I would like to preface this by saying that this story is not my own. The same goes for any other stories I post here. They all, however, cover real events that happened to real people.
Regarding myself, I’m not a very interesting person despite being cursed with the inability to die. I’m working on a loophole for that, but until I figure it out, I will keep seeking out paranormal/supernatural stories to share. I can obtain these stories from anyone (even the dead) if I touch them, but I am limited to the person’s thoughts, memories, and feelings. I am also limited to one story per person, unfortunately.
Oh, and if you want to call me anything, I suppose Witness will do. That’s what I am after all. Just some guy witnessing stories without getting involved.
Anyway, that’s enough about me. Let’s focus on a woman named Lacey.
***
The kidnapper moves on his own, ignoring my brain’s commands and cementing my status as a useless spectator.
He starts climbing the stairs, taking them one after another, acting as if the slightest noise would set off a nuclear reaction. He makes it to the top without so much as a creak in the wood.
Taking a left, the man tiptoes down the darkened hallway, passing framed photos along the wall. He stops before the only one with a singular subject–a young boy. It’s tough to make out with the lack of light, but if I had to guess, I’d say the poor thing couldn’t have been more than six at the time, still just a baby in my twenty-five-year-old eyes.
I feel a smile grace the killer’s face in a way that screams obsession and control. The action makes me sick despite the fact that I’m still dreaming. He starts to reach towards the frame but stops himself before making contact. He shakes his head and mutters something unintelligible before pulling away. If it weren’t for the fact that the real thing is sleeping in the room at the end of the hall, the man may never have left the photo.
He stalks towards the boy’s room, still as quiet as ever. He stops before it and reaches into his sweatshirt pocket, grabbing a syringe and flicking it to remove the threat of air bubbles killing the target. Now equipped for the task at hand, he turns the handle and eases the door open with so much care you’d think it was his prized possession.
He steps through the threshold and lays his eyes upon the boy, the same one in the photo. The man’s hands clench and unclench as they try to contain his excitement. For a fleeting moment, I think the syringe might break from the strength of his right hand. Then I remember the second syringe he always carries.
He heads towards the target, zeroing in on his face. The now twelve or thirteen-year-old boy appears peaceful in the moonlight peeking through the blinds. He has, or rather should have had, a full life ahead of him.
I’m tempted to beg the monster to spare his life, but he’s never heard me before. And I doubt I’d be able to dissuade him even if I could get through.
This boy is going to die, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
After watching him sleep for a minute or two, the killer moves into action. His right hand plunges the needle into the boy’s neck as the left presses against his mouth with so much force I’m worried his jaw will shatter. The pain jolts him awake, and he tries to sit up. Useless.
Thanks to the drugs, the man’s hand keeps him down with ease. The boy tries freeing himself, but his strength can hardly match a toddler’s. He passes out within seconds.
It’s over. His fate is sealed.
The nightmare always ends soon after the drugs take effect, so at least I won’t have to witness the brutality that occurs over the next few hours. I’m sure I’ll hear about it on the news soon enough, though. He always lets at least one piece of the body be found after he’s through with it.
My vision starts to fade, but before I’m kicked from the dream, something new happens. The man turns to face the mirror attached to the boy’s closet, and he…grins?
Why?
The kid is out cold, and besides his parents sleeping in their room, there’s no one else around.
So why the grin? Is it just plain narcissism? Is he congratulating himself? Or can he see me? What if he can see me?
That last thought is the one that lingers with me as everything turns black. The nightmare is over.
…
I wake up to tears streaming down my face and a stomach that threatens to explode like a grenade. I barely make it to the toilet before yesterday’s meals fly from my throat. It’s not just horror and disgust upsetting my stomach this time, it’s terror too.
Did he see me? Does he know who I am? What about where I live and what I look like?
Those are the questions that assault my mind as my heart rate continues to rise.
No. No. He didn’t see me. He couldn’t have. He’s never reacted to me before. This isn’t any different.
That rationalization helps me get myself back under control. Still, going back to sleep is out of the question, so I get started on my day.
At first, the nightmares didn’t bother me so much. Sure, I saw myself kidnapping young boys from right under their parents’ noses, but the nightmares were just that—nightmares. Until they weren’t, that is.
I saw it on TV a few weeks ago—a boy had been snatched from his home, taken to the woods, and slaughtered so badly the news anchor could hardly continue. That boy was the same one I saw kidnapped in my first nightmare.
I considered the possibility that I was killing the kids myself, but the body in my nightmares clearly wasn’t my own. That left me with the only plausible explanation: I was watching the kidnappings through someone else’s eyes.
My first thought was to contact the police, but who in their right mind would believe my story? I wouldn’t. And I can’t leave an anonymous tip because I don’t know anything about the kidnapper’s appearance or vehicle. The nightmare always begins once he’s in the house and ends soon after the drugs have fully affected the victim.
Knowing there’s nothing I can do, I watch TV until after midnight. Before heading to bed, I decide to take a shower, hoping it’ll help me relax. There’s always at least a week between the kidnappings/murders, so I can “rest easy” for now.
After grabbing some clothes, I shut the bathroom door and wait for the water to warm up. I’m about to step in when I realize that something’s wrong. My head starts bobbing, and my body begins shutting down. I’m falling asleep.
How? Why? It hasn’t even been a day since the last kidnapping!
There’s no point in fighting it. My body falls to the floor within seconds, and the nightmare begins again.
As per usual, the dream starts with the kidnapper in the house. Though something’s different this time, very different. First of all, he stares at the floor as he moves. It’s almost like he knows where he’s going already. Odd. But not as odd as the lights still being on. Could the occupants still be awake? I’ve never seen him enter a house with its lights still on.
What’s going on here? And what’s that sound?
It’s faint, and I can’t quite make it out.
Does someone have a noise machine going or something?
Then I realize what the sound is.
No way. No way.
It’s a shower. I start to panic.
Stop! Don’t freak out! There are plenty of showers in the world. This one isn’t mine. The guy only goes after young boys anyway. He wouldn’t branch out now, right? Yeah. That makes sense.
That thought gives me some hope, hope that begins to crumble once the man pulls his phone from his pocket. After turning on the camera, he looks down at the screen, rips his mask off, and takes a picture of himself.
He’s taunting me. He’s in my house. He’s in my house!
That’s the only explanation for his out-of-character action. Why else would the guy who, until now, has been focused on the target and only the target take a selfie?
He stares at the picture as if he’s studying it, grinning from ear to ear all the while. His face is plain and lacks anything remotely noteworthy, but I’m sure I could describe it to someone. Yeah right. As if that matters now. As if I actually have the power to do something. I don’t feel even a semblance of hope anymore.
It’s over. I’m dead, aren’t I?
Once he finishes his taunt, the killer returns his phone to his pocket and continues his trek, progressing through the house and arriving at his destination.
“You know,” he says with the noise of running water in the background, “your life was pretty boring. You really should’ve gotten out more, spiced it up a little. Maybe seen some more of the world or made some more friends or… Well, whatever. It’s not like any of that matters now.”
Oh, screw you. Just get it over with already, I think to myself in resignation.
He sighs as he pulls a switchblade from his sweatshirt pocket and opens the door in front of him, not bothering to stay quiet.
“You’re not even my type.”
Then, for the first time since entering the house, he lifts his head and sets his eyes on his target.
He laughs. “You didn’t really think you were the only one with weird dreams, did you?”