My Dog Speaks in my Sleep 4

By Chef JRHEvilInc/Joel R. Hunt

//Source. This is part four and the finale of a series.

I’m so tired.

Two days ago I bought some sleeping pills. Something – anything – to help me get through the night. Things can’t go on as they have been doing, these constant nightmares about Gus. I’m struggling to function properly. I’ve started calling in sick at work. I don’t trust myself to drive anymore, in case I fall asleep at the wheel. I’m just fortunate the pharmacy is in walking distance.

After my last post here I decided to make Gus an outdoor dog. I don’t know how he got in my room. I don’t know what he was doing while I was asleep. But I knew I wasn’t comfortable with him being around me while I slept anymore.

Or while I tried to sleep at least… Continue reading “My Dog Speaks in my Sleep 4”

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My Dog Speaks in My Sleep 3

By Chef JRHEvilInc/Joel R. Hunt

//Source. This is part three of a series. Final part coming tomorrow.

Last night was a bad one. The most disturbing dream yet.

Not even a dream – it was a nightmare. The worst I’ve had since I was a child.

I suppose I should start with what happened during the day.

After the dream from my previous post, I went downstairs for breakfast, and one of the first things I noticed was that Gus still hadn’t touched his food. It was his third day with me, and I hadn’t seen him eat even a bite. I was worried about him. And if I’m honest, I was also a little hopeful; I started to wonder if my dreams about Gus were just a subconscious expression of my concern about him not eating. Kind of like getting nightmares before sitting an exam. It was an odd hope, sure, but it would mean there was nothing more bizarre at play. And it would mean that once he started eating again, the dreams should stop.

So I called up the shelter I’d rescued Gus from, and they put me in touch with a local vet. I took Gus in (he was still completely obedient, following me whenever I left the house without needing to be told) and let them know that he wasn’t eating. Initially they were concerned as well, but after a series of tests, they determined that he was perfectly healthy. It simply wasn’t possible that he hadn’t eaten or drank anything in days, they told me. He must have been getting food from elsewhere. Continue reading “My Dog Speaks in My Sleep 3”

My Dog Speaks in my Sleep 2

By Chef JRHEvilInc/Joel R. Hunt

//Source. This is part two of a series. Part three coming tomorrow.

I dreamt of Gus again last night.

The day had been mostly uneventful. I’d managed to shake the unsettling feeling of my first dream, and spent a while trying to get Gus to eat something. He just didn’t seem interested. I thought a walk might help, get him hungry through exercise. It also gave me a chance to go through the dream in my head, or at least what I remembered of it, and try to work out what aspect of it had got me worked up. My dreams weren’t usually so vivid. Continue reading “My Dog Speaks in my Sleep 2”

My Dog Speaks in my Sleep

By Chef JRHEvilInc/Joel R. Hunt

//Source. This is part one of a series. Part two coming tomorrow.

Yesterday I got a new dog.

Well, an old dog, really. I rescued him from a shelter. I’d like to pretend I’m one of those Jane Goodall ‘do anything for the animals’ types, but if I’m honest, I was looking to adopt more for my own benefit than for the dog’s.

The thing is, I’ve been ill. For quite a long time, actually. Physically I’m fine (maybe a tad on the weighty side), but in my head… well, my doctor called it ‘suffering acute psychological trauma’. Or in the words of the gentleman at the bus station last week, ‘being a full on nut-case’. I’ve always had a few issues, I think most people have, but it reached new depths when my dad died a few months ago.

It was suicide. I’d really rather not go into it. Continue reading “My Dog Speaks in my Sleep”

The Door Man

By Chef wolfdreams01

//Source.

It started as I was trying to go to sleep. I had brushed my teeth, flossed, and washed my face, but the faint sound of flowing water let me know that the toilet was still running. My toilet is a bit old, and sometimes the flush valve doesn’t close properly unless you jiggle the handle a bit. Sighing to myself, I got up, jiggled the handle until it caught, and went back to my bedroom. Then I froze for a second, because something felt very wrong. My couch is set against the windows facing the street, which means that even in an unlit house, I can see the outline of the couch from the street illumination. But in the split second that I had glanced into my living room before shutting the door, I had seen the silhouette of a person sitting on the sofa.

I quickly opened the door again. There was no silhouette. Maybe it was just a trick of the light. But because I’m paranoid as fuck from reading scary Reddit stories, I went to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and searched the whole house thoroughly. There was nobody here. The doors were locked. I sighed again, concluded that my tired mind had imagined the whole thing, and went to sleep.


It was over a week before I saw it again. I was walking from the living room to the kitchen to do the dishes, and as I passed by the doorway to the corridor that leads to my front door, I caught a glimpse from the corner of my eye of somebody very tall standing at the far end of the corridor. I was right in the middle of my stride so I only saw it for a moment before passing the edge of the doorway, but I knew now that this was no trick of the light. The head had turned slightly as I walked by, as if tracking my movement. I quickly stepped back to the spot where I could see the far end of the hallway to get a better look at the intruder, but it was gone. There was no place it could have disappeared to without me seeing it – the hallway leads right from the front door to my living room, and I hadn’t heard the squeak of my rusty door hinges so it couldn’t have left by this route. But nevertheless, the hallway was now empty.

I stood there for a long time, heart pounding in my chest. Eventually I calmed down and started to clean the fragments of the plate that I had dropped in my fright.


The very next day, I put a Craigslist ad out to find a roommate. Staying in the empty house all by myself really bothered me. I interviewed several potential candidates, and eventually settled on a charming transgender woman named Mary. She had a very calming presence and a stable job. Although I didn’t tell her this, part of the reason that I chose her was because of her size. She was very tall and well-muscled, and I wanted somebody who could back me up physically if I saw that thing again.

Mary and me got along really well, and I felt much more secure with her in the apartment. She was a night owl – whereas I’ve always tended to go to sleep early – and it was reassuring to hear the sound of the television while I was drifting off to sleep. Knowing that on any given evening there was another person within twenty feet of me did a lot to dispel my terror of seeing the apparition again. Maybe it’s the fact that I read too many ghost stories, but I somehow felt that the constant presence of somebody else would protect me from whatever it was I had seen. I was wrong.

It was August when I saw the thing again. I was walking to the basement on a Thursday night to get my laundry from the dryer, and Mary was sitting in the dining room looking towards the window. Even from my quick glance, I could tell that something seemed very wrong with the shadows on her face, but I didn’t want to say anything and so I kept walking. It’s not that she would be angered by my criticism, but one thing that Mary takes a lot of pride in is how feminine she looks, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by saying anything about her makeup. Descending the basement steps, I could hear somebody was already there… in the basement, moving around. I could hear footsteps shuffling on the floor. It’s important to note that our upstairs neighbors don’t have access to our basement – the only people who can get in are me and Mary.

Somehow – almost instinctively – my hand reached for the wooden mop handle that we kept at the top of the basement stairs. Slowly, I unscrewed the body of the mop from the head, and then quietly… ever so quietly… I descended the stairs. The shuffling continued. It was the hardest thing I ever did, but I leaped around the corner, the mop handle raised to bludgeon whatever intruder was in my basement.

It was Mary. She gave a little yelp of terror when she saw me leap out, and dropped the heavy storage boxes that she had been reorganizing. “What the hell!” she exclaimed. “That is SO not funny!” But I could say nothing, and the mop handle dropped from my limp fingers. If Mary was down here, then whom had I passed that was sitting in the living room?


I’ve always considered myself a rational person. Although I read scary stories on the internet, I never really believed in the supernatural. However, it was clear that whatever I was seeing could not be explained scientifically. So I went online to do some research. There are plenty of groups on the internet that focus on alledgedly real occult tales, scary stories, and folklore. Over time, I realized that my tale was not that unique. In fact, there were plenty of stories about similar sightings.

Germany had Der Großmann, supposedly the subject of Goethe’s famous poem “Der Erlkönig.” A tall man who would be seen in the woods, and kidnapped children, stuffing them in a large sack. The Caribbean islands had the “hupia,” a nocturnal humanoid without a face that would paralyze its victims with fear. In the British Isles, it was called the Clutchbone. And in more recent “urban legend”, there were countless tales of the Slender Man. All of these tales had some things in common with my experience. A tall humanoid that could seemingly appear anywhere. Reports on what its face looked like varied, but all accounts agreed that it was incredibly disturbing. Sometimes it would take its victims away, never to be seen again, but others it would leave alone after stalking them for a while. Often these victims were driven almost to the point of insanity from their experience.

One thing that made the stories different from mine is that they generally all happened in the woods, as somebody was travelling through them. I had only seen this… thing… through open doorways, and only for a split second. But when you think about it, is there really that much of a difference? When you are walking and see a doorway out of the corner of your eye, you get a split second glance at what lies beyond the threshold before the corners of the door block your field of vision. When you are walking through the woods, you get a split second glance at what lies in any given spot before a tree passes in front of your line of sight. Maybe there is something about those boundaries – where a person’s vision to a spot is momentarily clear before becoming obscured again – that allows us to see things that we otherwise could not. Or maybe there are some things so horrifying that our minds automatically edit them out as some sort of self-defense mechanism, so the most we can perceive of them are the fragmented glimpses that are too fleeting to give us a full mental image.


I realize that this sounds crazy, but it’s an idea I came to after much thought. I’m sure if I wrote about it in more detail, if I explained all the other times I saw it, I could justify why I arrived at this conclusion. But I have to get this story out, and I don’t know how much time I have left.

One thing that I don’t think many people realize is how many doorways we pass on any given night. Try walking down the street without catching a brief glimpse through somebody’s doorway, or an open window, or an open car door. It is impossible to avoid seeing them. I know this because this evening, I was aware of them all. As I walked home from work, I could see a quick glimpse of that silhouette behind every single doorway, every single open portal that I passed. Always just the faintest glimpse out of the corner of my eye, always with that subtle wrongness about the face – but never sighted directly enough or long enough to make out specific details. But tonight, I have a feeling that I’ll see it in its entirety, and finally know where it takes its other victims. Because even though I only caught fleeting glimpses of it out of the corner of my eye, there was one striking detail about its profile which was very different from all the other times I had spotted it.

Tonight, it was carrying a very large sack.

The Bad Dream

By Chef Anon

“Daddy, I had a bad dream.” You blink your eyes and pull up on your elbows. Your clock glows red in the darkness—it’s 3:23.

“Do you want to climb into bed and tell me about it?”

“No, Daddy.”

The oddness of the situation wakes you up more fully. You can barely make out your daughter’s pale form in the darkness of your room.

“Why not sweetie?”

“Because in my dream, when I told you about the dream, the thing wearing Mommy’s skin sat up.” For a moment, you feel paralyzed; you can’t take your eyes off of your daughter. The covers behind you begin to shift.

I’ve Come to Terms with the Fact that Everything I Know is a Dream

By Chef Tiyafwons

Several years ago, I was in a brutal car accident. I was parked in front of a train track, waiting for the train to pass by. I was the last person not to make it across the tracks. For visualization, there was a solid stream of cars on either side. If I had tried to sneak across, I would have rear-ended the person in front of me before successfully clearing them.

I could hear the train approaching, and the black-and-yellow bars lowered in front of me. I am fascinated by trains, so I was delighted to be so close, finally getting a front row seat. The train was about a quarter mile from the crossing when the driver behind me accelerated and nudged me forward a few feet. The bars bent and eventually snapped, and I was knocked joltingly onto the tracks. I panicked and threw the car into reverse, trying to back out. The other car apparently had more horsepower, however, and to my horror my car door aligned perfectly with the cattle guard on the front of the train.

I scrambled to get out of the car, but forgot about my seatbelt. I nearly strangled myself trying to get free. By the time I unlatched it, it was too late. One fraction of a second of the loudest sound I had ever heard, and then blackness and silence. I was certain that I had died. I didn’t feel any pain, and certainly if I had survived I’d be in agony. I tried to open my eyes, but nothing would happen. I tried to make a sound, to wiggle my fingers, or do anything, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t that I was paralyzed; it was more like I didn’t have a body to manipulate. I was just a mind submerged in a pool of nothing. The only sentiment I felt was that I had returned to that state after being gone for a long time; like forgetting how your parents’ house smells until you visit home for the holidays.

Gradually, I started to have feelings of sensation. Passing waves of warmth and wetness finally allowed me to determine where the edges of my body were. Almost as soon as I became aware of my physical self, it began to ache. I felt as if every inch of me had been pummeled with a baseball bat–the heavy wooden kind. Even opening my eyes was a spectacular ordeal.

I was in a hospital. So I had survived after all. People moved to surround me. Faces that never fully came into focus hovered above my own, and sounds that vaguely resembled speech seemed to reach me through water. It wasn’t long before I felt weak again and my eyes closed.

This fading in and out of consciousness lasted for what felt like a very long time, maybe months, though the doctors told me it was only a matter of days. After that, I worked on speaking and swallowing food, which seems silly, but it was actually a challenge at the time. Finally, as more and more casts were removed, I was allowed to sit up and turn my head, for which I was incredibly grateful.

According to my family and my then-girlfriend Sarah, all of whom were overjoyed at being able to speak with me, I was asleep for several days on end after the crash. I remember Sarah specifically saying she had missed being able to “stare at those beautiful eyes.”

Time passed at an excruciatingly slow pace until physical therapy finally escalated to the point where I could be pushed around in a wheelchair. The doctors were surprisingly hopeful that I’d be able to walk again, but it was what they called “cautious optimism.” Nobody wanted to tell me I could be independent again and then have to admit they were wrong later. Obviously I was very hopeful myself, though even transferring from chair to bed was a painful challenge. It was around this time that I noticed I never dreamed anymore. When I slept, I only felt the same nothingness that I felt immediately after the crash.

All the days blended together for a while after that. The next memory I can actually separate from the rest is the first time I tried walking on my own. There were staff members holding on to my arms and waist, just in case I fell, and with their help, I made it all the way across the room on my first try. The doctors said they had never seen such a rapid recovery. I was giddy.

Obviously I wasn’t out of the woods yet, but soon I was allowed to live at home again with frequent PT sessions, and some weeks after that, I returned to work. Life was almost normal for a while. Except for a very slight limp in my left leg, the side that the train hit me on, I was feeling pretty normal. It was only after about a month of living in my own house that weird things started to happen.

The first thing I noticed was that I felt an occasional stinging on my right forearm, like a thin needle was puncturing my skin. It was a tiny prick, maybe twice a day at most. I figured it was just nerve trauma or something and blocked it from my mind. Feigning ignorance was harder to do when I started hearing things, though. While I was reading in bed one night, I thought I heard Sarah crying. I strained my ears to make sure, and I definitely heard her sobs, but very distantly, like I was submerged in a pool.

I made my way downstairs quickly, concerned that she had hurt herself or something, but she was just washing dishes in the kitchen. “Are you okay?” I asked cautiously.

“Yeah, why?” She asked nonchalantly.

“No reason.”

I dismissed these oddities as best I could. After all, how could anyone expect to recover from being hit by a goddamn train without some lingering effects? Every so often, mostly when I was trying to fall asleep or sitting in a silent room, I would hear occasional sounds that I couldn’t connect at first. Gradually, I determined that they were hospital sounds–stretchers being rolled across tiled floors, beeping from machines, rapid chatter between nurses and doctors.

Although I figured anyone who had suffered as much trauma as I had would experience some degree of whatever I was experiencing, I decided to bring it up with my doctor. He told me it was perfectly normal for someone in my circumstances, and he could prescribe me a sleep aid if I felt it was necessary. I told him it wasn’t a big deal; I was just satisfied that a doctor could explain my symptoms.

The odd glimpses of what seemed to be my past only increased in frequency. When I slept, I finally dreamed again, but it was always the same thing. If I saw anything at all, it was a hospital room. Sometimes there were other people in the room, and sometimes I was alone with the machines.

There was one night in particular in which the dream was more vivid and gripping than usual. My eyes opened wearily to see Sarah asleep on the chair beside my hospital bed. “Sarah?” I croaked. She jerked awake.

“Henry!” She scrambled to my side, clutching my hand. At this point, it occurred to me that I was dreaming. I stared right into Sarah’s eyes.

“I’m asleep right now.”

She seemed concerned. “No, Henry. You’re finally awake. I’m right here. It’s been so long.”

“Of course you would say that. You’re a part of my dream.” I smiled, amused. “I’ll probably wake up any second.” But as I spoke the familiar soreness caught up to me all at once. It practically knocked the wind from my lungs.

“Henry, no.” Her distress was now evident. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Stay with me, Henry. Stay awake. Look at me.” I shook my head defiantly and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I was back in my own bed. It was about 3:00 in the morning. I sat awake, pondering what I had just seen. I thought I heard Sarah crying again, even though I could see her sleeping beside me.

When Sarah finally woke up, she rolled over and laid an arm across my chest. “Good morning, big guy.” She smiled groggily.

“If I was asleep right now, would you tell me?” I asked.

“What?” She chuckled. “That’s kinda heavy stuff to drop on a sleepy person.”

“Just bear with me. If I was asleep right now–dreaming, you know–would you tell me?”

“Well, I feel pretty real,” she noted, patting different parts of her body. “Do you think I’m not real?”

“Of course not,” I said. We got ready for our day. I couldn’t stop thinking about my dream, though. I noticed that when I tried really hard to space out at work, and listened closely enough, I could hear the hospital sounds more clearly. I was naturally concerned about this.

That night, I went to bed early, and just as I thought, I was transported immediately to the hospital bed. I felt the thin sheets beneath my fingers. I opened my eyes, and Sarah was reading a book in the same chair as before. I just looked at her for a long time, trying to discern if she was real. She certainly seemed real enough. She turned pages with the same flourish that she always had, and chewed on one of the temples of her reading glasses.

Eventually, she looked up and met my eyes. “You’re awake again!” She gasped. “Victoria! Paul! He’s awake!” My parents entered the room moments later, looking excited.

I talked with them all for a long time. Of course, my parents, too, denied the fact that I was asleep, but that topic passed quickly. Instead, we discussed my condition. I had been in a coma for almost three months with little response. They had been slowly losing hope for my recovery until my brain showed signs of activity. Since that time, they had been visiting me frequently, hoping that I would wake up. It seemed a pretty convincing story.

After many hours of talking, I had to stop; I was legitimately sleepy. Of course, they all understood and I fell back asleep. Only this time, I didn’t wake up in my own bed. I woke up in the same hospital bed a few hours later. I had to think about it for a very long time, but eventually concluded that I must have imagined my miraculous recovery, and had been in a coma the whole time after all. As you can imagine, it was hard to accept at first.

Since then, I have been making a second recovery, which has been slower and less successful than the first. That’s why, for a long time, I was mostly convinced that I’m really awake this time. Nobody walks after getting blindsided by a train, at least not without lots of hard work. I’ve still only left my wheelchair on crutches, and it’s been six years.

It probably sounds like a bittersweet ending, and at one point I agreed. I was prepared to live happily-ever-after in my wheelchair, and maybe even graduate to crutches someday, except for one thing. When I’m getting ready for bed, after I turn off my lamp and my head hits the pillow, I can still hear them; the faint sounds of a busy hospital.

I know that many of you will say “But I’m real. This is real life. Of course you’re awake.” But that’s what you’re supposed to say. Nobody’s going to tell me “I’m fake. You’re dreaming, wake up.” I’m still asleep, and I’ve learned to deal with it. I know that nobody I meet during the day is real, but I’m tired, so I just pretend, and that will have to do.