The Hotplate Prophecy

I’ve always had a peculiar relationship with sleep. Not the kind that leaves you refreshed, but the kind that drags you into a fog where reality and dreaming bleed together. As a child, I’d wake up screaming from nightmares that later came true—a car crash on the highway, a stranger’s face in a crowd, the exact words of a phone call. My family called it my ‘gift’ or my ‘curse’, but I always suspected it was just exhaustion playing tricks on me. That is, until the night with the hotplate.

It was a humid summer night in our small apartment on the third floor of a building that smelled of old wood and boiled cabbage. My sister, Lena, had been staying with us for a few weeks, recovering from a bad breakup. She was a restless soul, always moving, always leaving things in odd places. I remember she brought her old hotplate to our place because she was experimenting with some craft project, melting wax and such. She left it in my room with a note: ‘Don’t forget to take this to the studio for me tomorrow.’ I had laughed and tossed it on my desk.

That night, I fell into a heavy sleep, the kind that comes after a long day of work and worry. In my dream, I was standing in a dark corridor, and I saw Lena walking toward me. She was pale, her face a mask of terror, her mouth moving soundlessly. I tried to step forward, to ask her what was wrong, but she raised a trembling hand and mouthed the words: ‘Don’t turn around.’ I woke with a jolt, my heart pounding. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the dream clinging to me like a wet shroud. It felt more real than any vision before. I tried to dismiss it, but the warning echoed: ‘Don’t turn around.’ I lay still for what felt like an eternity.

But curiosity is a stubborn beast. I could feel the rough texture of my pillowcase under my cheeks, the gentle hum of the fan, the distant sound of a siren wailing. I thought, ‘It’s just a dream.’ And I turned over.

A searing pain shot through my left foot, as if I had plunged it into boiling oil. I screamed and sat upright, seeing the hotplate on the floor, its glowing coil red and angry, my foot pressed against it. I had knocked it off the desk in my sleep, and it had fallen next to the bed, still plugged in. The pain was excruciating, but what chilled me more was the realization: the dream had warned me. But why did it choose the wrong direction? If I hadn’t turned, would I have avoided it? Or was the warning a trap to make me turn and face the danger? I bandaged my foot, but the questions burned deeper than the wound.

The incident made me more vigilant. I started keeping a dream journal, noting every vision, no matter how mundane. But the next event shattered that fragile sense of control. I was home alone on a rainy afternoon, the gray light filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across the living room. My parents were at work, and I had the house to myself, except for the cat, which was curled up on the sofa. I was in the middle of a video game, my fingers dancing on the controller, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark figure sprint across the doorway to my left. It was a fleeting, almost liquid shadow, too fast to be human. My blood turned to ice. I froze, my thumbs hovering over the buttons. The game’s music seemed to mock me with its cheerful tune. I slowly put down the controller and crept to the hallway, my heart hammering. The hallway was empty, the bathroom door slightly ajar, the kitchen light flickering. I checked every room, every closet, but found nothing. The cat was still on the sofa, watching me with unblinking eyes.

I tried to convince myself it was a trick of the light, a stray bird’s shadow, my imagination running wild. But deep down, I knew. These weren’t just sleep-deprivation hallucinations. They were warnings. The issue was, I couldn’t always decipher them in time.

A week later, I had another dream. I was in a forest, the trees twisted and black, and I could hear a child crying. I walked toward the sound, my feet crunching on dead leaves, and I saw a small figure huddled at the base of a great oak. As I approached, the child looked up, and it was my neighbor’s daughter, Emily. Her face was bruised, and she said, ‘Help me.’ I woke up with a start. The next day, I learned that Emily had been hit by a car on the playground. She survived, but barely. My dream had showed me her face, but I was powerless to stop it.

That’s when I realized the true nature of my ‘gift’: I could see the consequences of actions, but not the actions themselves. The dreams were like cryptic messages from a malicious entity that enjoyed watching me flail. The hotplate, the shadow, the child—each one was a piece of a puzzle I couldn’t assemble.

I began to obsess. I read about precognition, about other people who claimed to see the future. I isolated myself, losing sleep, which only worsened the visions. My waking hours blurred with my dream state. I started to see things even when I was awake—dark shapes at the edge of my vision, whispers in empty rooms. I was slowly unraveling.

One night, I had the most vivid dream yet. I was in my apartment, but everything was distorted, the walls breathing, the furniture tilting. I saw a figure standing in the corner of my room, shrouded in a black mist. It pointed to a spot on the floor, and I saw the hotplate, still there, unplugged. Then the figure spoke, its voice like a thousand nails on a chalkboard: ‘You will turn around, and you will see.’

I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat. My foot was throbbing, the burn still healing. I lay in bed, my mind racing. The dream had been different—it was a command, not a warning. And I knew with terrifying certainty that if I turned around now, I would see something that would break me. But the entity knew I couldn’t resist. The human mind always turns, always looks, always seeks the answer.

So I did. I turned around, and there, on the floor, where the hotplate had been, there was nothing. Just bare, dusty wood. I laughed, a hollow sound. But as I looked closer, I saw scorch marks on the floor, arranged in a perfect circle. And in the center, written in some dark substance, were the words: ‘You still have time.’

I never found out what that meant. But I know now that the hotplate was not an accident. It was a test. And I am still turning, still looking, and I fear that one day, I will turn and see what the shadow has been trying to show me all along—a future I was never meant to prevent, but to witness.