A NIGHTMARE

The Encounter

Something hard struck me from behind with sudden force, sending me crashing face-first onto the ground before I had any time to react. The impact pressed heavily against my body, stealing the breath from my lungs and leaving me stunned, unable to move for a few seconds as confusion clouded my thoughts.

All I could hear was Isharma’s voice breaking through the noise.

“Nicole!”

Her voice sounded distant, almost swallowed by the chaos around us.

Then, through the haze, a raspy voice spoke calmly.

“Roller.”

The tone was controlled and deliberate.

Immediately, the weight that had been holding me down disappeared. The pressure lifted so suddenly that it left my body light and disoriented, as though the command alone had caused the force to withdraw.

For a moment, I remained on the ground while my vision slowly began to clear.

That was when I raised my head.

Standing nearby was a large dog with dark fur — nearly black — its coat sleek and reflecting faint light. It was powerfully built, muscular yet disciplined, its stance steady rather than aggressive. The animal stood close to the pale man who had spoken, clearly responding to him with trained obedience. Its eyes were sharp and intensely focused, alert without being chaotic, watching everything with unsettling precision as it waited for the next command.

Before I could fully process the scene, our school principal stepped forward, his expression serious and authoritative.

“Mr. Philips…”

The tone carried weight, cutting cleanly through the air.

As the voices around me faded into background noise, I felt hands gently grip my shoulders.

“Nicole, are you okay?” Isharma asked urgently.

She helped me sit upright, her support steady and careful. Once she was sure I could balance on my own, she assisted me to my feet.

“Yeah,” I replied softly, nodding to reassure her. “I’m okay. I just got startled.”

She stayed close for a moment before releasing me, her concern still visible.

Now that I was fully standing, my eyes drifted to the man who had called out 'Roller'.

He was tall and strikingly pale, his skin almost colorless beneath the light. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes completely, the lenses thick and reflective, hiding any trace of emotion. The frame sat firmly against his face, giving him a guarded, controlled appearance, as though he preferred not to let anyone see what lay behind them. His posture was unnaturally straight — rigid, almost rehearsed — and he stood with quiet confidence, hands resting calmly at his sides. There was something deliberate about the way he carried himself, like someone accustomed to authority. His faint smile didn’t appear warm or friendly; it remained subtle, unreadable, and carefully maintained.

He didn’t seem surprised by anything.

Just composed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Isharma watching him as well. Her face tightened slightly before she leaned closer and muttered under her breath, “Creepy.”

The word lingered.

“Creepy,” I repeated silently.

She wasn’t wrong.

Without realizing it, I stopped listening to the introductions around us. My attention drifted toward the row of buildings ahead, standing in neat formation. Most looked ordinary, but one slowly separated itself from the rest, drawing my focus until it dominated my view.

It was a tall structure — worn and abandoned. Its paint had faded, its windows appeared dull and lifeless, and time seemed to have settled heavily across its walls. Compared to the surrounding buildings, it felt out of place, as though it no longer belonged in the orderly arrangement.

And yet…

It did not feel frightening. Not welcoming either. Just significant. As if something rested quietly beneath its silence. I narrowed my eyes, trying to understand the strange pull tightening in my chest, and before I fully realized it, I had started walking toward it. My steps were slow as I moved away from the group and closer to the building, and with each step, my focus became sharper.

The conversations behind me faded as I approached the wall. The surface looked rough and aged up close. I lifted my hand and slowly placed it against the craft, trying to put my thoughts together while I felt the texture beneath my fingertips.

That was when Mr. Philips appeared beside me.

Without warning, he reached out and held my arm firmly, his grip steady and unmistakably authoritative. His posture remained straight, and although his expression was composed, his voice carried a commanding tone.

“This area was strictly out of bounds,” he stated.

The words were brief but firm, leaving no room for argument.

Before I could respond, he guided me away from the wall and led me back toward the rest of the students. His hand remained lightly but decisively on my arm as he redirected my steps with quiet authority, ensuring I returned to the group.

I glanced back once, but the building stood unchanged behind us — silent and unmoving.

The atmosphere around the building felt heavier than before, settling over the grounds in a quiet way that made everything seem slightly distant, and as I stood there, my attention shifted across the surroundings, observing the workers as they carried our luggage toward a nearby building, their movements steady and deliberate while they organized the bags into neat groups near the entrance, creating a sense of preparation that made the place feel more structured than expected.

As we were gradually guided in that direction, I followed the line of students, taking in the details around me — the building’s exterior, the staff’s instructions, the quiet conversations between classmates — until we were informed that each room would contain two students, a simple arrangement that suddenly felt more personal, and as names were called out, I listened carefully, my heart tightening slightly with each pairing, until I finally heard mine announced alongside Isharma’s.

A soft sigh escaped me before I could stop it, relief settling gently in my chest — at least I would not be alone.

We walked together toward our assigned room, carrying our belongings inside, and after placing everything down and adjusting our things in the space, I stepped back and closed the door behind us, allowing the quiet of the room to surround us.

The room was simple but orderly — two beds positioned on opposite sides, a small desk near the window, and a narrow wardrobe pressed against the wall. The air inside felt still, almost too still, as though it had not been disturbed in a while. Sunlight filtered faintly through the curtains, casting a muted glow across the floor, yet the corners of the room remained slightly dim.

I stood there for a moment, letting my eyes adjust, noticing how the silence seemed to settle around us rather than simply exist. Even the distant sounds from the corridor felt muted now, as if the walls absorbed them.

I placed my bag carefully beside the bed and glanced at Isharma, who was already moving toward her side of the room. For a brief second, neither of us spoke. The quiet between us felt different — not uncomfortable, but aware.

I reached into my pocket when my phone suddenly vibrated loudly, the sound breaking the quiet of the room and drawing my attention instantly. My fingers closed around it, and I pulled it out quickly, my heart lifting with quiet expectation as I hoped to see my mom’s name appear on the screen.

For a brief second, I stared at the display, waiting for a familiar call icon — something reassuring, something from home.

But as my eyes scanned the screen, I realized it was only a notification.

A simple alert.

No call.

The small surge of anticipation faded, replaced by a subtle disappointment that I tried not to dwell on. I exhaled softly, lowering my gaze as I locked the screen and placed the phone carefully on the desk beside me.

I placed the phone carefully on the desk beside me, the soft thud barely audible in the quiet room. For a moment, I remained still, letting the silence settle again, before slowly turning around.

When I faced the room, I noticed Isharma already seated comfortably on her bed, completely absorbed in a book. Her posture was relaxed, her attention focused, as though nothing else existed beyond the pages in her hands. A few strands of her dark, curly hair had fallen forward, brushing lightly against the pages as she read.

Curious, I glanced at the cover.

Dealings and guns.

She must have felt my eyes on her, because she looked up almost immediately and offered a small smile.

“It’s a really good book,” she said casually. “You should read it.”

I returned a faint smile in response, though my thoughts were still lingering elsewhere, my gaze drifted toward the room window, and as I stared through the glass, something suddenly struck me.

Ever since I had arrived here, I had not seen him again — no visions, no warnings, no sudden appearances from the old man who had followed me in fragments throughout the day. The realization settled slowly at first, then tightened inside my chest. The absence felt unusual, almost intentional.

Something did not feel right.

Through the window, I caught sight of Mr. Philips stepping into a car near the premises, preparing to leave. His movements were calm and unhurried, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

And yet, the moment I saw him, a strange sensation stirred within me — subtle at first, then insistent.

I did not pause to analyze it.

I simply reacted.

Without fully understanding why, I moved toward the door, opened it quickly, and rushed into the hallway, descending the stairs with urgent steps, driven by an impulse I could not explain. There was no clear reason guiding me — only instinct.

As I hurried downward, unaware that eyes were tracking my every movement, I felt the weight of attention settle behind me. My classmates had turned to stare, their expressions confused, as though they believed I was being chased, and faint murmurs rippled through the air, weaving into the echo of my footsteps. Heat crept up my neck beneath their scrutiny, but I refused to glance back. Instead, I pushed forward with sudden determination, my heartbeat accelerating as something inside me urged me on — until I realized too late that someone stood directly in front of me.

Before I could react, I collided firmly with my Biology teacher, Mr. Henry. The impact jolted through my body, throwing me slightly off balance as I stumbled against him. The sudden contact startled me, and a sharp gasp escaped my lips the moment our eyes met. For an instant, embarrassment flooded my face, and my stomach tightened as the surrounding whispers seemed to swell.

I quickly regained my posture, raising my hands in apology as I spoke, “I’m so sorry, sir,” and instinctively extended one hand to assist him. He refused without hesitation, meeting me with a tight, irritated expression that deepened the heat in my cheeks. The rejection unsettled me more than the collision itself.

He stood upright on his own, methodically brushing dust from his clothes, his movements controlled and deliberate. When he looked at me again, his gaze was steady and unyielding as he murmured, “Watch your steps, Miss Morley.” His tone was clipped and restrained, clearly displeased, and the words settled heavily between us while the faint murmurs around us continued, amplifying the awkwardness of the moment.

I ignored the embarrassment lingering behind me and walked past it, stepping out of the dormitory and into the grounds outside. The moment I crossed the threshold, I was met by a chilling atmosphere that settled over the premises like an unseen presence. The air felt still and faintly oppressive, carrying a strange weight that made the surroundings seem more distant than they were.

My eyes scanned the area carefully. There was no sign of Mr. Philips. No staff members patrolling the grounds. No movement beyond the occasional breeze shifting across the pavement. The space felt temporarily unguarded, as though the world had paused just long enough for me to notice.

The absence created an opening — a rare moment where nothing stood between me and the questions pressing inside my mind. It felt like a chance to confront the uncertainty that had been building since I arrived, to finally seek clarity instead of ignoring the pull that had been guiding me.

Without hesitation, my pace quickened, each step carrying me farther from the dormitory and deeper into the open grounds. The further I moved, the more the air seemed to shift around me, as though the surroundings were subtly acknowledging my direction. My determination replaced any lingering doubt, guiding me forward with steady resolve rather than panic. The outline of the story building gradually emerged ahead — first as a shadow against the horizon, then as a solid, unmistakable presence — until it filled my vision completely. When I finally stopped, I was standing directly before it once more, facing the same structure I had touched earlier. Up close, its aged walls appeared even more worn, the faded paint peeling in uneven layers, the windows reflecting the dim light without revealing anything within.

The building remained unmoving, yet its stillness felt intentional, as though it were observing me just as closely as I observed it, suspended in a quiet tension that seemed to thicken the air between us.

I reached for the door handle and turned it slowly, the metal cool beneath my fingers, before pushing the door open. The moment it creaked inward, a faint cloud of dust drifted into the air, rising from the threshold and brushing against my face. I instinctively stepped back, coughing softly as I waved my hand in front of me, trying to clear the particles from my eyes. The air inside carried the scent of age — dry, stale, untouched — as if the room had been sealed away from time itself.

When the dust finally settled, my eyes adjusted to the interior, widening slightly at what I saw. The room was empty. Completely vacant. Yet it appeared larger than it had seemed from the outside, its space stretching farther back than expected, the corners fading into shadow. The walls were bare, the floor plain, and there was an unsettling openness to the area — not cluttered, not occupied — just vast and waiting, as though it had been prepared for something that had not yet arrived, and as I stepped further inside I noticed how empty the corridor truly was, where I could clearly see eight doors arranged along the walls, four on each side, evenly spaced and identical in appearance, all closed with plain unmarked surfaces that blended so seamlessly into the structure they almost felt like part of the walls themselves, giving the impression that each door had a deliberate purpose, yet my eyes were naturally drawn toward the fourth door positioned deeper inside the corridor, standing slightly farther than the rest and subtly separated as though it had been placed at the center of something important, when suddenly I heard the faint sound of an organ beginning to play, soft and distant like the kind used during a Catholic service, carrying a solemn rhythm that was steady and controlled, and gradually angelic singing joined it, voices layered in harmonious unison with a pure and reverent tone, the melody echoing beautifully through the corridor and creating an atmosphere that felt sacred and ceremonial yet completely out of place inside the abandoned building, and because the sound seemed to be coming from the fourth door I hesitated for a moment, my steps slowing as I stood still listening while my heart began to beat faster not from fear but from uncertainty, until I finally approached the door and reached for the handle, pausing briefly before turning it as something inside me urged caution, and after taking a breath I tried to open it only to find that it did not move, confirming it was locked, so I tried again but it remained firmly shut while the music continued faintly behind it, and then I knocked gently and called out, “Hello? Is anyone inside?” but no one answered, and after a few more seconds the organ suddenly stopped, the singing ending with it, leaving behind a complete and unnatural silence that felt heavy as though the building itself had paused, a chill moving across my skin as I leaned closer to the door and in that stillness heard a soft whisper say, “Run,” drifting from the shadows behind me as though someone had been trying to warn me, and when I asked who was there there was no reply, but then I noticed the doorknob slowly turning from the inside in a deliberate unhurried motion, and as my breathing quickened and it twisted once more instinct took over, causing me to step back immediately, turn around, and run down the corridor toward the main door, passing the eight motionless doors that blurred beside me without any of them opening or reacting, the building feeling longer than before as though something within was watching my movement, and I did not look back even once until I reached the main entrance, pulled it open, and rushed outside into the air where I finally stopped.

From outside, I bent forward, placing my hands on my knees as I struggled to steady my breathing. My chest rose and fell rapidly, my heart still racing from what I had experienced. My eyes scanned the surroundings as though I expected something to follow me out.

Suddenly, a wave of dizziness washed over me, and the ground seemed to tilt beneath my feet. My vision blurred, leaving me light-headed and unsteady as my body began to fall forward—only for strong arms to catch me before I hit the ground.

As I slowly raised my head, I found myself looking into Damian’s worried blue eyes. His blonde hair fell slightly over his forehead, and he wore a brown floral top paired with dark-colored jeans. He held me firmly but carefully, concern written clearly across his face.

Before I could fully gather myself, he cupped my face gently.

“Baby, are you okay?” he asked, his voice low and urgent.

I swallowed, forcing myself to breathe steadily.

“I-I’m fine,” I replied, my voice slightly raspy from running and shock, even though my body still felt weak.

For a moment, I leaned into his support, but my attention shifted back toward the building. As I looked at it, dread quietly returned to my chest.

Damian noticed the direction of my gaze and began walking toward the entrance, his movements cautious, as if he intended to check it himself.

Worry tightened within me at the thought that whatever had been inside was still there.

Before I could stop him, he stepped forward.

“There’s something inside there,” I said, my voice serious.

He paused, turning back to study my expression carefully before replying in a calm but firm tone,

“There’s nothing there.”

After saying that, he moved toward the door anyway, placing his hand on the handle to test it. It didn’t move. He tried again, but it remained firmly locked.

I stared at it in disbelief, confusion replacing fear.

“How was that possible?” I whispered. “It couldn’t have been locked…”

He turned back to me and gently placed his hand on my neck. His expression shifted instantly.

After a brief pause, he said in a serious tone,

“You’re burning up.”

I did not respond immediately. My mouth felt dry, and only then did I remember that I had not eaten or drunk anything all day. The realization settled in quietly as I tried to steady myself.

“I’m just feeling a little dehydrated and all,” I finally said, attempting to sound casual.

he studied my face with focused concern, his eyes scanning my expression as if measuring every detail, then he nodded slightly and said, “Let’s get you something to eat.”

He placed his hand gently on my waist and guided me away from the building, leading me toward the cafeteria. As we walked, I could not resist turning my head to glance back at the structure one more time — the same building that had unsettled me, the same doors, the same silence — standing there as though nothing unusual had happened at all.

But I knew what I had heard.

And I knew what I had seen.

As he continued to lead me through the park grounds, the silence pressed in around us like a living thing. The usual clamor of laughter, screams of delight, and spinning rides was absent; even the scent of popcorn or candy seemed muted, replaced by the faint, lingering smell of sun-warmed asphalt and old wood. The park felt abandoned, frozen in time, more like a museum preserving moments than a playground meant for amusement. Each ride we passed—a carousel, a Ferris wheel, a roller coaster—stood still, their colors dulled and edges dusted with neglect. The painted horses on the carousel, frozen mid-gallop, looked almost mournful, like statues recalling joy long forgotten.

“Just over here,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. I followed, my steps careful, every sense alert. The air was quiet, the kind of quiet that made even the faintest creak of a distant gate or rustle of leaves sound startling. Shadows stretched unnaturally between rides, and the empty benches and silent concession stands made the place feel suspended in time, a museum of amusement frozen at some unmarked hour.

Eventually, we reached a small, slightly weathered restaurant tucked along a side path. Its wooden exterior was faded, rough, and worn by years of exposure. A hand-painted sign swayed lazily above the door, creaking faintly in the still air. The smell of grilled meat and freshly baked bread drifted out toward us, grounding me, reminding me that some semblance of normal life persisted even here. he held the door open, and I stepped inside, grateful for the subtle warmth the interior offered.

The restaurant was modest, the dim, golden light brushing softly against checkered tablecloths and the worn wooden floor. A few tables were scattered, but no other patrons filled the room—it was quiet, still, as though the restaurant existed in a world slightly apart from the empty park outside. The air smelled comforting: roasted meat, baked bread, and a faint spice that wrapped around me like a blanket. A soft country tune drifted from a speaker near the bar, a lazy strum of guitar accompanied by a fiddle, filling the quiet corners of the room. The music had a slow, easy rhythm that made the space feel like a refuge rather than just a restaurant.

Damian led me to a table near the corner, tucked slightly away from the center, and I sank into the chair, the scrape of wood against floor grounding me in the moment. Not long after, a waitress approached. Her uniform was tidy, though a little frayed at the edges, and short dark hair framed her friendly, patient face. Her eyes held a subtle curiosity, like she could sense unease and wanted to offer reassurance.

“Hi there! What can I git y’all today?” she asked, her voice carrying the soft drawl of a country accent, warm and lilting, drawing out the words in a way that made the question feel gentle and inviting rather than intrusive.

he looked over at me as if waiting for an answer. I hesitated for a moment, then stuttered softly, “J-just coffee,” the words slipping out with a faint, nervous smile.

He glanced back at the waitress and said quietly, “Add that with two breadsticks.” She nodded, giving a polite smile before walking off to place our order.

I turned back to him, confusion knitting my brows. He caught my gaze and squeezed my hand gently, his voice low and measured. “You haven’t had anything all day. I can’t let you have just coffee.” He let out a slow sigh, the tension in his chest easing slightly. “You aren’t taking care of yourself… so don’t stop me when I try to take care of you.”

I avoided his gaze, letting my fingers twist nervously in mine. His eyes softened, studying me, before he asked, his tone careful but insistent, “Is there something going on… that you’re not telling me?”