Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - The Dreamweaver

Episode Date: July 22, 2021

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I let the sand caress my body as I lay on the beach, listening to the soft sound of the waves. All that hung above were perfect, blue skies, only interrupted by a couple of white clouds and a palm tree casting the ideal amount of shade on my resting spot. Everything was perfect, so much that I almost forgot how I'd gotten there. The beach, the untouched ocean ahead, and the sounds of seagulls were all fake. I was dreaming, but I couldn't remember falling asleep. Just that the world I had unknowingly entered was a figment of someone else's imagination. Then I heard the wet squishes almost obscured by the waves, and the weak whimper is muffled by the ground below.

The world faded before my eyes, and reality came back into view. Something wet and warm was pouring down my arms and chest, and in my hand I held the knife I used to stab my wife to death. The last light in her eyes vanished as she let out her last breath. Why? She whispered as the life left her breath. body. Silence. I knew that I'd killed her, but I wasn't in control. While my mind slept peacefully, my body had kept moving absent myself. I couldn't even cry or scream. I could just sit there in shock as I held her limp body. The only sound that broke the silence was a soft voice that I couldn't tell

the origin of. Thanks for letting me. It whispered. Then I heard sirens. Apparently the neighbors had heard her scream and called the police. Obviously I didn't resist. Nor did I deny any of the same. It was anything that had happened. I just told them the truth that I had blacked out. Due to the nature of the homicide had committed, a psychiatrist was called in to determine whether or not to send me to prison or a high-security asylum. Throughout each and every interview, interrogation, examination, the only picture that occupied my mind was the body of my dead wife. She'd been the love of my life, and from every angle it had been the perfect relationship. I had no secret desires to kill people, nor did I wish pain upon anyone, yet my hands had been the instruments ending her life.

But had it really been me? You're not crazy, the voice in my head said, and you're not going to prison. Despite my actions, I had been deemed a low-flight-risk inmate. Thus, I was held in a low-security institution as they examined me. But for each passing day, the voice got more intense, begging for me to attempt and escape. It told me all possible exit strategies, ones I couldn't possibly know about. You see that guard? He has a bum knee.

You kick it once and he'll fall like a house of cards. He won't even try to chase you, the voice would say. I kept refusing. I told the psychiatrist about the voices, but all he did was give me some tables I didn't recognize, but they wouldn't work. On the seventh day of the investigations, the voice was particularly aggressive.

As I tried to fight it, I could feel my limbs go flaccid. I lost control, and the world before my eyes started to fade. Within a few minutes, I was just gone. Once I regained consciousness, I was back on the idyllic beach with a perfect sand. I lay there, the memories of my real life quickly fading. All the suffering, the flashbacks, they were all gone, replaced by absolute nirvana.

Then I heard a familiar voice. Derek? My wife called out from a distance. I shot to my feet, immediately forgetting that she was supposed to be dead. There she stood at the edge of the water, letting the smallest waves brush up against her feet. Fiona? I asked. Not entirely sure if my eyes were deceiving me or not.

My mind was starting to put the pieces together, but they were foggy, hazy fragments creating an unclear picture. I knew the beach wasn't real, but I couldn't remember where I was supposed to be. Where are we? I asked. I'm not sure, she responded. But does it matter as long as we're together? I shook my head. No, it doesn't, but the words froze in my throat.

You're dead. Am I? She asked, not in a surprised manner, but as if teasing me. Then how am I here? She was real. We just weren't in the world of the living. I started walking towards her, longing to hold her in my arms once again. Alas, it wasn't meant to be. Before I could even touch her perfect skin, I felt my feet lose contact with the ground, and I was dragged back into the real world once more. Here we are, the voice inside my head said as I woke up. I was in an alleyway, my hands and chest covered in blood just like last time. We'd escape and clearly killed someone on the way. I fell to my knees and puked out the little content.

still within my stomach. Instead of food, a thick, black, oil-like substance shot out to the ground. What the fuck is happening to me? You're serving a greater purpose, the voice said. What? Who even are you? Am I crazy? I asked in a hail of questions. No, you're not crazy. I am very, very real, the voice said. Then who or what are you? I asked. I am the dreamweaver, and you are my vessel. I got back on my feet and tried to get an idea of my surroundings. I wasn't in my own city. I got tell that much solely based on the height of the structures. I stumbled onto the street, fully intending to get a hold of a police officer and turned myself in. Hey man, you all right? An elderly man asked as he saw me stumble towards the street. I need you to call the police, was the first thing I said. He must

have thought the blood was mine, because he seemed more concerned than afraid. But as the man pulled his phone out, the world vanished beneath my feet yet again. And I was returned to the dreamscape I wished could be home. By that time, the memory of the real world didn't elude me, and I knew I was the one that had killed my wife. You're back, Fiona said. This place isn't real, Fiona, and neither are you. I killed you. I remember it. I know, but that wasn't you, Derek, she said without the faintest hint of anger in her voice. You remember? I asked. Of course, but it wasn't your fault. It was the dream weaver. You need to get rid of it, she said. I can't, I said. Yes,

You can. You just need to find him. Find who? I asked. They call him the pastor. With these parting words, I was pulled back to reality, and before my feet lay another dead man. It was the elderly guy who tried to help me. He didn't even know me, but he showed concern for a stranger, and it had cost him his life. This is what happens when you bring innocent people into our journey. Let it serve as a warning, the voice said. I didn't respond. I'd already made up my mind that I'd ignore the voice. I wouldn't interact with people. I wouldn't ask for help. I would just silently search for the pastor. It was only then I would catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, and I noticed the length of my beard. How long had I been blacked out and trapped

in a dream? It had felt like mere moments, but clearly my body had been through a lot more than my mind. Weeks, if not months, had passed since my first arrest, but I was free. The next few weeks I spent just trying to kill myself, not only to protect the the world for myself, but because I couldn't live with what I'd unconsciously done. But for each attempt, the demon would take over and save me, oftentimes killing people in the process, and each time a few weeks would be gone from my mind. During that time, I was always returned into the arms of my wife, waiting for me at the beach of the afterlife, and each time, she'd repeat the urgent need to find the pastor. That was the only solution. But I decided right

there that once I had freed myself from the demon, I would finally end my own life. From then on, I resorted to only traveling at night. I got an idea of the new world I'd landed in, a future that had passed me by. My wife had died in 2017, but the current year was 2021. For months, I traversed the country, only suffering a few blackouts where someone would inevitably die. I didn't even have to think about running from the police. The demon would take care of that for me. At some level, I must have known that the demon could read my mind,

or at least must have been aware of my plan to some degree. yet he never halted me. I was free to search for the pastor, a fact that should have bothered me, but I was too fixated on escape. I looked up news articles about possession, browsed forums, visited libraries, until I finally got an address.

A place situated in a small village far away from civilization. I didn't hesitate even for a moment. To me, the pastor signified the one thing I so desperately wanted, freedom to just die. The streets were mostly abandoned, as the village had clearly seen better, days, but it didn't matter. It found the pastor's house without much trouble, and knocked on his door in anticipation. An old man opened the door, frail, and tired from years of unknown

struggle. His face turned pale as he saw me, and without having met the man before, I could immediately tell that he recognized me. You, he let out in a gasp. Me, the voice inside my head said, audible not to myself, but the pastor as well. How did you find me? He asked. It shouldn't have been possible. The voice let out a quick laugh. I didn't find you. He did, it said, clearly referring to me, that's when I realized why the demon hadn't attempted to stop me.

He wanted me to find the pastor, and with that, I again lost control of myself. The demon was in charge. But that time, it didn't send me to the beach. It didn't need to anymore, because it had reached its goal, using a fake world and the image of my wife to lure me in. It has now been five months since the demon slaughtered the pastor.

tore his flesh to pieces without breaking a sweat. We're still traversing the world, searching for more victims. But now the demon doesn't even allow me to sleep in the dream world he himself created for me. I'm an unwilling passenger, forced to witness the suffering of others. Now that I'm typing this, I'm not even sure I'm the one in control. The words are mine, but I'm not the one moving my fingers. I guess the demon, the dreamweaver, wants you to know that he exists,

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