Three Dreams Episode 2
Fortunately, the dream I had the night before was not dangerous. In order to prevent myself from losing control due to sleepwalking, I locked the door and put the key where I couldn’t reach it without standing on a chair.
Last night, I was staring at the question, not having any clue in my mind. As I thought about it, I fell into my old routine. I was angry and anxious, and when sleepiness came, I was not prepared at all. I had another dream, and it was incredible.
I woke up with a splitting headache and body aches. The glaring light made me dizzy. I raised my head weakly and felt another pain in the back of my head. My hair was pulling against my scalp and it hurt. I realized that it was the dried blood from the back of my head that stuck my hair to my scalp.
When my eyes adjusted to the light in the room, I wanted to scream, but only a muffled hum came out. A face whiter than white paper was close to me, with bright red lips grinning and white teeth gleaming in the light. A man was wearing heavy makeup. He was looking at me with empty eyes, without any emotion.
"You're awake." A man actually made a woman's indecent voice and tore off the tape on my mouth.
"Who are you?" I asked in horror, trying to avoid his face that was too close.
"I'm listening to the rain on a rainy night." The man put away the smile on his face and moved his face away from me.
"Yuye Tingyu is my pen name. How come you are also called Yuye Tingyu?"
"You are confused. Listening to the Rain on a Rainy Night is our common pen name. We publish horror novels together. Although we sometimes have some disagreements, our goal is the same, which is to write the most terrifying novels." He grinned.
I stared at the weirdo in front of me with confused and frightened eyes, "But I don't have any impression of you."
"I've been waiting outside for several nights, and you've been working almost all night. This will drag you down, and also drag down the quality of our manuscript. The manuscript is becoming more and more poetic and less and less like a horror novel. I have told you more than once not to downplay the descriptions of horror scenes, but why didn't you listen to me?" He became more and more angry as he spoke, and his face was distorted, like a piece of white paper with many wrinkles squeezed into it.
"Are you the reader who 'follows me everywhere'?" Although I was scared to death, my mind was still clear. It was only that "shadow-following" reader who gave me suggestions on my horror novels many times and revised the descriptions of horror scenes in my manuscripts more than once.
"You are really confused. I don't know who 'Ruying Suixing' is. I only know that I am Yuye Tingyu Guixiu Novel . I have published many horror novels under this pen name. You impersonated me and made my horror novels go downhill. I can't let you do this anymore." As he said that, he grabbed my hair that was sticking to the back of my head.
"No!" I wailed in pain.
"Your screams are too exaggerated. It's not like what is written in horror novels at all. Only in this situation should you make such a sound." The white paper-like face became more and more irregular. He grabbed my hair fiercely. I don't know when, an inch-long iron nail appeared in his right hand. He grasped the iron nail and stabbed it viciously into my white forearm.
I don't have the right words to describe the pain. I can only express my pain by screaming.
I was awakened by my own screams and opened my eyes wide in fear. The light was still dazzling, but my white face was gone. There were no ropes tying me up. I was sitting upright in a chair in the middle of the living room, my clothes soaked with sweat.
It took me a long time to come back to my senses. I had a terrible dream. I was sleepwalking again, just like the night before. I followed the dream and sat on a chair that I shouldn't have sat in. The computer screen in the bedroom was still flashing the terrifying screen saver.
Dreams are scary, sleepwalking is scarier, and the scariest thing is that my dream last night was actually a continuation of the dream the night before. A person will have different dreams on different nights, and sometimes they may be similar. If you think about something during the day, you will dream about it at night. If you think about the same thing for several days, your dreams at night may have some connection, but there has never been such a dream that last night's dream would continue the dream of the night before.
My fear of the dark comes from dreams like this.
wedge
Everyone has dreams, but have you ever had a dream like this? Tonight's dream is a continuation of last night's dream, just like a TV series, where dreams are played one episode at a time every night.
A dark night of fear
It's getting dark again. For office workers, darkness can free them from a busy day and let them enjoy the warmth of home. But for me, it's the opposite. The darkness is like a collapsing wall, pressing me down and making me breathless.
I also like the arrival of night. Only in a dead silent environment will my inspiration come unexpectedly, and those weird and terrifying plots will appear smoothly on the computer screen, until the darkness is dispelled and the dazzling sunlight comes. I will lie lazily on the single bed, feeling satisfied with the completion of the manuscript.
Yes, I am a writer who likes to be accompanied by the night, and a writer of horror novels. Some people also call us writers, but I prefer the title of writer because it does not have too much weight in the title of author. I can do whatever I want in the description of horror and blood.
Sometimes, I wonder whether my novels will bring about adverse effects, whether readers will become obsessed with my works and become imitators of the characters in the novels, and whether they will personally witness whether the bloody descriptions are really horrible.
But when the money comes, I will just laugh it off. I am just a writer, and sensitive scruples are unnecessary. I will write day and night, and I have to consider my livelihood. I can't spend my beautiful youth in a rented house of more than 50 square meters. I can't do dirty things like hanging out with rich men. I can only rely on my limited ability to change the status quo.
I know that I have done it, and my income from writing is enough to qualify as a white-collar worker in this city. Some publications will regularly ask me to write articles, and of course they will regularly transfer the royalties to my account.
I have two QQ reader groups (34356744). Besides being busy with my manuscripts, I chat with those lovely readers about horror stories. I am very cautious with them and try to cater to their opinions, because I still need them to buy my books and the publications with my works. Only in this way can my popularity be improved, and I will get more commissions from more publications and more royalties.
One of the readers named "Like a Shadow" talked to me the most, and almost occupied most of my chat time. He is my die-hard reader fan. He has read all my novels, and read them surprisingly carefully. He remembers some plots even more clearly than I do. He said that he can recite my bloody descriptions and even give me suggestions on some of my plot descriptions. His suggestions made me, a writer who is used to horror descriptions, feel speechless and a little panicked. I believe that if he becomes a horror novel writer, he will write a chilling novel.
I am very glad that he is just one of my readers. He would buy any publication that has my works. After buying it, he would tell me about ghost novels , and then he would be silent for two or three days. If the novels were longer, he would be silent for even longer. I even suspected that he was not reading my works, but more like studying them. I don’t know what he was studying. After a few days, he would start to talk to me about my manuscript, give me suggestions, and accurately guess where the inspiration for the manuscript came from, and which plots I encountered difficulties when writing the manuscript. Sometimes I really want to meet this reader and see what kind of person he is. I once thought self-deprecatingly that if I really became a world-famous horror novelist, he would be the most suitable person to write my biography.
I admit that my works contain more or less my own elements, for example, my boring university life, my failed love, my bumpy work experience, my living environment and so on. Some people say that this is called literature comes from life. I say that this is nonsense. My life is as boring as a glass of purified water, and it has nothing to do with horror. It is livelihood and boredom that stick me to horror novels.
I have been talking for a long time, but you may not understand why I, a writer, have a fear of the night. In fact, my fear of the night has only come about in the past two days. In the past, I was eagerly looking forward to the arrival of darkness. When darkness came, my inspiration came, and I could edit a satisfactory manuscript for the haunted house. However, more than ten days have passed, and I still have no inspiration in my brain, only the images of the previous manuscripts. I am finished, I am trapped by the ideas of the previous manuscripts. I wanted to be a writer who transcends myself, but the only manuscript I wrote in more than ten days was rejected by the editor at the first trial. The editor was very polite, but I understood that his words were thorny. He was asking if I was mentally retarded!
The reason why I have no inspiration and cannot write good manuscripts is not because I am afraid of the darkness, but because of the dreams I had in the past two days.
Dreamland Episode 1
Inspiration did not come, but sleepiness came unexpectedly. The night before last, I had a nightmare. The dream was like this:
I was tired of writing, so I went to the window and looked out into the distance, hoping to relax my tense nerves. It was late at night, and the black building in the distance stood like a monster. I suddenly shuddered. Before I looked downstairs, I felt someone was watching me. I looked downstairs suddenly.
The neighborhood where my rental house is located is right on the edge of a highway. I have used this rental house as the model for the location where strange stories in my works take place more than once.
On the opposite side of the road, under the dim street lights, a person's eyes were flashing coldly, staring at me motionlessly.
I have no friends here, this is a neighborhood with a high vacancy rate, plus I go out less than once a week, no one knows that there is a horror writer here, and I have not seen other residents in Building 16. Who would care about me, who is still energetically typing away at the keyboard late at night?
I tried to see the man's face clearly, and we looked at each other, but I was obviously at a disadvantage in this kind of eye contact, because the light in the room I was in was bright, and the man happened to be standing in the shadow of the street lamp. He was aware of this, so he looked at me fearlessly, even though he knew I had discovered him.
I wanted to gain the upper hand in this staring match, so I reacted quickly and turned off the lights and computer at an extremely fast speed. After making sure that there was no light that could allow people to see me in the room, I went to the window and continued the staring match.
But I was disappointed. That guy didn't give me a chance. He disappeared, as if he had never existed. Damn it! I cursed in my heart, I must have seen it wrong. Who would stay up late at night and watch me alone?
I turned on the light again, turned on the computer, and wrote the horror I had just experienced into my work. I wanted to sit on the bed and continue typing, but I subconsciously raised my heels and looked out the window. My heart was pounding. That guy appeared again. I saw his hair, still under the street light. I believed that this was not an illusion, he was still looking up at me. What on earth was he trying to do? Was he suffering from voyeurism? No, this kind of direct voyeurism was unreasonable.
I quickly turned off the lights and computer, and ran to the window again. He was gone. When I turned on the lights again, he appeared again. After several times, I turned off the lights and never turned them on again. I stood in front of the window, watching the movements around me, waiting for the guy to get impatient and emerge from the darkness.
My legs were sore from standing, but he didn't show up. Gradually, I began to doubt myself again. Maybe I was too sensitive, or maybe it was a visual illusion caused by the light. Like a mirage, the light in the room formed an image of a person. To confirm my guess, I turned on the light again, and the image appeared again, but the image was not on the window glass. He was indeed in the shadow of the street lamp. I tried to see him clearly, but I couldn't see it clearly. It was always hazy. I can only say that it was the image of a man.
After I turned off the light again, he disappeared again. Although I specialize in writing horror novels, I am very timid. Sometimes I can't sleep well because of the horror descriptions in my works. But I also have a strong curiosity. I want to know whether the image on the road really exists or is it an illusion of the light.
I took the flashlight and went out. When I got to the corridor, I regretted it a little. In this neighborhood with a high vacancy rate, if someone wanted to harm me, I, a weak girl, would not even have the chance to shout. Even so, I still walked out of Building 16 with trepidation.
The autumn wind blew, and I shivered again, the chill in my heart was heavier than the autumn wind. The gate of the community was actually open. In this remote place, the security of the community was non-existent, and the old man who was guarding the gate was just acting as a temporary guard.
The road was still quiet, without a single person, and I was the only one standing on the dead silent road like a midnight ghost. It was really an illusion, there was no one under the street light.
I am too sensitive again. My parents have repeatedly told me not to write those horrible things, but this is my ideal and the only career that can make me stand out. I am no longer used to seeing my boss's face and can only deal with the ghosts in my heart. I sighed. I haven't contacted my parents for a long time. They don't know that their daughter would hide in such a remote corner, typing day and night to realize her ideal.
I heard the echo of my own sigh. No! This isn't an empty valley, how could there be an echo? And the echo had changed its tone and was a little heavy. My heart tightened. Could it be that it wasn't my own echo, but someone else's sigh?
I was scared, and I ran towards the community at a trot, my steps were a little unsteady, and I heard the echo of my footsteps, because it had the same pace as mine, but the echo was heavier than my footsteps. It was not an echo, but someone was chasing me, and imitating my running pace. I didn't dare to look back, and there was no time to look back. I ran into the corridor, and the echo seemed to be getting closer, right behind me.
I looked back in horror and saw a face whiter than paper, and also saw the wooden stick in his hand. I turned around and tried to run, but my legs wouldn't obey me. I felt the sharp pain of a hard object hitting my head, and I collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
I woke up screaming, my whole body was soaked with sweat, and I was cold. The voice-activated light came on as I screamed. I was lying in the corridor, and I was still alive. The man with a face as white as paper was gone. I unconsciously touched the back of my head, and it was completely fine. There was no pain except a little sweat. How could it be? I clearly felt the wooden stick hitting the back of my head, so why was it fine?
I didn't have time to think about it, and stumbled back to the rental house. I turned on the light and searched the whole room vigilantly, looking through every corner, but there was no one there, and nothing was missing.
The flashlight was lying on the bed, the laptop was open, and the title was still quietly on the computer screen – "Nightmare". I suddenly remembered that I had come up with the title, but I couldn't think of a good beginning. I fell asleep while thinking about it.
In other words, everything that happened just now was a dream. No one chased me, and no one hit me, so the back of my head was fine. But why was I lying in the corridor? Did I have sleepwalking? Thinking of this, I was a little scared. If that was the case, wouldn't I be in danger?
Later I thought about it and realized that it was nothing. With all the bad luck I had these days and the fact that I often thought about scary things, it was inevitable that I would have scary dreams.