Nightmare Shorts

The White Man on the Hill

When I was ten, I was playing tag with my friends under the bright moon. Our small town is next to a hill that always looked spooky at night. We dared each other to go close to it, where people said ghosts lived.

It was my turn to be “it.” As I chased my friends, I felt a strange chill. I looked up, and there he was—standing on the hilltop. He was all in white, not moving, his shirt and pants fluttering as if in a breeze. His eyes were dark holes staring right at me.

I couldn’t move or call out. My friends' laughs faded away, and everything got really quiet. He slowly raised his arm, pointing straight at me, his face blank but filled with sorrow. I felt terror squeeze my heart, and I stumbled back, breaking free from his spell. I ran to my friends, but when I looked back, he was gone.

Since that night, I’ve had terrible nightmares. In them, the white man is always on that hill, never blinking, never looking away. I wake up shaking, his hollow eyes burned into my mind.

Then, one day, while walking near the hill, I saw something buried in the ground where he had stood. It was a small, old pocket watch. I opened it, and inside was a faded photograph of a boy who looked just like me.

As I stared at the photo, a cold breeze blew past, and I heard a whisper. “Come back.” I realized the white man wasn’t just a ghost. He was me—or someone who wanted me to become him. I dropped the watch and ran, but the nightmares have only gotten worse since.

Now, every time I dream, I feel myself getting closer to that hill, as if the white man is waiting for me to take my place.