The Falling Fetal Dream

Ever since that unsettling week in late June, sleep had become a stranger to me. It wasn’t the occasional nightmare or the creaks of an old house; it was the constant sense of being watched, and a sorrow so deep it felt like a physical weight on my chest. Desperate, I had hung a heavy iron crucifix above my bed and traced a small cross on my forehead each night, hoping to ward off whatever had latched onto me. For a while, it seemed to work. The nightmares faded, the feeling of being observed dulled. I began to believe I had finally shaken it.

Then came last night. I drifted into a dream about the office, a mundane scene of spreadsheets and fluorescent lights. My assistant, Marta, was pointing out a discrepancy in the quarterly reports, her voice flat and mechanical. But as she spoke, her gaze shifted past my shoulder, her eyes widening in primal terror. A scream tore from her throat, raw and piercing, shattering the dream’s fragile reality.

I woke with a jolt, but something was profoundly wrong. I wasn’t in my bed. I was suspended in the air, high above the mattress, my body curled into a tight fetal position—knees drawn to my chest, arms wrapped around them, as if I were a seed waiting to be planted. For a heart-stopping moment, I hung there, weightless, the ceiling blurry above me. Then gravity seized me, and I plummeted.

The impact was jarring, a loud thud that vibrated through my bones. But instead of bouncing, I sank into the mattress, the springs groaning beneath me. Panic clawed at my throat as I tried to move, to push myself up, but my limbs were pinned to the bed by an invisible force. My chest tightened, and a wind roared past my ears, a gale that seemed to come from nowhere, tousling my hair and stinging my eyes. The room was still—no open windows, no fan, no draft. Yet the wind howled, growing louder, and with it came a sound that made my blood run cold: a low, sobbing whisper, almost inaudible beneath the rushing air.

I tried to scream, but my voice was a strangled gasp. The pressure on my body increased, as if a giant hand was pressing me down, and I could feel something cold and wet seeping through my pajamas. The weeping grew clearer, and I realized it was not one voice but many, a chorus of sorrow intertwining with the wind. It spoke my name, over and over, in a language that was both familiar and alien.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the pressure released. I gasped for air, my limbs free, but I dared not move. The wind died, and the weeping faded into a single, desolate sigh. For a long moment, I lay frozen, my heart hammering against my ribs. When I finally dared to raise my head, the room was ordinary again—moonlight filtering through the blinds, my dresser, the crucifix on the wall. But the sheets beneath me were soaked, and I could not tell if it was sweat or something else.

I did not sleep the rest of the night. I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, afraid to close my eyes. The next morning, I noticed thin, bruise-like marks on my wrists and ankles, as if I had been gripped by unseen hands. The cross I wore around my neck had vanished, leaving only a broken chain. And in the corner of my room, I found a small, perfect circle of scorched wood on the floor, still warm to the touch. I haven’t told anyone. They wouldn’t believe me. They’d think I finally lost it. But I know what I saw, what I felt. And tonight, I’m afraid to sleep again. I’m afraid of what might pull me out of my body and bring me back.