Wake Up Dead

Joshua Parker used to be ordinary — an adjunct lecturer who graded too slowly, drank too much coffee, and fell asleep to crime podcasts. His life was unremarkable enough to feel safe. Until the mornings changed.

It started with songs that didn’t exist. He’d wake humming lyrics he didn’t recognize, melodies too perfect to be accidental. When he tried to hum them again, they vanished, leaving only the shape of sound in his mind.

He wrote them down under a heading in his bedside notebook- Dream Fragments.

Dr. Lee, his therapist, called it hypnopompic residue — the fuzzy overlap between sleep and waking. “Common,” she said. “Harmless.”

But common things don’t rewrite your life.

The Cracks

The first real fracture appeared during his 9 a.m. lecture on the psychology of memory.

He was mid-sentence when he realized he’d already given this exact lecture. Same slides, same question from the girl in the second row, same flutter of laughter from the back.

He checked his notes afterward — identical phrasing from two different days.

He shrugged it off, until he saw the date on the whiteboard. He had written March 7. The calendar on his phone said March 10.

The two days in between were blank. His fridge was empty, but there was a grocery receipt in his wallet, signed in his handwriting.

He added a new section to his notebook- Missing Time.

Notes to Self

Soon his apartment filled with reminders — sticky notes on mirrors, messages on the fridge, ink on his wrist.

Check your watch when you wake up. This is real. Don’t trust reflections.

Every morning, one of the notes would be gone. Not fallen or misplaced — gone, the surface beneath it clean.

Once, he found a new note in his handwriting, one he hadn’t written.

Stop deleting me.

He started photographing each one for evidence. The next morning, the photos were corrupted, each file just a smear of red and grey.

The Therapist

“Tell me about the dreams,” Dr. Lee said during their next session.

Joshua studied her office — the tidy bookshelves, the clock that always read 11:22 no matter when he looked, the potted plant with waxy leaves that never wilted.

“They’re getting harder to wake from,” he said. “Sometimes I think I have, but then I notice small things — the mirror reversed, the wall clock wrong, people repeating themselves.”

She smiled gently. “You’re describing derealization. A common symptom of sleep deprivation.”

“I sleep plenty.”

“Then maybe you dream too much.”

He frowned. “That’s what my reflection said.”

Her pen paused mid-note.

The Recording

That night, Joshua set up cameras in every room — a full experiment. Empirical evidence would save him.

At 2:46 a.m., he woke to silence so dense it hummed. He checked his phone’s live feed.

Every camera showed him sleeping peacefully. But he was in the kitchen, wide awake.

He watched the feed. His sleeping self opened its eyes, turned toward the camera, and whispered something.

He turned up the volume.

“Wake up.”

Then the video cut out.

He looked at his phone’s clock- 2:46 a.m.

He looked at the wall clock- 2:46 a.m. He looked back at the screen. His sleeping self smiled.

The Mother

Joshua called his mother the next morning.

She sounded tired.

“Sweetheart, you called last night,” she said. “You don’t remember?”

“No,” he said. “What did I say?”

“You asked if I could see you.”

He gripped the phone. “And… could you?”

She hesitated. “There was someone at my window. I thought it was you, but the face was wrong. Blurred, like water.”

Her voice broke. “Joshua, what’s happening?”

He promised to visit that weekend. When he arrived, her house was empty. The teapot was still warm. The phone on the counter had one unheard message- his own voice whispering, “Wake up.”

The House by the Lake

Joshua stopped going to work. The university emailed twice, then stopped. Bills piled up unopened. He slept longer each day, drawn to a dream that felt cleaner, steadier — a house by a silent lake.

In that world, he was calm. The air smelled of pine and rain. There was always someone standing by the water, facing away. He felt no fear there, only a deep, electric recognition.

One night, he walked closer. The figure turned. It was him — older, composed, smiling.

“This is the real place,” the reflection said.

“You’ve been dreaming them — those broken days, those resets. They’re trying to keep you.”

Joshua wanted to believe. “Then let me stay.”

“You already are.”

He woke crying, unsure if it was from relief or grief.

Dissolution

Days became indistinguishable.

Sometimes his reflection lagged.

Sometimes it moved before he did. His notebooks multiplied, filled with jagged loops of handwriting he didn’t recognize.

Neighbors stopped acknowledging him in the hallway. One night, he knocked on the door of the man across the hall — a retiree named Mikey — to ask if he ever heard humming at night.

Mikey blinked at him. “You moved out months ago.”

The door closed. The hallway light flickered out.

Joshua turned the knob again, but the door led into darkness — a space that smelled faintly of lake water.

The Final Session

He returned to Dr. Lee one last time. She looked exhausted, her hair unkempt, her eyes rimmed red.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said softly.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not supposed to remember this place anymore.”

He stared. “What?”

She slid a folder across the desk. Inside were photos — grainy security stills from his apartment. Each showed him sitting up in bed at 2:46 a.m., eyes open, staring directly into the lens.

“Every night, the same minute,” she said.

“And then you stop breathing for a while. Sometimes for hours.”

Joshua's throat went dry. “Then how am I here?”

She smiled — tired, resigned. “You never left.”

The Loop

He ran home. The clocks all said 2:46 a.m.

The air smelled faintly of cinnamon. His phone was still recording on the nightstand.

He sat on the bed, whispering to himself-

“I’m awake. I’m awake. I’m awake.”

The reflection in the black screen whispered back, a beat behind. “You’re dreaming.”

He laughed — small, helpless. “Then let me wake up.”

“You already did,” the voice said.

The phone screen flickered. On it, his sleeping body sat up and smiled.

Aftermath

Police entered the apartment three days later after neighbors complained of a smell.

Joshua Parker was found on the bed, eyes open, body stiff. A phone on the nightstand displayed six hours of footage.

At 2:46 a.m., he sat up, looked into the camera, and whispered-

“Wake up.”

The timestamp on the video ended there — 2:46 a.m. The clock on the wall read the same.

When officers checked the footage again at the station, the final frame had changed.

Joshua was still staring at the lens, but now his mouth was open wider — mid-smile, mid-invitation.

And behind him, through the reflection in the darkened window, another figure was standing by a lake.

The Mother — Addendum

Her voicemail was full. Every message from Joshua remained unheard. When police asked, she insisted she had spoken to him the night before — he told her he was coming over. “He sounded far away,” she said. “Like he was calling from underwater.” The officers exchanged a glance. The call records showed no outgoing calls from his phone that week. That night, alone in her living room, she left the porch light on for him. The house felt too still. The window reflected her face like a mirror. Her reflection smiled first.

Detective Cuban — The Tape

Cuban thought it was a standard unattended death — tragic, but ordinary. He’d seen worse. He’d grown numb. Then he pressed play.

The timestamp sat pinned at 2:46 a.m. The air on screen shimmered like heat. Cuban watched Joshua sit up and stare into the lens. Whisper something. The feed glitched.

Restarted. Glitched. Each time the whisper grew clearer — parting static like hands parting curtains. Wake up.

Cuban rubbed his eyes. The clock on the wall of the evidence room said 2:46 a.m.

He checked his watch. 3:10 a.m. Okay.

Good. Normal. He looked back. The evidence room clock still read 2:46 a.m. The second hand wasn’t moving.

On screen, Joshua smiled — wide and wrong, like he’d never learned where a smile should end. Cuban fast-forwarded. The screen jumped to a different angle — the camera facing the apartment window. The lake was there. Vast. Moonless. Still. A figure stood at the shoreline. The detective stopped the tape. This wasn’t possible. When he hit pause, the figure tilted its head toward the camera. Toward him.

The Therapist — Session Notes

Dr. Lee stared at the empty page. Her pen wouldn’t write — the ballpoint skated on the paper like ink refused to exist here. She hadn’t slept since Joshua died. Every time she closed her eyes, a voice asked- Which one of you do you think woke up?

Her clock read 11:22. Always 11:22.

She reached for the folder on her desk — the one with photo stills of Joshua staring at the camera. She flipped through. In each frame, his posture changed — subtle at first, then unmistakable. He was stepping closer.

Approaching the lens. Approaching her.

A note slid free from the folder. Her own handwriting. Stop remembering me. She didn’t remember writing that. Her reflection in the office window smiled, just a heartbeat too late.

Contagion

It spread in quiet ways. A paramedic who swore the corpse blinked. A coroner whose computer corrupted every photo of the deceased — except the eyes. A neighbor who heard humming from an empty apartment and found a wet footprint outside his door.

They all told themselves it was stress.

Exhaustion. Coincidence. The world kept insisting on normal.

Clocks insisted on 2:46 a.m.

Cuban — Disturbance

The detective returned to Joshua’s apartment. The smell had faded, but something else lingered — pine and lakewater. He stood in the doorway, listening.

No sound. No wind. His phone buzzed.

Unknown number. He answered. A whisper he’d heard before- “Wake up.”

The hallway lights flickered. The apartment door shut behind him.

The lake was there again — in the bathroom mirror this time. The shoreline. The stillness. And the figure. It stepped closer, ripples forming beneath nonexistent feet.

Cuban closed his eyes. The whisper followed him into the dark.

The Mother — Sleepwalking

She dreamed of Joshua standing by the lake, his hand outstretched. She took one step toward him. The carpet beneath her feet turned cold and wet.

She woke at 2:46 a.m., standing knee-deep in water that wasn’t there.

Note to Self

More notebooks. More hands writing. More reminders. Don’t trust the clocks. Don’t answer the screen. If you hear humming —

You’re already asleep.

Someone has to wake up.

The Cleaner

Melissa cleaned the apartment as fast as possible. She hated death jobs — the silence stuck to her. The air in Joshua’s bedroom prickled her skin. She found a phone charger under the bed, still plugged into the wall.

When she tugged it, something resisted.

The cable went taut, like something on the other end did not want to let go.

She crouched, heart banging, and lifted the sheet. There was nothing there. The charger unplugged itself — the prongs sliding out with a soft metallic sigh.

Melissa stepped back. The phone on the nightstand lit up. VIDEO SAVED — 2:46 a.m.

She hadn’t touched it. She left without finishing the job.

Later, in the shower, she could swear the water smelled like pine. The drain hummed, low and familiar — like a lullaby someone wanted her to remember.

Dr. Lee — Incursion

She deleted her notes three times. They kept coming back, rewritten in handwriting too neat to be hers- Wake them.

She closed the office for the day. Locked the door. Unplugged every appliance. Poured tea, trying to slow her pulse.

The spoon clinked against her mug — once, twice — then spun on its own, stirring without her hand.

The wet metal flashed a reflection- Pine trees. A lake. A figure — smiling like it had all the time in the world.

Dr. Lee dropped the mug. It shattered. The liquid ran across the floor, forming a perfect circle. A clock face. Each number- 2:46 2:46

2:46 Endless.

Her phone buzzed with a new voicemail.

Her own voice- “Stop dreaming. You’re letting him in.”

Cuban — The Lake Watches Back

The detective hadn’t slept for 36 hours.

Every time he blinked, he saw ripples.

He reviewed the footage once more.

Frame by frame. In the final second, his heart stopped.

In the window’s reflection, the figure wasn’t just standing there anymore. It was closer.

Half a face visible now — an eye too dark to be human.

Cuban froze the video. Leaned closer. The pixelated eye blinked.

He stumbled back, chair legs screeching against tile. His watch beeped. He looked down.

2:46 a.m.

He wasn’t wearing a watch. He hadn’t worn one in years.

The beep continued — now coming from the video speaker. Onscreen, Joshua leaned into the lens. Whispered- “You’re next.”

Missing Person

A college student posted on a local forum-

“Anyone know what happened to Prof. Parker?” Replies stacked up — jokes at first, then rumors.

Someone uploaded a photo from that semester- A class shot — Joshua in the front row, smiling weakly.

The OP zoomed in. On the far right, outside the group, by the window — a reflection of Joshua. Older. Smiling wider.

The photo timestamp- 2:46 a.m.

“How is that possible?” they typed.

Their reflection on the laptop screen grinned, just a fraction too late.

The Shoreline — A Pattern Emerges

Cases cluster quietly- A mother who refuses to sleep. A cleaner who won’t enter bathrooms anymore. A detective who smashed every mirror in his house.

They’re all humming a tune they can’t remember.

In dreams, the lake laps quietly. In waking, clocks hesitate. Time pools at the edges of consciousness.

Whoever wakes up… leaves someone else dreaming.

The Last Note

Found in a university faculty lounge, written in black coffee on the table surface-

We are not falling asleep. We are falling through.

Underneath it, a smear of pine needles.