stands.
Closer now.
Still.
Watching.
Its head tilts slightly.
Like it knows you finally see it.
You open your mouth. It mirrors you.
In that moment, both you and your creature-self utter the words, “you promised.”
Your stomach drops.
Not because of the words.
Because you know they’re true.
Rain flashes in your mind.
Dirt under your nails.
Your hands digging into the ground.
Again.
Again.
Again.
You weren’t trying to bury something.
You were trying to undo it.
You were trying to fix what you couldn’t fix.
And you never stopped.
You notice he is looking at your hands.
You look down.
Dirt. Blood.
It’s there.
It’s real.
“Mara…”
His voice is different now.
You look up.
He’s backing away.
“Mara, where did that dirt come from?”
He looks at you like the monster you feel you are.
“And that blood—Mara, why is there blood all over your hands?”
There is no coming back from this moment.
You know it’s there.
You know this version is real.
You know now what happened.
And it’s your fault.
End of Part IV
Part V: The Truth
(You chose: Confront the truth. You demand to know what happened in the operating room.)
You don’t move.
You don’t run.
That THING still standing behind him.
The alternate you that you can’t ignore.
You stare at him.
“Tell me what happened.”
He shakes his head slightly.
“Mara… they told you not to go back there.”
“What happened,” you repeat.
His eyes move back down to your hands.
The blood.
The dirt pressed deep into your skin.
“You were put on leave,” he says carefully almost in a trance-like state, “after the surgery.”
The images flood your mind.
“What surgery.”
You need to hear him say it out loud.
He stares at you now.
“…You don’t remember?”
You take a step toward him.
“I remember enough.”
Silence stretches between you.
“They investigated it,” he continues. “The hospital cleared you. It wasn’t negligence. They said it wasn’t your fault.”
You feel your heart sink into your stomach.
It’s time to say it.
“No,” you say quietly.
Because you remember.
Not everything.
But enough.
The hesitation in your hand.
The sleepless nights.
You were the very definition of burnt out.
Performing an operation that should have been routine.
You close your eyes for half a second.
“I remember the moment.”
You look over his shoulder.
It’s still staring at you.
Waiting.
He exhales, running a hand through his hair.
“Mara… you haven’t been sleeping. You keep leaving in the middle of the night. We find you outside… digging.” He hesitates. “This is the first time I’ve seen you come back with blood on your hands.”
Your eyes drop to your hands.
You already knew that.
“You say her name sometimes,” he adds.
This must be a dream.
This is too surreal.
“What name.”
He looks at you softly.
Like saying it might break something inside of you.
“Alice.”
Alice.
You feel like you’re going to be sick.
The hospital bed.
The fear in her eyes.
I don’t want to die.
Your patient.
You see it all now.
“You promised her,” he says quietly, “you repeat it in your sleep sometimes.”
You swallow hard.
“Because I told her she’d be fine. I know what I did.”
“They said it wasn’t your fault,” he repeats.
You shake your head.
Slow.
“No. That’s the problem, it was.”
Because you felt it.
That shift.
That last-second decision.
The guilt and the pain start to consume your insides.
Crawling inside you with nowhere to go.
Suddenly, that something moves behind him.
You catch it out of your peripheral vision.
You don’t look right away.
You don’t want to.
But you feel it.
Closer now.
Clearer.
“Mara…”
His voice changes.
He steps back slightly and turns towards the creature.
“What is that?”
Your eyes lift.
It’s not hidden anymore.
He now SEES it!
It’s not a shadow.
Not a suggestion.
Not a figment.
It stands there.
Watching you.
Waiting.
Its head tilts.
You realize—
It isn’t just watching you.
It’s been waiting for you to understand.
Your body shakes.
You know what it wants.
“No…” you state firmly as though you can command it.
It moves.
Fast.
He grabs you, pulling you back.
“Get behind me—!”
It lashes out.
A sharp, violent motion—
Swiping him right across his chest.
He’s thrown.
His body slams into the wall with a sickening force.
You don’t scream.
You run.
(Again.)
Time slows down.
As you exit the room, the hallway stretches before you.
Blue flowers blur along the wallpaper as you move.
Your feet barely touch the ground.
You’ve been here.
You know you have.
The door.
It wasn’t there before.
But it is now.
It always was.
You reach for it.
Your hand shaking.
You don’t hesitate.
You open it—
It lunges.
Grabbing your foot pulling you back from the door frame.
You latch on with your hands trying to propel yourself forward.
You scream, “Let me go!”
It releases you.
You fly forward.
Into the darkness.
Spiraling silence.
°°°
“Professor Gray…”
“…Professor Gray…”
You see the light in the distance slowly move closer to your eyes.
Filling in the world slowly.
A classroom.
Rows of faces staring back at you.
Confused.
Waiting.
Your hand grips the edge of the desk.
Your leg aches.
Sharp.
You glance down.
Nothing there.
But it still stings under your pant leg.
“Professor Gray, are you okay?”
You blink.
Trying to collect yourself.
“I’m sorry,” you say quickly. “I must have spaced out for a moment. Did you say something?”
A student in the front row nods.
“Yes. I asked if you could explain the state of gaining metacognition. Why does that matter?”
You swallow.
Autopilot.
“Lucid dreaming is a state where you gain metacognition during REM sleep. Brain activity associated with awareness, including gamma waves, increases. It’s considered a hybrid state between waking and dreaming.”
Your hand reaches for your water bottle.
You take a sip.
You’re not convinced by what you’re saying.
You continue anyway.
“The experience is real as brain activity, but the environment itself is internally generated rather than physically real.”
The student tilts their head.
“So you’re saying dreams aren’t real because they’re generated by the brain. But my waking perception is also processed by my brain. So how do you know waking reality isn’t just a more stable version of the same thing?”
You pause.
Your fingers tighten around the bottle.
A sharp pain flickers through your head.
You lower it slowly.
You look up.
About to answer—
And then you see it.
That unrecognizable version of you.
The mud. The blood.
In the far back corner of the room.
Where the light doesn’t reach.
Still.
Watching.
Waiting.
End of Lucid.
