A Lucid Nightmare About the Man Without Eyes
The doorbell rang as soon as I entered the dream. The living room, the bedroom, and the light from the gas station downstairs that enters through the kitchen were exact renditions of the apartment I inhabit in my waking life. The doorbell continued to ring until I approached the front door and looked through the peephole.
An empty hallway and silence. This already happened. I drove away the memory of that terrible dream by imagining the English countryside, the farm where my mother grew up, my father’s garden, but the doorbell rang once more. This time, persistence was ascertained by the deliberate pounding of the door, the doorbell sounding so that I clutched at my ears weakened and desperate to discover the source of my distress.
My eyes stared through the hole, again. Someone was standing directly in front of the door.
He wore a navy hoodie, his head lowered so that the top of the hood brushing over my line of vision. I waited. Another minute and I would be compelled to look away.
He raised his head and I was forced to look at a face without eyes. The face pressed against the tiny convex lens. It was time to run my body on autopilot. But I couldn’t turn around or look away. My feet were heavy, my neck cemented in place. I managed to lift one foot off the ground and push against the door. I moved back momentarily only to slam back against the door with greater force. Now someone or something had pressed my head onto the door maintaining a sturdy grip around my neck and applying pressure. I wanted to scream, “Game over!” to exit the nightmare, but I could no longer breathe.
I woke up and couldn’t remember where I was. Where my closet normally stood, I saw a large plank of wood and a blurred object hovering over it. I shook my head and tried to focus. I was awake, but very afraid to go back to sleep.