The Dead Don’t Dream: Short Horror Story

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The first nightmare came to Maya on a stormy night, when the world outside her window seemed to reflect the turmoil within her mind. She had always been a light sleeper, easily stirred by the slightest sound or shift in temperature, but this time it was different. She sank into sleep so abruptly, like a stone sinking into the depths of a dark lake, and when she did, she found herself in a desolate world.

The sky in her dream was an angry swirl of red and black, the sun dim and distant, like a dying ember barely holding onto life. The landscape was barren, a wasteland littered with the skeletons of cities—buildings crumbled, cars overturned, and streets cracked open like wounds. The air itself seemed heavy, oppressive, as if even the atmosphere had grown tired of sustaining life.

And then, there were them.

At first, Maya couldn’t make out their faces. The figures that moved between the ruins of this strange world were human-shaped, but wrong, as if someone had attempted to recreate the human form from memory but had forgotten the crucial details. Their faces were smooth, featureless, save for two deep-set black pits where their eyes should have been. Their movements were jerky, disjointed, as if they were barely able to control their limbs.

Yet they were fast. Too fast.

Maya found herself running, her heart pounding in her chest, her lungs burning with the effort to stay ahead of the creatures. But no matter how hard she ran, they always seemed to be just behind her, their faceless heads snapping toward her direction as if they could see her in a way that normal eyes could not. And they were silent—so eerily silent. Not a breath, not a whisper, not even the sound of their feet on the ground. Just the constant, maddening presence of them, pursuing her with relentless determination.

She woke up with a scream, drenched in sweat, her heart still racing. The storm outside had passed, leaving an unnatural silence that seemed to seep into her bones. For a long time, she lay in bed, trying to convince herself it was just a dream, nothing more. But deep down, something in her gut told her this was different—this was no ordinary nightmare.

But then, days went by, and life seemed to return to its dull normalcy. She worked her office job, went through the motions of everyday existence, and the memory of the nightmare began to fade—until it happened again.

And again.

Each time, the dream grew more vivid, more terrifying. The creatures multiplied, their faceless heads turned toward her as if they were becoming more aware of her presence. She could feel their cold, unnatural gaze even in her waking moments. The landscapes of her nightmares grew stranger, more disjointed, but always filled with a profound sense of loss—abandoned cities, broken machines, echoes of a world that had long since died.

She told herself it was the stress of her job, or maybe she had eaten something weird before bed. But the truth was gnawing at her. Every time she fell asleep, it felt like more than just a dream. It was as if she was being pulled into this place, as if some unseen force was dragging her to this decaying, dying world.

One morning, Maya sat at her kitchen table, her cup of coffee untouched, her mind thick with exhaustion. The lines between dream and reality were beginning to blur, and she found herself questioning everything. The nightmares were becoming too real. She could smell the decayed air, feel the biting wind against her skin, taste the metallic tang in the atmosphere. She would wake up with the echo of the creatures’ silent chase still vibrating in her bones, as though they were following her even now.

And then, one evening, as she was walking home from work, it happened.

She was weaving through the crowded streets, the setting sun casting long shadows across the city. She felt a strange sense of déjà vu, like she had walked this path before, but she dismissed it as exhaustion. But then, just ahead of her, in the growing gloom of dusk, she saw him. A man, standing still in the crowd, watching her—or rather, facing her.

He was faceless.

Maya froze, her heart skipping a beat. The man’s face was a blank, featureless canvas, except for the same hollow black pits where his eyes should have been. He was like the creatures from her dreams, but here, in the waking world. She blinked, thinking she must be hallucinating, that the nightmares had finally crept into her waking hours. But he remained, standing motionless, as people moved around him without noticing. No one else seemed to see him.

Suddenly, he moved.

The man—no, the creature—tilted its head toward her, as if recognizing her. Then, without warning, it started walking toward her. Fast. Too fast.

Panic surged through Maya’s body, and she turned and ran. Her mind screamed that this wasn’t possible, that she had to be dreaming, but the pounding of her feet on the pavement and the frantic beating of her heart told her otherwise. She weaved through the crowd, glancing over her shoulder. The faceless figure was still there, effortlessly closing the distance between them.

She ducked into an alley, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her thoughts racing. Was this real? Could it be real? As she leaned against a wall, trying to steady her breathing, she caught a glimpse of movement.

Another one.

And then another.

Faceless figures, emerging from the shadows, closing in on her from all sides.

Her mind raced, frantically trying to make sense of what was happening. But the truth was too terrible, too unthinkable. She wasn’t waking up. This wasn’t a dream.

This was real.

As she crouched, trembling in the alleyway, surrounded by the creatures, a sudden realization washed over her, cold and horrifying. The creatures weren’t just hunting her in her dreams—they had been watching her. Waiting for her to realize the truth.

The world she thought was real—the one with her office job, her mundane life, her ordinary existence—it was the dream.

This wasteland, this post-apocalyptic nightmare where humanity had fallen, where faceless creatures roamed the earth—this was her reality.

She had been asleep for so long, dreaming of a world that didn’t exist. The faceless figures were not just hunting her—they were trying to wake her up.

And now, they had succeeded.

The final blow came like a punch to the gut. The ground beneath her trembled, the walls of the alley vibrating as if the very fabric of this world was unraveling. In the distance, she heard a low, rumbling roar—a sound that felt ancient, primal, and unstoppable. The creatures stood around her, their featureless faces turned toward the sky, as if they, too, could feel the end approaching.

Maya collapsed to her knees, her body trembling with the weight of the truth. She was already here, in this desolate, broken dimension. She had always been here. The life she thought was real had been a cruel illusion, a dream designed to keep her asleep, unaware of the horror around her.

She looked up at the creatures, their black, hollow eyes watching her with something that almost resembled pity. They weren’t monsters—they were guardians, shepherds of the dead, trying to lead her to the truth.

And now, there was no going back.

The dream had ended.

The dead don’t dream.