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Horrible Owls

3:00 Am

By Nicholas R YangPublished 27 days ago Updated 27 days ago 3 min read
Horrible Owls
Photo by Artem Kovalev on Unsplash

In the shadowy embrace of the night, as the clock's hands align in a silent proclamation of 3:00 AM, here I find myself ensnared in an ironic twist of fate. Tonight, I have been drawn to my desk by forces of the unseen, here I sit about to tell a tale of recurring nightmares and all things unholy that stalk the witching hour. It's a peculiar dance with destiny, recounting horrors that unfold within my deep subconscious at the exact time they hound me.

This turns the act of writing into an eerie echo of said twilit dance I partake in often. It starts with me dreaming about something else. As I waltz through this lucid Planescape great white and brown horned owls began to perch on the scenery. Their huge yellow and black eyes watching, always watching no matter what field of dream I frolic in.

I don’t notice them at first, not at first. As I sway and swing, lost in my moment of respite from the world I ache to escape, their presence creeps into my unconsciousness with an insidious grace. My soul quakes, panic consumes me, and my ethereal self is hurled into a chasmed oblivion of darkness. I fall and fall, the wisp of light fading from whatever midsummer night's dream I am in.

My astral body drifts in an eternal black, suspended in a vast void, ensnared in that lightless abyss painted with the deepest obsidian. There, I linger for an eternity, a prisoner of something outside of Earthly shackles, something of terrible dread. That something of unseen terror, a horrifying nothingness of oval circles, bearing down on me as I smell metallic something, and taste the stench of sickly desterilization. Like someone has used too much cleaning product in a tiny, stale aired space. Here my ethereal self hovers, I can feel sweat drenching my empty corpse shell, soaking the sheets around me like blood.

The needles come next, piercing, prodding, and slicing my ghostly flesh. A never-ending dance of agony and delight. It goes on for an eternity. As Tsukoyomi rests above, my spirit endures countless deaths. And then comes the final plunge, my plummet into consciousness, my inner eye throbbing in a need to be awake.

The body crashes onto the bed, a marionette severed from its strings. Frantically, I gasp for air bolting upright as my heart pounds in a frenzied attempt to escape my chest, reminiscent of those extraterrestrial creatures in that one movie, or to leave me lifeless from shock. My fingers slide through my hair, slick with sweat, as the final traces of adrenaline dance their last dance through my muscles. Finally, the solitary blue light that bathes the room, piercing and persistent, flickers and fades as I blink. The darkness of the room reclaiming my wife and I.

In the raw vulnerability of my nakedness, I crisscross the cool wooden floorboards before throwing open the twin doors into the night-drenched patio. The cool night air liberates and embraces me. I drink in the cool night air, taking slow and deliberate breaths to satiate my body's adrenal excitement. I lean on the weather-worn and cracked banister, looking into the star-flecked sky, then I return to my king-sized haven. I slip in beside my slumbering wife. Here I surrender to that lightless oblivion, uttering a silent prayer to my deities, hoping to escape those horrible owls once more.

Alas, without fail, they will always prey upon me, stealthy thieves of precious sleep. Like the rising sun, they seize control of my dreams and body, manipulating me like a puppet in the cold claws of their mechanical domain.


About the Creator

Nicholas R Yang

An Archaeologist and aspiring Doctor, I am a part-time writer from the East Coast of Canada. Written multiple plays, poems, and short stories. Currently has a single published work, available through Amazon Canada. "Musings From The Other"

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Comments (1)

  • Esala Gunathilake27 days ago

    A nice story.

Nicholas R YangWritten by Nicholas R Yang

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