I have been having night terrors. Now I know that doesn’t sound like much, but I’ve been having the same one, over and over again every night and I always wake up the same: screaming and drenched in a pile of my own sweat.
Not only that, but in every dream I encounter this faceless, anomalous man.
I’m making this post because I wanted to share what’s been going on to see if anyone else has found themselves dreaming of this same man and to try and get some answers. I’ve started to feel like he isn’t just some figment of my imagination appearing for the hell of it.
I’m also beginning to believe that this night terror I’ve been having repeatedly isn’t just a dream, but instead a memory I’ve locked up deep within my subconscious.
That the nightmare is actually real.
I don’t have much to prove this theory right now, just a gut feeling, but I’m hoping sometime soon an answer will appear. It has to. I just have to ask the right questions.
Below I have rewritten my journal entry describing some of my thoughts and the night terror itself. I have also included a brief retelling of my most recent therapy appointment where we discussed the dreams to provide better context.
I plan to post an update if anything else important happens.
Please let me know if you have any information about this man or any of the things I encountered below, and thank you for taking the time to read it.
If my sister manages to find this, then I’m sorry for what you’re about to read. There’s a reason why I didn’t want to tell you about it, and I sincerely hope you believe me.
[JOURNAL ENTRY: 1/27/24]
My therapist recommended that I start journaling, so here I am. I was hesitant at first, but obviously, I eventually caved in. Not because she told me to but because I wanted to seize the opportunity to record my dreams. They’re what’s important right now anyway, and way more interesting than anything else my real life has to offer, at least at the moment.
I know they say that dreams are supposedly visualizations of your brain processing information and all that, but I’m not so sure I actually believe it. I mean yeah, of course sometimes that’s the case, like when I have dreams centered around what I did that day.
But how can you say that me dreaming about meeting a cult high up on some desolate rooftop, who claim to identify as another race and in turn wear the freshly harvested skin of people just to satisfy their personal perception, is me processing things?
I call bullshit.
Now, I wouldn’t be too concerned if it was just a one-off incident, ya know? But recently, it has been every single night.
And without fail, every time I encounter this Man. This faceless, well-dressed Man.
Last night, it was the same thing, but this time, something unusual happened. It was the driving factor for me to start writing in the first place.
This is what I recollected:
We were at a park feeding ducks. It was oddly serene compared to the usual atmosphere I’d encounter, and he was in a very talkative mood for some reason.
I remember bending down to grab a handful of feed conveniently placed by my feet, and as I descended, I heard him say something interesting.
“You don’t remember, do you?”
I stopped any, and all motion as I firmly grasped a handful of pellets in my palm.
“Remember what?” I asked as I straightened my spine.
He smiled at my response. I think it’s important to note that at all times, he is indeed faceless, but on special occasions, the black veil that constantly shields his features is lifted to reveal only his mouth.
This was one of those moments.
He sauntered over to the left of me and placed a cold, icy hand around my shoulder. The sensation burned through my clothes, and it felt as if it were seeping into my skin.
“You never ask the right questions, do you?”
I took a few steps away from The Man and launched the food out of my palm as if pitching a ball into the distant direction of a hoard of ducks sunbathing.
“You only ever ask questions,” I said plainly. He laughed.
It was true though, that our conversations in my dreams were limited. Usually, we would communicate through my subconscious. Him influencing my intuition and guiding me to places, things, and conclusions. Never saying words, only thinking them in my direction.
But for some reason, he wanted to talk to me. One on one. My eyes followed a few strands of pellets as they splashed into the pond a few meters away.
“Are you always this standoffish?”
I could feel his gaze, cold just like his hand.
“Only when you’re around.”
A shit-eating grin formed along my face as I turned to meet him, but to my surprise, he had vanished.
Instantly, I was engulfed with the sensation of despair and suddenly heard a noise coming from a path to the right of me. It led to a vastly dense forest that seemed to appear right out of nowhere (adhering to the logic of dreams), and a cobblestone path touched the tips of my shoes as it beckoned me to follow it. I uncontrollably began to slowly venture down it, though my mind was screaming no. Don’t. Stop.
My body knew what it had to do.
Right as I stepped through these two large willow trees, the calming duck pond went out of view and disappeared. I never looked back. My first few steps along the path took all the energy I had right out of me, but soon, I was filled with surreal bliss. The afternoon sun peaked out from the seemingly endless canopy, and every once in a while, I could sense its direct warmth. It felt like fuel, and I was the fire.
The path I was heading down went on and on with no end in sight, and the whole time, I felt eyes on me as if something were in the trees watching my every move. This didn’t stop me, however, from continuing forward. I then heard the noise again, this time more distinct. Something was rustling within the leaves. Out of nowhere, a blindingly bright orb of golden light emerged from the forest and found its way beside me, joining me on my walk. I was unphased. The world around me grew extraordinarily quiet until I felt the urge to break the silence.
“It’s so beautiful here. Nice and warm.”
I looked up at the sun again as it peeked through the trees. The orb somehow began to speak.
“Isn’t it? It’s a shame you can’t stay here long enough to bask in its sun.”
“Why not? I don’t plan to leave anytime soon, and there’s someone I’m trying to find.”
At the time, I assumed I was on the search for The Man who left so abruptly, but when reflecting back on it, all thoughts escaped me. I became confused.
“Who am I searching for exactly? I can’t seem to remember.” I asked genuinely as if the orb would grace me with a response. To my surprise, it did.
“Home,” it said.
“And she’s waiting patiently for you.”
I stopped my feet abruptly. They uncomfortably tingled as I furrowed my brow and leered down the endless path as if it would chime in on the conversation.
“But what if I don’t want to go? Home may be what I’m looking for, but here? This place? It’s like a dream I never want to wake up from.”
I would soon come to regret that last statement.
“The forest isn’t ready for you yet.”
“How come?”
There was a slight beat before it spoke.
“If you stay, the sun will fall, and all the warmth you adore will deteriorate. All that lives will die, and not too long after, so will you. You must leave. To keep yourself and this land alive.”
Another beat.
“Though I promise you, one day soon, the forest will reopen its gates, and you will be able to reside here once again. But for now, you have no other choice than to continue forward.”
The orb nudged me along the path. Then, as if it had finished its job, the orb’s light progressively dimmed and faded from opaque to eventually transparent, slowly disappearing back into the mysterious forest. As my feet resumed the trek with newly found determination, I heard a distant voice say:
“We will then meet again. Only as worlds collide.”
Everything changed after that, and I had this deep, insidious feeling radiating from my stomach, like the sensation of deja vu. Then, out of nowhere, a new voice began to ring in my ears, though this one rang with the sting of familiarity.
“Liam…”
Instantly, I knew who it was. Simultaneously, an end to the pathway appeared in front of me, and a light shone through another set of willow trees, just like the entrance.
“I-it can’t be–”
“Liam, come here sweetheart,”
It spoke again, this time coming from the supposed exit. Without thinking, my footsteps escalated, and I ran right towards the final set of cobblestones and into the newly charted environment that was supposedly waiting for me. I found myself in a secluded circle of grass surrounded by the same willow trees that had been watching me on my journey. The leaves and branches from above formed a vibrant green dome over my head, and in the middle of the area stood the culprit who was calling out.
“Mom?”
“There he is! My sweet baby boy.”
“How did you– Mom, what are you doing here?”
I slowly moved across the space to greet her. She was smiling ever so lovingly at me. Then, almost instantaneously, her tone and facial expressions became overtly serious. She spoke to me as if I was a child.
“Good thing you found me! You shouldn’t be running off like that. I thought I lost you.”
“Mom, I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
“It’s a dangerous world out there Liam. You can’t just leave all silly-nilly. Remember what I taught you about strange places?”
“…Danger.”
My response felt like it had crawled belligerently out of me.
“That’s right.”
Her smile was coated in remorse as she made her way beside me and gently stroked my hair.
“But more importantly?”
“…That you’ll always be there to protect me.”
Even when writing this, my heart aches in such a strange way, just like in the dream. It felt as if it was being crumpled up into a tiny paper ball until it disintegrated, and I’m still unsure why. It didn’t feel like the cause of sadness, more so the cause of anger perhaps? Regardless, I was entranced by the image of my dead mother standing before me. It was the first time I spoke with her since she passed.
“Exactly. Even when I’m not with you, you see? You can run off as much as your little heart desires, but no matter what, I’ll be there to protect you. Always. And every time, I’ll be there to guide you home.”
All of a sudden, a figure expels from my mother, almost as if it were a part of her waiting to reveal itself. Its shadowy form morphs towards her right shoulder and rests its hand upon it. Its large stature loomed over her in such a way that resembled a guard and his prisoner. The tension rises extremely fast as I back away from them in fear. This seemed all too familiar.
“Mom..?”
“Now, don’t be frightened. Listen to what he has to say, Liam. Be a good boy and listen to mommy.” She bellowed sternly.
“Mom, who the hell is this guy?”
Or I should have said: what the hell is this thing because that figure was more of a monster than a person. The more I stared into the dark depths of this being, a rough outline began to form.
There was no doubt it was human.
“Mom…”
But it sure as hell was a monster.
“Now, don’t be frightened. Listen to what he has to say, Liam. Be a good boy and listen to mommy.”
“Mom, what the fuck is he doing here?”
“He’s here to tell you all about your future. Didn’t I always say you’d grow up to do amazing things?”
She did. At least for a while. But I didn’t want to hear a single word that asshole had to say. The instinct to rip her away from him kicked in, and I made an attempt to say something, anything that would persuade her to join me.
“Mom, I think you should get away from that man and come over here with me. We could leave this place. Together. Olivia misses you. I miss you… we could be a family again like we used to be–”
“William!” I was cut off by the forceful sound of my name reverberating from my mother’s mouth.
“Do what your mother has asked of you.”
Her aggressive tone struck a deep, dusty chord within my soul that made my entire body flinch. All I could do was stand frozen in place, shifting my wide-eyed stare between my mom and her guard. I wanted to fight back and make it known that I was not afraid of him. Not anymore. But I was. Even in my dreams, I couldn’t find the courage to stand up for myself.
“What… What do you want?”
“Your assistance.” he hissed.
“With what?”
His response was the last thing I expected to hear:
“Saving people.”
“What do you mean?”
“Saving people from beastly creatures,”
He stood there for a moment, looking at me with the same shit-eating grin I had on moments ago, till the white in his eyes flooded with a black, tarry substance. He slowly unhinged his jaw, and as he did so, he began to tilt his head back just as far as he had stretched his mouth wide open. That black goo began to bubble from his throat, slowly, then sporadically like a pot of boiling water.
He began to choke, expelling disgusting sounds of distress, but he remained cemented in place as if he were a statue. Not once did he break eye contact with me as his body finally began to convulse. Instead, what broke our connection was the enormous amount of black goo that launched out of his mouth like a fountain, covering his entire body as it dribbled down, creating a puddle around his feet.
Once every inch of him was enveloped, his choking calls quieted, and the goo had stopped with his coughs and groans. His head resumed its previous position, and his newly coal-colored eyes surveyed me with such extreme discontent. His blackened lips struggled to separate as he said his final words.
“Creatures that wreak havoc. Not letting them do things like this, ever again.”
As if on cue, after the last syllable left through his teeth, he violently began to claw away at my mother’s skin, animalistically shredding her bare. Her screams were deafening, and I sent a blood-curdling screech back, begging for him to stop.
He didn’t.
I then yelled myself awake, sitting up in a pile of my own sweat.
That was the end of my dream. Or should I say, more accurately, my nightmare. My scream was so loud that my sister woke up and dashed in to check on me. She must’ve heard me through the walls. I feel bad for her, having to deal with this on a nightly basis. Then again, I’m sure she feels bad for me in return. Now, I know my dreams aren’t real, but sometimes they feel more real than reality, making me question if I’m really awake or asleep. Maybe there is a hidden truth behind what goes on in my mind when I drift to sleep at night.
Maybe that truth is too much for me to bear. Or perhaps it’s filled with lies. Creating images of my worst possible fears, telling me it’s real. When in reality, it’s simply an illusion.
END OF LOG
[THERAPY ENTRY: 2/27/24]
“Glad to see you’ve started journaling,” My therapist said as she sat my notebook down on the coffee table that separated us. She stared at me intently.
“Though when I advised you to, I meant journaling your feelings, not your dreams.” I was too preoccupied, drifting off, soft-focusing on whatever I could manage to find outside the window next to me to respond.
“But it’s a start.” She said with a celebratory sigh.
Therapy was never easy for me. Not so much in terms of practice but in terms of honesty. In the past, I always knew what to say to appear as if I were fine, but my problems lie in never being able to commit to any solution. Except this one, because for the first time, I actually thought it might do something.
“Liam?”
She called out to me as her fingers snapped, attempting to attract my attention. I groaned in response, never altering my fixated gaze. “Do you want to talk about this or simply sit in silence?” She had managed to reel me in.
“What’s there to talk about?” I asked, playing dumb.
Dr Roberts’ eyes never flinched as she took off her glasses and wiped them with the sleeve of her sweater.
“We’ve been over this Liam. If you don’t talk to me, how am I supposed to help you?”
I knew she was right, but I hadn’t yet drawn up the courage to accept it. So instead, I gave her what she wanted. She made her second attempt to get me talking.
“Was it weird? Seeing your mother again?”
“Yeah,” I spoke dismissively.
“And how was it seeing your father?”
I quickly quieted again. She already knew the answer to that question, so I remained silent.
In an attempt to draw me back, she asked, “Why didn’t you bring this up earlier? That entry you showed me was from a month ago.”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“How come that’s the only one in there? You haven’t written anything since.”
“They’d all look the same. I’ve been having that same dream every night.”
She furiously scribbled something down on her notepad with the sound of her clicking pen ending her thought.
“Her anniversary is coming up soon. Do you think it has anything to do with that?”
“Maybe,” I said plainly, not wanting to tread too deep into dangerous waters.
“I think so,” said Dr Roberts assertively.
“The scene you encountered in the forest seems oddly familiar to her accident, don’t you think?”
I looked her in the eyes for the first time during our whole session. I may act unresponsive, but she always knew how to push my buttons methodically. It’s probably why I keep coming back to her.
“Nothing about her death was an accident,” I said, keeping eye contact with her.
“But yeah. It felt like I was back there reliving it all over again.”
Her head tilted at my response as she crossed her legs.
“Though,” she began.
“It seems to me that the situation was heavily exaggerated.”
That angry feeling kicked in again. “Right. I know.” She responded with another look of hers.
“Wanna play a game of Spot the Difference?” I asked as a smirk spread over my face.
Dr Roberts did not look amused and nodded her head for me to continue.
“I guess I’ll start with the obvious, my father.”
I took a deep breath before continuing.
“Obviously he wasn’t some scary monster, he was just some fucked up guy. Which, between you and me are the same fucking thing. And he didn’t skin my mom, he shot her. Then himself, which I never get to see that part in my dreams.”
“That’s to be expected. You were only present for your mother’s death, not his.” She spoke monotonously.
“Right.”
“I wanted to mention something else real quick. I found your choice of words at the end of your journal entry interesting. Specifically,”
She glanced back down at her notes for reference, quoting my writing as she said:
“Now, I know my dreams aren’t real, but sometimes they feel more real than reality, making me question if I’m really awake or asleep. Maybe there is a hidden truth behind what goes on in my mind when I drift to sleep at night. Maybe that truth is too much for me to bear. Or perhaps it’s filled with lies. Creating images of my worst possible fears, telling me it’s real. When in reality, it’s simply an illusion.” Dr Roberts set her papers down once more. “It sounded like you don’t believe what you saw in your dream wasn’t real, or is it that what you saw seemed too real-”
“It’s not important.” I cut her off with expertise.
“I was just writing nonsequential word vomit at that point to give us something to talk about.”
That was one of the many lies I would tell her during our sessions. She soon realized that our conversation wouldn’t go on any further than this and exasperatedly stood up with her hands at her side.
“It seems that our time is up.”
I thanked her, picked up my notebook, and left as if I was never there.
END OF LOG