Nightmares

“Pa-” A voice called for him. His mind was foggy; he knew who it was, at least he thought he did. “Pa-” He couldn’t move; he felt small hands on his stomach, trying to shake him awake. His limbs felt heavy, fighting against every movement. “Da- Sto- ease!” The voice called again. The small hands were yanked away from him, and the scent of mildew, decay, and fire swirled around, suffocating him. He wanted to reply. No, he needed to respond; he had to help them. “PAPA STOP IT!” His eyes finally opened.

A blaring alarm and a dark room greeted him when he shot up. Sweat clung to his brow as his heart raced against his ribcage. The echo of the scream still rang in his ears, the pure panic and fear resonating in it clinging to his mind like a parasite.

He knew who it was—who was screaming for him. It was his son. But the fear and panic he had heard from his son were unprecedented. Sure, the boy had been scared and begged for help when he got himself stuck in a tree, but it wasn’t to that degree.

“Papa?” He turned his head toward the direction of the door. The boy stood there, blurry in his vision, in his pajamas, clutching tightly to the dinosaur plushie he loved.”Papa?”

“Hey, bud. What are you doing?” He asked, voice slightly wavering.

“You….. You screamed, Papa. I thought something bad happened.” Tears welled up in his eyes, fear evident on his face.

“I…I’m fine, bud. Just a bad dream, that's all.” Reaching over to the nightstand, he finally turned the alarm clock off, the constant blaring ceasing. He grabbed his glasses and put them on, clearing the blurriness of his dark surroundings.

“Do you have to work today?”

“I do.”

“...Is the babysitter watching me again?”

“No. Aunty Jess is going to watch you.” He replied, slowly getting up from bed; it creaked in protest. “Can you turn the light on for me, bud?” He received a small hum in response, followed by a sudden burst of light. He quickly closed his eyes to protect them from the brightness and only opened them again once he had adjusted. “Thank you, kid.” He started to walk towards the closet to get his work clothes.

“Why…..Why can’t you just stay home today? I wanna stay with you…” A feeling of sadness washed over him.

“I want to kid. Trust me, I truly do, but I have to work. When I return from work, we can have a movie marathon.”

“Really?”

“Really. But you have to be a good kid for Aunty Jess. Now go get ready to go.”

“Ok, Papa!” The boy responded happily. Darting off to change into day clothes. A tired sigh left the man's lips, and a sad smile played on his face.

“Again, thank you so much, Jessica.” The man said, his hair tied back, a grease-stained uniform now adorned his body. He was now dressed for his first shift of the day at a fast-food restaurant, handling everything from flipping burgers to manning the front to even running deliveries.

“It’s fine, John. I’m always happy to help you.” A woman, possibly in her mid-thirties to early forties, replied. “What kind of sister would I be if I didn’t help you?”

“A good one.”

“John.”

“Alright, Alright, I get it.”

“AUNTY JESS!” The young boy came running from the car and jumped at the woman, clinging onto her like a baby koala.

“Tommy! How are you doing today, dear?”

“Good! Papa let me have Poptarts this morning!” John let out a sheepish laugh. John lingered for a moment, watching his son giggle with his sister. The morning sun filtered through the blinds, thin beams of light piercing across the living room. Bits of dust floated lazily in the air. Tommy’s laughter, bright and carefree, filled the small house— so loud it almost drowned out the quiet ache in John’s chest. Almost.

He smiled. “Be good, okay, bud?”

“I will, Papa! Promise!”

John nodded and turned away before the ache could show. He didn’t want Tommy to see it, the weight that had been pressing on him since the dream. The smell of smoke, that scream. He could still hear it faintly, like an echo trapped in his mind.

Work was slow that morning. The buzz of the fluorescent lights above the fryer mixed with the sizzling oil and chatter from the customers. John moved on autopilot — flip, wrap, bag, smile, repeat. Each motion dulled his thoughts until he found the rhythm, almost peaceful.

But then—

The scent hit him.

A faint, acrid smell, cutting through the grease and salt. Like burning wood.

He froze mid-motion, spatula hovering over the grill. His breath hitched. He blinked once. Twice.

The walls of the kitchen flickered, just for a second, like the world around him was made of film, and someone tore a frame. The sound of the fryer warped, muffled. He smelled mildew again. Decay.

“John? You good?” his coworker asked from across the counter.

He forced a nod. “Yeah, just…hot in here.”

But his hands never stopped shaking.

The rest of John’s shift passed in a blur of grease, chatter, and exhaustion. He worked on autopilot — flipping burgers, mopping floors, trying not to think about the dream. The smell of smoke clung to him no matter how many times he wiped his hands.

When his shift finally ended, the sun had already dipped low behind the trees, staining the sky with rust and bruising purple. He clocked out, tossed his apron into the bin, and stepped outside into the cooling air.

He should’ve felt relief. But instead, an unease gnawed at him. The street was empty. No cars, no voices. Just him and the winding wind.

That’s when he saw it — stapled crookedly to the telephone pole at the edge of the lot.

A missing poster.

The paper was wrinkled, wet from the dew, edges curling inwards. The tile screamed in the faded red ink:

MISSING PERSON

He stepped closer. Two figures were on it. The image was warped, like it had been smeared across the copier — just enough to make the faces indistinguishable. He could make out a tall adult form… and a smaller one clinging to it.

The sight made his stomach twist. There was something familiar about their shapes. The way the smaller figure posed and how their hand reached towards the taller one.

He blinked. The ink bled down the paper, distorting the figures further — and then, for a split second, the taller shape had horns like masses.

He stumbled back.

The wind shifted. The paper flapped once.

Now the smaller figure’s face was clear.

It was Tommy.

His breath hitched. His throat went dry. The edges of his vision seemed to blur.

Then the poster ignited. No sound. No spark. Just flame — crawling across the paper like it was alive.

John staggered back as the telephone pole blackened, smoke curling into the sky.

And beneath the crackle, he heard his son’s voice.

“Papa…”

He drove to Jessica’s house on autopilot, gripping the steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white. His pulse pounded wildly in his ears.

When he arrived, the house was dark. The porch light, which was always on, was dead.

He stepped out of his beat-up car, gravel crunching beneath his feet. “Jess?” He called.

No answer

The air smelled like ash.

He pushed the door open. It groaned loudly— like the house itself didn’t want him there.

Inside, the air was heavy. Still. The living room was wrecked: couch overturned, coffee table shattered, a trail of black soot and bloodlets led down the hall.

And on the floor — Tommy’s dinosaur plushie, split open, blood surrounding the wound, stuffing spilling out like white entrails.

John’s chest tightened. “Tommy?”

Something moved down the hall. A shadow, quick and jerky.

“Papa…” The voice was soft, trembling.

He stepped forward. “Buddy? Where’s Aunty Jess?”

“Papa, please don’t…”

He reached the end of the hall. His hand shook as he turned the knob on Jessica’s room door.

The smell hit him first — burning wood, smoke, rot.

Then the world collapsed.

Fire erupted around him, crawling up the walls. The hall twisted into blackened beams. Screams echoed — Jessica’s, Tommy’s. The heat pressed in on his skin.

Through the fire, he saw them.

Tommy stood near the window, tears streaming down his soot and blood-covered cheeks.”Papa, stop it! You’re scaring me!”

Jessica lay on the floor in front of him. Still. Blood seeped out from under her, a lake of blood, a growing one.

John reached out, but his hand—

It wasn’t his hand.

The flesh charred, twisted. Claws where fingers should be. His veins glowed orange beneath blackened skin, like molten lava.

He looked down — his reflection staring up from the blood at his feet. Eyes burned red. Teeth jagged and protruding. A beast’s face, snarling from where his own had been. His legs weren’t his own either. They were bent at the wrong angle, and hooves replaced his feet.

He stumbled back. “No… no, this isn’t real—”

The fire burned hotter.

Tommy screamed.

“Papa, stop! You’re hurting me!”

John fell to his knees. “I’m not… I’m not!”

Then his voice cracked, and what came out wasn’t human. A deep, guttural growl ripped through his chest, shaking the very foundation of the house. His bones stretched, snapping like brittle twigs. His spine arched, skin splitting down his back.

The flames didn’t hurt him anymore. They welcomed him.

He rose from the fire — monstrous, massive, eyes blazing like the twin furnaces.

“Papa…” Tommy sobbed.

John reached for him —

— and the world shattered around him in a blaze of pure white.

He woke up on the floor. Darkness. Alarm blaring. Sweat slicked across his skin.

For a moment, he thought it was over. Another nightmare. That’s all.

Then—

A smell

Smoke.

Slowly, he turned his head. The wall beside his bed had blackened, burned through.

Pinned to the charred wall — a poster. The same one.

Expect the picture was perfect now. Sharp. Crystal clear.

His face. His son’s face. One frozen in fear, the other strung in glee.

He sat up, trembling. “No…”

A soft voice came from the doorway.

“Papa?”

He turned.

Tommy stood there, eyes red, clutching his torn, bloody, dinosaur plushie. His face was streaked with ash and red.

“Papa… why did you do it?”

John’s breath caught. His mouth opened, but no words came out — only a low rumble that vibrated through the walls.

The air shimmered. His skin cracked, glowing from beneath. His teeth sharpened and tore his mouth, stretching into a jagged snarl.

“Papa,” Tommy whimpered, backing away.

John reached out — his claws slicing through the air — and in the reflection of the window, he saw the truth.

The monster that was in his dreams. That had taken Tommy and hurt him.

It had always been him.

The alarm blared again. The room filled with smoke. And as the flames consumed everything.

He lunged.

The boy’s final scream echoed — the same one that had haunted him from the very beginning

“PAPA STOP IT!”