For as long as I can remember, I’ve had the same nightmare. It’s not one of those vague dreams that fade with the morning light; it’s vivid, suffocating, and it’s been with me every night since childhood. I never spoke of it to anyone, not because I didn’t want to, but because the terror it left in its wake was too paralyzing to put into words. Until now.
I’m always in a small, dimly lit room—claustrophobic, with walls that seem to close in on me the longer I’m there. There’s one door, and I know it’s the only way out, but I’m too terrified to move. The room is freezing, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, and I’m soaked from head to toe, sitting naked on the icy floor. I can’t remember how I got there or why I’m in this state, but the chill is almost unbearable.
A sound comes from beyond the door—a faint, indistinguishable noise that makes my skin crawl. I can’t explain it, but it fills me with dread. I’m too scared to move, too scared to even open my eyes fully. I don’t know what’s out there, but I know I don’t want to see it.
Then the door creaks open. My heart races as I hear slow, deliberate footsteps approaching. I squeeze my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep, desperate to avoid whatever is coming for me. The presence in the room is palpable. It feels like it’s watching me, studying me, and the fear is so intense that I feel like I might throw up.
And then everything goes black.
When I wake up, I’m in a bed—warm, comfortable, but hooked up to machines. Wires snake around my arms, chest, and hands, beeping softly with every heartbeat. Panic sets in, but before I can react, I hear footsteps again. Someone enters the room, and I close my eyes tightly, pretending to be asleep. I don’t know why, but something tells me it’s safer this way.
They speak in a language I don’t understand—strange, guttural sounds that send shivers down my spine. One of them touches my leg, not gently, but not harshly either. It’s a touch that makes my skin crawl, like something foreign, something wrong. And then, just as suddenly as it began, it ends.
I wake up in my own bed, in my own room, safe but drenched in cold sweat. The nightmare is always the same, never changing, never relenting. The fear lingers long after I’m awake, a haunting presence that follows me throughout the day. I’ve had this dream every night for as long as I can remember, and it’s left me terrified that it might actually happen someday.
I remember having this nightmare when I was in first grade. Today, I’m 34. I woke up from it again this morning, but for the first time, I felt like I could finally confront it. I felt a strange sense of resolve, like I could finally face whatever was haunting me.
It’s my birthday today, and my family is coming over to celebrate. It’s a tradition we’ve kept for years, but this time is different. This time, two relatives who I haven’t seen since I was 12 are coming, and I have a feeling that today, I might finally get some answers.
The birthday gathering was typical—laughter, cake, small talk—but as the day wore on, I noticed something strange. My two uncles and aunt kept exchanging glances, talking in hushed tones that made my skin prickle with unease. At first, I didn’t realize they were talking about me, but then I caught snippets of their conversation.
“She did so well all these years, almost like she doesn’t even know or that she forgot.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My mother’s face was pale, her expression tight with worry, like there was a secret she desperately didn’t want me to discover. A cold dread settled in my stomach as I realized they were talking about me. I needed answers, and I needed them now.
I pulled one of my uncles aside, away from the rest of the family, and asked him flat out what was going on. The look on his face told me everything—whatever he was about to say, it was going to change everything.
What he told me was beyond anything I could have imagined. My nightmare wasn’t just a figment of my imagination—it was a memory, a buried fragment of something that had happened to me when I was four years old.
It was my fourth birthday, a massive family gathering at the beach. There were over a hundred people there, five generations of my family celebrating together. I don’t remember any of it, but according to my uncle, that was the day I disappeared.
I had been with my older cousin, playing near the water, when suddenly she screamed. Everyone rushed to the shore, but I was gone. My uncle, scanning the beach, spotted a man running toward the parking lot. He was shirtless, wearing tan shorts, and he got into a truck that peeled out of the lot. My uncle memorized the license plate—418 IWT, a number that stuck with him because of its eerie connection to our family.
The police were called, and a search ensued, but they found nothing. My family was torn apart by the uncertainty—some believed I had drowned, others were convinced I had been kidnapped. Six days later, my mother received a call. They had found me. I was in the hospital.
My family rushed to the hospital, but only my mother was allowed in to see me. When she came out, she told everyone I was going to be okay, that I was a little bruised but would make a full recovery. My uncle went with her to the police station to find out what had happened.
I had been kidnapped by the man my uncle saw at the beach. The police found him, and when they raided his home, they discovered me in a dug-out pit in the basement, half-submerged in water. I had been there for nine days, completely silent. The man, suffering from severe mental illness, claimed he had forgotten I was there because I made no noise. He kept muttering the name Lisa—his sister who had drowned at the beach when she was eleven.
As my uncle recounted the story, I felt a wave of nausea. The details of my nightmare—the cold room, the water, the feeling of being watched—they all matched what he described. But I had no memory of it, none at all. My brain had locked it away, protecting me from the trauma. But the nightmare… the nightmare had been my mind’s way of trying to process what had happened.
I don’t know what to do with this information. Part of me wishes I had never asked, that I could go back to not knowing. But another part of me knows that I needed to hear it, needed to understand where the nightmare came from.
I’m sure I’ll have the nightmare again tonight. I’m sure it will be just as terrifying as it always is. But maybe, just maybe, knowing the truth will help me start to piece together what happened. Or maybe, it will only make it worse.
Because now, I know that the nightmare wasn’t just a dream. It was real. It happened. And the terror that comes with that knowledge is something I may never escape.
