I logged off of my laptop, the illuminated apple on the lid slowly dimming until it blended with the silver metal. Tiptoeing into the bathroom, careful not to wake my sleeping siblings so early in the morning, I switched off the fan of the shower which had vacuumed the moisture off of the wall-to-wall mirror. I inspected my skin, small flare-ups on my cheeks, forehead, and chin and what looked like deep purple crescents of bruises under my eyes. My skin had a slight gray tone to it, and my once blue and white eyes exploded with red streaks, so sensitive to changes in light that they burned underneath the sterile beam of the LED fixtures six feet above my head. I brushed my teeth and my hair in an almost robotic manner, pressing my back up against the green walls, my tired eyes darting back and forth, searching for the figures that haunted and consumed my vision every night. But they never emerged. The door to my right led only to a water closet and a shower, and the shadows underneath it only from the piles of dirty clothes that squelched the light. I knew they wouldn’t move; they couldn’t move. Besides, I was too afraid to bring them down the hallway to the laundry room, fearful that a lanky man would appear perhaps in the doorway of my parents’ room, or a child would lie curled up on the platform of the second stairs in a puddle of its own blood, whimpering softly and crying out to me for vengeance.
My heart pounded as I rushed to the sink to rinse the toothpaste that dribbled out from the corners of my lips in a foamy stream, my feet cemented onto the cold stone tile as I prayed the beings would leave me for just one night. I pulled a brush through the cascading waves of my matted blonde hair, the once hated snap of ripping strands echoing in the wide room. I bickered with the light switch, knowing the navy glow of my surroundings would spawn the shadows of my familiars, but that I would soon enter the complete black of my shut eye if I was lucky.

I pinched my eyes shut and waited for the darkness to come, the comforting nothingness and nostalgic oblivion of suppressed insomnia. My friends in school talked about their wild dreams and analyzed them closely, deciding that they simply meant they were stressed over schoolwork and the expectations of their parents. It seemed pathetic to me, but sometimes, on the nights the figures paralyzed me, I envied them deeply.

They recalled these vibrant realities, like a scintillating sun beaming down on fields of daisies and lavender, not the omnipresent and omnipotent darkness that I faced. Their nightly routines consisted of relaxation and meditation in the peace of their bedrooms, not the perturbation of their prisons. They seemed to welcome sleep as an old friend who eased their tension and comforted them through the night, not their bitter archenemy who strangled their humanity one night at a time.

In a moment of their discussion, one day I had discovered what I believe to be a reason for my real-life nightmares, one that would even shake Stephen King from a peaceful night’s slumber. Amidst their typical lighthearted discussion of dreams, accusing my visions as mere hallucinations that reflected my intrapersonal communications and truest self, my old friend Marie, right-brained and painfully scientific, suggested that dreams are a meeting with yourself in a parallel universe, and that perhaps I, as cliché as it seems, was living out an alternate reality every night, but in my home universe, was truly sleeping.

It seemed that she was at least half right, but I could not ascertain which of her sentiments were fallacious, illusory. Though tonight, it was my moment to decide and to do so, I needed to face the beasts. I needed to determine whether I was truly awake.

I bit down on my tongue, a metallic taste gushing through my mouth as the pain buzzed through my head. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t fall asleep. Not tonight.

I winced as I lifted my heavy head off of my pillow, my breath lodged in my esophagus, my hair clinging to the pillow with static, the tendrils pulling me down like Medusa’s snakes swallowing their prey. A red light beaming from the holes in the window shades enveloped my eyes, emitting an eerie cast on the oppressive air surrounding my face. A cool breath whistled near the veins in my neck, the faint yet familiar scent of a burning log drowning my lungs. Soon, it was replaced by a sweeter, yet more pernicious one with familiar tinges. Oddly enough, it reminded me of burning hair trapped in the vent of a blow dryer, though it was more pungent and inescapable. I was engulfed by a tormenting embrace of whispers, screeching like soft screams, and blowing specks of dust away from my face in a chilling puff.

I needed to cross the hallway. I needed to find out where I was. I needed to find out what I was. I needed to wake up my sister.

My muscles froze as I steadily inched the shielding sheets off my naked feet, an immediate prickling stippling my heels like a tattoo. I looked around my room, the dust reflecting the red moonlight beaming in through the holes in my blinds, casting a bloody hue in the air. The springs of my mattress whined and pleaded with every silent slide off of my private island. It was my only oasis in the suffocating sea of darkness. My toes had only extended over the cliffs of my bedside for a matter of seconds before my ankles were caressed by claws. The further I lowered myself, the more vicious the scratching became. I could feel my chest heaving as I reached the floor, which was polished smooth and unfamiliarly warm.

My toes had landed in the drops of my own blood.

The numbness in my face subsided as hot streams dribbled under my chin.

I hoped it wasn’t blood, too.

You broke the rules, darling. A muted sound echoed in my head as if someone was calling me from a can. I had heard it before, but not in my waking life. It was the whisper from my childhood nightmares. He was here, now. With me. Or was I with him?

You remember them, Maia. Rule one. Never leave your bed.

A burning sensation climbed up my throat. I swallowed and took the first step. My feet crushed something underneath me. I didn’t bother to look. I knew it wasn’t anything normal.

With each subsequent step was the same unearthly crunch. My heart was hardly beating. Sobs smothered my throat. My vision clouded with eerie figures, focusing as I faded into the shadows.

Ghastly hands groped my body as I pushed towards the door. I tried to keep my eyes shut, to maintain my ignorance of the unknown—of the lingering presences that had been lurking in my bedroom for years.

I fumbled with the doorknob, its brass face cooling my sweaty palms as a twisted it open. A brisk breeze with the same saccharine scent whisked around me as I threw open the door. I sprinted across the hallway into my sister’s room, a faint chilling screech growing clearer among the endless stream of whispers that filled the air. I sprinted across her rug and leaped onto her bed to breathe. Tears fell down the sides of my temples, as I laid there for a second, helpless. I closed my eyes to escape the cacophony in the room. When I reopened them, my heart gasped as I regained my consciousness. My sister’s blood-curdling shrieks boomed in my ears, though her body lay peacefully beside me.

I tapped her back frantically, forcefully. Her flesh was limp and cold.

But I could hear her pain inside my head.

I vomited all over her sheets.

I turned her body over, the ends of her hair dragging in my puddle of sick. I gasped for air when I saw her face. It was still lovely and gentle, but in the middle of her forehead, was a brand of letters, the burning skin still glowing red and sizzling softly.

I vomited again.

When there was nothing left inside of me, I peered at the glowing letters.

“CO.”

I vomited a third time, though only a drip of bile emerged from my throat.

Between my sobs, I laid back on the bed, my body paralyzed, facing the ceiling. I howled in agony as I noticed a weak red light blinking on the ceiling. It was the carbon monoxide detector.

The voice returned to me yet again. You’re the only one left, Maia. You have the curse. It sounded raspy and screechy, like a million nails dragging down a chalkboard. In the background, it seemed, were a myriad of screams and sobs.

My heart slammed against my ribcage, trying to escape.
My sister’s heart wasn’t pounding like that. It wasn’t beating at all.

I inhaled deeply as I focused on the voices that pierced every inch of my body and held me frozen between puddles of vomit.
 

Charcot.

“Charcot? Charcot, what?” I screeched back, my voice clear but choked by distress.

I had been afraid of making noise only minutes earlier, but according to the spirits, there would be no one alive to hear me now.

Charcot-Wilbrand.

“Charcot-Wilbrand. Charcot-Wilbrand,” I repeated to myself in a loud whisper.

My chanting slowly grew louder with the marching stomps of the spirits as I shook out of my paralysis and sprinted across the hall.
As I ran, misty sheaths dragged across my skin, raising the hair on my arms and face. I might have vomited again, but I was too focused to notice.

I slammed my bedroom door shut as I entered it, realizing it was still unnaturally dark. I felt my way to the desk in the corner, listening intently as I drew nearer to the tapping of talons on the hardwood floors under my bed.

I found my desk, stroking the cool silver metal of my laptop. I threw open the top and slammed on the keyboard, my fingers numb and convulsing. I could sense a hand on my right shoulder, a set of pointed fingernails scraping lightly at my protruding collarbone. I screamed at the screen as I punched the words the voices had uttered into the white bar of the internet.

“Charcot-Wilbrand.”

My breath stopped, and everything around me seemed to freeze too. Even the hand’s warmth had faded.

I exhaled quickly as I read the definition. “Charcot-Wilbrand Syndrome indicates a lack of dreaming as a result of head trauma, often associated with carbon monoxide poisoning.”

My voice trailed off at the end. I was never dreaming after all. This had all been real.
 

Interesting, isn't it? The screeching voice returned.

“I don’t—I don’t understand. Where am I?” I demanded, “Where am I?”

There was no response, only a soft chuckle.

And then it dawned on me. I may not be dreaming, but I knew I would never wake up.