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.