The oppressive humidity of Dhaka clung to me even in the depths of sleep. My dreamscape, however, was a stark contrast – a frigid mountain pass, wind whipping through gnarled pine trees, snow crunching under boots I couldn’t feel. Panic, an unwelcome guest, gnawed at my gut. I was adrift, detached from my body, a spectator in a scene playing out without my consent.
My dream-self stumbled through the blizzard, searching for… what? A path? Escape? The answer danced tantalizingly out of reach. The wind howled, a chorus of tormented voices, each syllable a needle pricking my unseen skin. Then, I saw it – a lone cabin, smoke curling from its chimney, a beacon of warmth in the icy wasteland. Hope, brittle and fleeting, fluttered in my chest.
As I stumbled towards the cabin, the snow deepened, each step a monumental effort. My legs, leaden weights, refused to cooperate. I fell, the impact jarring me awake, yet the dream clung to me like cobwebs. Back in my Dhaka bed, a paralyzing terror locked me in place. I could hear my own ragged breaths, feel the frantic thud of my heart, but my body remained unmoving, a prisoner in its own flesh.
Panic morphed into dread as the dream bled into reality. The blizzard outside my window transformed into the whirring of a ceiling fan, the howling wind replaced by the rhythmic honking of Dhaka’s chaotic traffic. Yet, the paralysis persisted. My eyes, wide and frantic, scanned the room, searching for the source of my entrapment.
A creak at the doorway sent chills down my spine. A figure silhouetted against the dim light, tall and skeletal, its features obscured by the shadows. It glided closer, each step soundless, deliberate. I tried to scream, but my voice was a strangled whimper lost in the cottonwool silence.
The figure leaned over me, its icy breath washing over my face. I could feel its gaze, cold and predatory, boring into my very soul. It spoke, its voice a rasping whisper like dry leaves in the wind. “Welcome, dreamer,” it crooned, “you are my guest now.”
The words resonated within the confines of my paralyzed body. Guest? In this waking nightmare? Terror choked me, and then, with a jolt, I was free. I gasped, adrenaline flooding my system, pushing me upright. The room was empty, the fan whirring innocently, the Dhaka dawn filtering through the window.
But the echo of the dream lingered, a chilling reminder of the unseen predator that lurks in the liminal space between sleep and wakefulness. Now, every creak of the floorboard, every flicker of a shadow, sends a tremor through me. For who’s to say that the nightmare is truly over, that the guest from the frozen peaks hasn’t simply chosen to bide its time, waiting for the next time I surrender to sleep’s treacherous embrace?
So, tonight, when I close my eyes, I pray for a dreamless slumber, a respite from the icy tendrils of the paralyzing guest. For the fear of that unseen horror, its cold whisper in the dark, is a fate worse than any nightmare.