"The Nightmare" by Arushi Kashyap is a spooky tale of a dream gone wrong. It is told in eight parts, with each part whisking the reader into a new dreamscape. This is Chapter Four.
*Content Warning: Blood, death, rot, some violence.
"The Nightmare" by Arushi Kashyap
Chapter Four The Wrong Mother
I gasped awake.
Again.
My bed.
My room.
Morning light filtered through the curtains. Birds chirped somewhere—distant, faint. Everything looked... normal. But that word was starting to lose meaning. I sat up slowly; afraid a sudden movement might tear the seams of this world wide open. My walls. My books. My mirror. Everything exactly where it should be. Then I saw her. My mother. Standing in the hallway, just outside my door. Still. Watching.
“Mom?” I croaked.
Image Description: Pale hands beat against closed window. The top portion of the window is beaded glass. The white paint around it is peeling.
Credit: Gül Işık / Pexels
She didn’t answer. I got up. My legs were sore. Heavy. I slid into my slippers and stepped toward her. She turned—without a word—and walked away.
“Darling,” she called from somewhere else. But her voice... It wasn’t hers. Deeper. Hollow. Like it was coming through a tunnel.
“Come here, baby.”
That voice again. But this time—from outside. I froze. My mother... was standing in the garden now. But she had just been here. I turned around—
Someone was in my room. The woman who’d stood in the hallway. Still. Silent. But not my mother. Her hair hung in long, matted strands. Her skin—pale grey, thin as paper, veins crawling like vines up her arms. Her eyes—milky white. Empty. Her head tilted slowly, like a doll being tested for cracks. Then—I saw it.
The knife.
Clutched behind her back.
“No...” I whispered. “No, no, no—”
I ran to the window. It wouldn’t open. The latch was stuck. I yanked. Slammed. My fingers clawed at the frame. Behind me— The soft scrape of her feet on wood. She was coming closer.
Her breath ragged. Like death... whistling through a broken flute. I screamed. Fumbled. The window finally cracked open— And I jumped.
The fall wasn’t far— But the landing hurt like hell. My back slammed against earth. My head struck something hard. Pain exploded behind my eyes. I lay there, limbs frozen. The sky spun above me, lazy and mocking. Something pressed against my chest. Invisible. Heavy. Suffocating. I gasped. My lungs refused to fill. My body felt buried. Like I was under it, not inside it. Then—
To Be Continued...
About the Author
Arushi Kashyap is a fiction writer from India who loves exploring different genres—from haunting thrillers to tender tales of love and loss. She finds inspiration in the blurred lines between dream and reality, often weaving emotion and imagination into every story she writes.
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