"The Nightmare" (horror) 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 Six.
*Content Warning: Blood, death, rot, some violence
"The Nightmare" by Arushi Kashyap
Chapter Six: The School That Remembers
I gasped awake.
A classroom.
On the board, written in red chalk:
“Dreams are where we bury the parts we don’t want to meet.”
Image Description: Simple, metal chairs with thin, brown cushions sit in rows as if waiting for students to attend a lecture. Gray-brown paint is peeling off the bare walls.
Credit: Soner Arkan / Pexels
I blinked. The classroom buzzed with silence. No voices. No chalk. Just... watching. Rows of students sat hunched over their desks, motionless, heads bowed like statues frozen mid-prayer. Outside, the sky was grey and still—as if the clouds, too, were holding their breath. I looked down. A test paper sat on my desk. My name written neatly at the top : (ARYA) But not in my handwriting. Below it, questions. Odd ones.
“What is your first memory of pain?”
“What did you bury in the garden?”
“Why are there two of you?”
My hands trembled.
I flipped the page.
More questions.
“How did you die the first time?”
“Where is the real you?”
“Who pulled your leg at the cliff?”
Ink began to drip from the page like black rain. I looked up. The teacher stood at the front of the class. Their faces were blurred—smudged like an erased drawing. They pointed at me.
“Time’s up,” they said. The room began to shake. My paper caught fire. I stood now in a different room. A small, dim space with iron bars across the windows. The blackboard read:
“DETENTION – FOR DREAMING WITHOUT PERMISSION”
A broken clock on the wall ticked backward. I wasn’t alone. There were others in the room. All of them were me. One version of me was scribbling furiously on a chalkboard, writing over and over:
“I do not exist. I do not exist. I do not exist.”
Another sat in the corner, pulling out her own hair, whispering something I couldn’t hear. I tried the door. Locked. The lights flickered. The me at the chalkboard turned slowly, eyes wide and hollow and spoke in my voice: “They’re deleting us. One version at a time.”
Suddenly—
The door opened. Darkness greeted me like an old friend. I walked out. The hallway stretched endlessly. Lockers lined both sides. Each one had a nameplate. All of them were my name.
But different.
A. Verma
Ana V.
A. S. V. (Deceased)
Anusha Vairagi
Alias: Red Ghost
Thousands of versions. Each locker pulsed softly, like it was breathing. I opened the first one. Inside—my old teddy bear. Its face ripped. Its button eyes were replaced with teeth. I opened another. A wedding veil, soaked in blood. Another. A hospital wristband. My name. Today’s date. Time of death: 3:47 a.m. I kept walking.
Then—
I found a locker. No name on it. Only a mirror inside. And in the reflection— Me. Standing at the edge of a cliff. Hyenas behind me. A shadow in front. And me—again—pulling my own leg down. I reached toward the mirror. The glass rippled. And swallowed me whole.
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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