WAKE UP: RISE OF THE DEMON LORD

‎“It’s not real. It’s not real. Everything you see is not real. It’s all an illusion. Wake up. Wake up!”‎The voice sliced through the silence like shattered glass. ‎ ‎Alf jerked upright, breath catching in his throat. The world around him was still—the faint hum of the ceiling fan, the soft breathing of his wife beside him, the gentle tick of the clock on the wall. Everything looked normal. Too normal. ‎‎He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead. Cold sweat. His heart thudded in his chest, slow but heavy, each beat echoing through the dark like footsteps down a long hallway. ‎‎He wasn’t dreaming. He knew that much. ‎ ‎Yet the voice; deep, masculine, disturbingly familiar, still rang in his mind. For six months, those same words had haunted him. At first, he thought it was stress, or exhaustion, but lately the line between dream and waking had blurred. ‎ ‎The last two weeks had been the worst. The voice no longer waited for night. It followed him into daylight; whispering through crowds, breaking through radio static, echoing off reflections in passing windows. Sometimes strangers would stop, stare, and shout the same phrase back at him. “Wake up.” ‎‎He’d brush it off, force a smile, pretend he hadn’t heard. But every time, his chest tightened, and his reality felt just a little thinner.‎Was he going insane? Or was everyone else asleep? SCENE TWO : ARE WE OKEY ‎“Mom, is Dad okay?” Thuran’s small voice pulled Sky out of her daze. ‎ ‎She forced a smile. “Yes, he’s fine, honey. Don’t worry about him. He’s just… tired.” ‎ ‎But her eyes told a different story. The woman staring back from the mirror each morning barely looked like her. Pale skin, sunken eyes, dark shadows beneath them. Coffee had become her lifeline. Fear, her companion. ‎At first, she thought Alf’s nightmares were just bad dreams. Now they were something else entirely. ‎‎Each night was a war. ‎ ‎Sometimes his body turned ghostly cold, his lips blue, his breathing shallow. Other nights, he burned like fire, sweat drenching the sheets. He’d whisper nonsense—fast, fevered words she could never understand. Then, suddenly, silence. ‎‎She’d shake him, cry his name, even slap his face, but Alf wouldn’t wake. His eyes stayed shut, his pulse faint, his body still. ‎‎Those moments terrified her the most. ‎‎Lately, Alf had started asking her to restrain him before sleep. Leather straps buckled to the bedpost; his idea, not hers. He said it was safer that way. Safer for her, for their son, for everyone. ‎ ‎“Hey, Alf,” Sky said quietly one night as she fastened the strap around his wrist. Her fingers shook. “Are we going to be okey?” ‎‎Alf turned his head slowly toward her, his face half-hidden in the dim light. “Say what?” ‎ ‎“The nightmares,” she said, tightening the strap a little too fast, too hard. ‎ ‎“Easy, love,” he muttered with a faint laugh. “You’re hurting me.” ‎ ‎Her eyes filled with frustration. “I’m serious, Alf. This isn’t normal. You keep saying it’s just a dream, but it’s getting worse. You’re getting worse.” ‎ ‎He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, then sighed. “They’re just nightmares, Sky. They can’t hurt us. They come and go. They always do.” ‎‎But his voice broke at the end. The confidence that once anchored his words had vanished. ‎ ‎Sky sat beside him, eyes glistening in the pale light from the window. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe this would end. But something inside told her it was only the beginning. Suddenly a quiet voice whispered in her ears, words her heart had been screaming to her for the past 24 hours . ‎ ‎"Run.."