The Unbidden Bargain

The dream came to me on a Tuesday, the tenth of October, 2010. I remember the date because it was my grandmother’s birthday, and we had celebrated with a small dinner at her house in the countryside. That night, I fell asleep with the taste of her apple pie still on my tongue. The dream itself was short, but it has clung to me like a leech, refusing to let go.

I found myself in a room I did not recognize. It was vast and dim, with tall windows that showed only a gray void beyond. The floor was cold marble, and the air was thick with the smell of old paper and dust. I was seated in a hard wooden chair, facing a long, polished desk. Behind the desk sat a woman I knew to be my mother, though her face was obscured, as if made of shifting fog. Three other figures stood behind her, their forms indistinct, their shadows stretching unnaturally across the wall.

My own voice echoed in the emptiness, trembling. ‘I have a bad feeling,’ I said. ‘Something is wrong.’ I tried to stand, but my body was heavy, as if weighted down by unseen hands. Then, without warning, a wave of despair crashed over me. I felt a cold knot tighten in my chest, and tears began to stream down my face. I opened my mouth to speak, but what came out was not my voice. It was a low, guttural roar, so deep it seemed to vibrate the very floor. The sound was alien, and I had no control over it.

The word ‘NO’ tore from my throat, again and again, each utterance more monstrous than the last. My body convulsed with the effort, and I saw the figures behind my mother flinch. Their faces twisted into expressions of fear and pity. My mother remained still, her obscured face turned toward me, and I could swear she was weeping. I clawed at the air, trying to reach for her, but the darkness swallowed my limbs. The roaring ceased, and I sat in silence, my chest heaving.

I woke with a start, my skin slick with sweat. My heart slammed against my ribs, and every breath felt like a struggle. The room around me was familiar—my own bedroom, with its worn furniture and faded wallpaper—but the air was wrong. It was cold, and a faint hum seemed to emanate from the walls. I tried to calm myself, but the dream had left a residue, a lingering dread that made my skin prickle. Then I heard it: a whisper, deep and resonant, speaking my name. ‘Marjan,’ it breathed. The sound was faint, barely audible, but it was unmistakable. I froze, my eyes darting around the room.

On my dresser, a ceramic cup—one my grandmother had painted years ago—began to tremble. It slid across the surface, then fell, shattering on the floor with a sharp retort. The shards scattered like teeth, and the silence that followed was deafening. I did not sleep for the rest of the night. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the echo of that voice still coiled in my ears, and I knew that something had been waiting for me, not just in the dream, but in the waking world, and that the bargain I had struck in my sleep was only the beginning.