"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 Seven.
*Content Warning: Blood, death, rot, some violence
"The Nightmare" by Arushi Kashyap
Chapter Seven: The Flooding Room
I opened my eyes.
No sound. No breath. Just stillness.
The room was white—too white. It didn’t shine; it pulsed. It felt like it was holding its breath with me. No doors. No windows. Just a single glass wall. Behind it— A bathroom.
Something dripped.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Image Description: Water runs from a stall, silver spout into a white tub. A window rises behind the tub with a washed-out background.
Credit: Yaroslav Shuraev / Pexels
I stepped forward. The air was too thick. My limbs were too heavy. The ache in my palm flared—where the scalpel had kissed it earlier. Behind the glass: a tub. Inside the tub—a girl.
Floating.
Limbs slack. Hair spreading like black ink in still water. Her face turned away. Skin pale, fragile. And still—something gripped my spine. I knew that face. I moved closer. And the girl turned. Slow. Mechanical. It was me. Pale. Dead. Eyes wide open. Mouth parted—as if caught mid-scream but never finished. I stumbled back. My breath caught in my throat. Then— The water spilled. Over the tub’s edge. Onto the tile. Not water anymore. Blood. Dark. Thick. Alive. It crawled like a beast across the floor. It touched my toes. I backed away. It reached my ankles. My knees. My waist. I screamed. Slammed my fists against the glass. It wouldn’t break. I screamed again, throat raw, air burning. It reached my chest. My shoulders. I was drowning in
blood. The glass held. I punched it, punched it, until my broken palm left red smears across it. The blood rose. I was choking. Then—
Crack.
A fracture, thin as a spider’s thread, ran across the glass. And everything— Shattered.
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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