Elara lived in a small, isolated cottage nestled at the edge of a whispering woods, a place chosen for its solitude, its quiet hum of nature. She was a recluse by nature, an artist who found solace in the slow turning of seasons and the intricate patterns of sunlight through leaves. But for the past three weeks, her nights had become a torment, a meticulous, agonizing countdown to an end she couldn't comprehend but knew intimately.
She dreamed her death every night but backward.
It began abruptly. One morning, she woke with a gasp, a phantom pain in her chest, and the faint echo of a sound that refused to materialize. The next night, the dream solidified. It always started in the same moment: a sudden, blinding flash of light, an unbearable pressure, and the chilling sensation of life draining from her. But then, instead of fading to black, the scene rewound.
The gunshot faded first, dissolving from a deafening crack to a whisper of displaced air, then silence. Then the scream, a raw, primal sound of terror, retracted back into her throat, leaving her breathless and mute. Then the frantic, thudding heartbeat, a desperate drum against her ribs, slowed, quieted, and vanished into an eerie stillness. Each morning she woke closer to the beginning closer to why.
The dreams were vivid, sensory, nauseatingly real. She felt the impact, the cold floor against her cheek, the metallic tang of blood in her mouth. But every night, the wound would stitch itself back together, the blood would rush back into her veins, the pain would unravel, replaced by a dull ache, then nothing. It was a macabre, daily resurrection, only to be dragged back through the process of dying in reverse.
Her waking life became a pale imitation, a waiting game. She avoided sharp objects, locked her doors three times over, checked under her bed with a frantic meticulousness. Every creak of the old house, every rustle of leaves outside her window, sent shivers down her spine. The vibrant hues of her paintings began to dull, replaced by somber, muted tones, reflecting the encroaching dread.
One week into the cycle, the dream rewound further, revealing a new "scene" before the ultimate end. It was the moment just before the gunshot. She saw a figure, blurred by speed, rushing towards her in her own living room. The figure's hand was raised, something dark glinting within it. Then, the reverse sequence: the figure retreating, the weapon dematerializing, her own terror retracting into a mere apprehension.
She started leaving her lights on at night, drawing all the curtains, as if light could repel the encroaching darkness of her dreams. She sought help a doctor, a therapist, even a local eccentric who claimed to deal in "unseen energies." The doctor prescribed sedatives, the therapist suggested trauma, and the eccentric offered a smudged parchment with symbols she couldn't decipher.
None of it worked. The dreams continued, precise and relentless.
Each night, another fragment of the terrible puzzle was unveiled. She saw the interior of her living room, perfectly rendered the worn rug, the overflowing bookshelf, the half-finished canvas on the easel. She saw the subtle shift in the shadows as the figure entered. She heard the soft click of the front door being opened. The dreams were a film played in rewind, each frame providing a fraction more context, a fraction more terror.
The figure in her dreams, her assailant, remained elusive. His face was always obscured by shadow, by a hood, by the frantic speed of the reverse sequence. She only ever saw a tall, gaunt silhouette, an absence of light more than a presence. But the sense of malevolence it radiated was palpable, a cold dread that clung to her even after she woke.
She began to spend her days trying to preempt the details of her dreams. She rearranged her furniture, hoping to change the geometry of the coming horror. She considered moving, packing her bags, fleeing this cottage that had become a stage for her slow, torturous death. But a strange, compelling force, perhaps a perverse curiosity, kept her rooted. She needed to know the why. She needed to reach the very beginning of the loop.
Tonight, the moon was full, casting silver streaks across her bedroom floor. She lay in bed, heart hammering, eyes wide open, trying desperately to stave off sleep. But the exhaustion of weeks of terror was too much. Her eyelids grew heavy. The familiar pull began.
The dream started with the usual chaotic reversal: the figure retreating, the subtle shifting of the shadows, the muffled sounds of the cottage. Then, the scene stabilized, holding for a longer moment, giving her an agonizing glimpse.
She was standing in her living room. The air was cold. The silence was thick. And before her, the front door, usually secured with a deadbolt and a heavy chain, was slightly ajar. A sliver of inky blackness yawned from the gap.
She watched, breathless, as the gap widened infinitesimally. A deeper, purer shadow detached itself from the gloom beyond, a shape of absolute darkness that seemed to absorb the moonlight. It was taller, thinner than she had imagined, almost ethereal. It didn't move towards her; it simply waited, patient and malevolent, silhouetted against the dark void of the outside world.
This was it. The first scene. The moment before. The "why." The door. The shadow. This was the precipice.
Then, the abrupt, familiar jolt of waking.
Elara gasped, sitting bolt upright in her bed, drenched in a cold sweat. The silence of her room was absolute, profound. Moonlight spilled across her floor, just as it had in the dream. Her breath hitched in her throat.
She didn't need to look. She felt it. A cold draft, a subtle whisper of displaced air, that hadn't been there when she went to bed. The heavy, protective silence of her home was broken.
Her eyes, wide and terrified, slowly moved towards her bedroom door. It was closed, but the cottage was small. The front door was barely thirty feet away.
She swung her legs out of bed, her bare feet meeting the cold wood of the floor. Every nerve ending screamed at her to stay still, to hide, but the inexorable pull of the dream, of the truth, was too strong. She had to see.
Slowly, carefully, she crept down the hallway, her breath catching in her throat with every creak of the old floorboards. The moonlight from the living room window cast long, accusing shadows.
And there it was.
Her front door, usually secured with two deadbolts and a sturdy chain, was slightly open. Just a crack. A sliver of inky blackness yawned from the gap, precisely as it had in the dream. The cold draft from outside stroked her cheek, raising goosebumps on her arms.
It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a nightmare. It was a prelude. A rehearsal.
And this time, the dream didn't start.
It continued.
The slow, chilling reverse had reached its end. Now, the forward motion began.
The slight opening of the door widened. Not a sudden push, but a smooth, deliberate glide, as if the door itself was breathing. The sliver of darkness expanded into a yawning void.
And from that void, a deeper shadow detached itself, a form so utterly devoid of light that it seemed to be woven from the fabric of night itself. It was tall, gaunt, its edges blurred, like a figure painted with smoke. It didn't move with footsteps, but rather flowed, a silent, malevolent tide entering her home.
The cold emanating from it was absolute, piercing her to the bone. She couldn't scream. Her throat was constricted, her lungs frozen. She couldn't move. Her feet were glued to the floorboards. She was nothing but a terrified, immobile witness.
The shadow stopped just inside the threshold, pausing for a long, dreadful moment. Then, slowly, it raised an arm. In its hand, something glinted, catching the scant moonlight a dark, sleek, impossibly sharp object.
This wasn't a dream. This was the moment. The "why" had arrived, not in a reverse echo, but in the relentless, horrifying progression of now.
Elara stared at the glinting object, then up at the face of the shadow. There was no face. Only the swirling, impenetrable darkness where eyes should have been, a void that somehow conveyed a terrible, ancient patience.
She felt the first tremor of a scream building in her throat, a desperate, final attempt to break free. But the shadow took a step forward, fluid and silent.
The glinting object caught the moonlight once more, then plunged down.
This time, the scream was real. And it was all her own.