"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 Three.
*Content Warning: Blood, death, rot, some violence
"The Nightmare" by Arushi Kashyap
Chapter Three: The White Room
Image Description: An all-white hospital room, stark and bare in nature. A simple cot stands in the center of the room between two counters. A sink stands on the left by the window. A tall wardrobe stands on the right side. The room is brightly lit.
Credit: Pixabay / Pexels
I opened my eyes.
The world was white.
Not peaceful. Not clean. Just... wrong.
Too sterile. Too still.
I sat up slowly. My limbs were stiff like borrowed parts. The sheets beneath me smelled of bleach and iron. A flimsy hospital gown clung to my skin—this wasn’t mine.
Where am I?
Beds surrounded me. Pale figures lay motionless.
Some stared blankly at the ceiling.
Some twitched.
Some looked dead—but their eyes moved.
My head ached.
A deep throb, like something was carved into bone.
I touched the bandage on my scalp and winced—beneath it, crusted blood.
“Hello?” I called out. My voice echoed. Too far. Too long. The room was much bigger than it looked. A nurse appeared. No footsteps. Just there. She smiled. Too wide. Eyes too round. Too calm.
“You need your medicine,” she said, lifting a syringe.
I backed away. “What medicine? What’s happening?”
“Just relax.”
She stepped closer. The needle gleamed.
“No,” I whispered. Then louder—“No!”
She lunged.
I pushed her. The syringe clattered to the floor. Her face didn’t contort in anger or pain.
She grinned.
As if she’d been waiting.
She grabbed something from her tray.
A scalpel.
And plunged it into my palm.
The pain hit like lightning. I screamed. Blood ran down my arm—thick, red, real. I shoved her back, stumbled from the bed, clutching my bleeding hand. I ran. Down endless, sterile halls. Doors lined the walls. They began to open. Not patients inside. Not people. Things. White-eyed. Silent. Smiling. I ran faster. Their heads turned in sync. They began to walk—calmly—toward me. I reached the end of the hallway— But the hallway... didn’t end. It turned. And turned again.
And again.
Every corridor looked the same. Same peeling wallpaper. Same flickering light. I passed a window. And then, moments later, the same window again.
I’ve already been here. The light above buzzed. A door appeared on the right with a black smear across it. I ran past it.
Thirty seconds later—
The same, black-smeared door. My heart thudded. I stopped. Scratched the wall with my fingernail. Ran forward. The scratch was ahead of me again. I was looping.
“No no no no—”
Footsteps behind me. The nurse. Her shoes are now clicking. Slow. Rhythmic. I ran to the black-smeared door. Banged. It opened. I stumbled through— And froze.
This wasn’t a hospital. It was something else. The air turned wet, thick with the stench of decay. A long, narrow hallway stretched before me—metal doors lining the walls. From behind them: Crying. Screaming. Scratching. Figures crouched in corners—rocking, clawing at their skin. Some tore out their hair. Some just stared. One grabbed my wrist—
Their fingers freezing, nails biting into my skin. Their mouth foamed with black liquid. They whispered something in a language I didn’t know. “Let go!” I shrieked, pulling free. I turned into a side corridor— And fell— Into a cold, dark room. My eyes adjusted. Steel drawers lined the walls. Some slightly ajar. Some groaning open. A mortuary. The scent of rot hit me like a slap.
I backed away—shaking. But then... the drawers started opening. One by one. Inside—bodies. Twisted. Blue. Bloated. I spun to run— And tripped over something metal. A gurney. I landed on it. Hard. And then—hands. From beneath the gurney. From the walls. From the floor. Cold. Countless. Grabbing my arms. Legs. Hair. I screamed. Fought. But they held me down.
The lights flickered.
Everything froze. All the hands vanished. Except one figure remained. A shadow. No face. Just bone and smoke. It stepped onto the gurney. Onto me. Its fingers wrapped around my neck. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. This is it. This is real. Or is it still a dream?
My hand—
The scalpel was still there. With the last of my strength, I stabbed upward. The scream it made wasn’t human. Glass shattered in my skull. Everything burst into black.
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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