The People in My Dreams Started Dying

I have never been afraid of nightmares.

Like most people, I would wake up, drink some water, and move on with my day. Dreams were strange, sometimes disturbing, but ultimately harmless.

At least, that is what I believed.

Everything changed six months ago.

The first dream seemed ordinary enough.

I was standing in an unfamiliar train station beneath flickering lights. The entire platform was empty except for one elderly man sitting alone on a wooden bench.

He looked exhausted.

Not physically exhausted.

The kind of exhaustion that settles into a person's soul.

As I walked toward him, he slowly raised his head.

His eyes were filled with terror.

Not because of me.

Because of something standing behind me.

Before I could turn around, he whispered four words.

"You can see us."

Then I woke up.

Three days later, I saw his photograph on the local news.

He had been reported missing.

A week after that, his body was found.

I told myself it was a coincidence.

It had to be.

But then it happened again.

And again.

And again.

Each dream introduced me to someone new.

A woman sitting alone inside an empty church.

A teenage boy standing beside a frozen lake.

A young mother holding a crying child in the middle of a dark highway.

Different faces.

Different places.

Always the same expression.

Absolute terror.

And always the same final words.

"You can see us."

Within weeks, every single person appeared on the news.

Missing.

Then dead.

Every one of them.

At first, I kept quiet.

Who would believe me?

How could I explain that complete strangers were appearing in my dreams before they died?

I convinced myself I was imagining patterns where none existed.

Until the dreams began changing.

The people started recognizing me.

Instead of standing silently, they would approach me.

Begging.

Crying.

Grabbing my arms.

Asking me for help.

One woman collapsed at my feet sobbing uncontrollably.

"Please don't let him find me."

I asked who she was talking about.

She looked past my shoulder.

The color drained from her face.

Then she screamed.

Not a normal scream.

A scream so full of terror it felt like something alive tearing itself apart.

I woke up shaking.

The next morning, her disappearance was all over social media.

That was the moment I stopped believing in coincidence.

Someone—or something—was showing me these people before they died.

But I still did not understand why.

The answer came during the forty-third dream.

It was the first time I saw him.

The man responsible.

Or at least, the thing pretending to be a man.

The dream began differently.

There were no victims.

No abandoned locations.

No desperate warnings.

Just a long hallway stretching endlessly in both directions.

Every wall was covered in photographs.

Thousands of them.

Children.

Teenagers.

Parents.

Elderly people.

Every face belonged to someone I had already seen in my dreams.

Every face belonged to someone dead.

At the end of the hallway stood a tall figure wearing a black coat.

His face remained hidden in darkness.

As I approached, he slowly lifted one hand and pointed toward a photograph.

My photograph.

The newest one on the wall.

Underneath it was a date.

Seven days away.

I woke up screaming.

For the first time, I understood.

The dreams were not warnings.

They were introductions.

Every victim had already been chosen.

And now it was my turn.

The following week became a nightmare.

I barely slept.

Every time I closed my eyes, I found myself back in the hallway.

The photographs multiplied daily.

More missing people.

More victims.

More faces silently waiting.

And each night, the figure stood slightly closer than before.

Watching.

Waiting.

Smiling.

On the sixth night, he finally spoke.

His voice sounded wrong.

Not deep.

Not distorted.

Simply wrong.

Like multiple people speaking simultaneously through the same mouth.

"They only see me when it's too late."

I asked what he wanted.

He laughed softly.

Then replied.

"Nothing."

That answer terrified me more than any threat could have.

Because predators hunt for reasons.

Monsters kill for reasons.

But whatever stood before me seemed completely indifferent.

It wasn't feeding.

It wasn't punishing.

It wasn't seeking revenge.

It simply existed.

And people died because of it.

The final dream arrived exactly seven days later.

I stood once again inside the hallway.

My photograph remained at the end.

But something had changed.

Every face hanging on those walls was staring directly at me.

Thousands of eyes.

Thousands of victims.

Silent.

Motionless.

Waiting.

Then one by one, they began opening their mouths.

Not to scream.

Not to cry.

To whisper.

The same four words.

"You can see us."

The sound became unbearable.

Thousands of voices speaking together.

Thousands of dead people repeating the same sentence.

Then the figure stepped forward and removed the darkness hiding his face.

I wish I could tell you what I saw.

I genuinely wish I could.

But every time I remember it, my mind refuses to hold the image.

The memory slips away like water through my fingers.

Only one feeling remains.

Terror.

Pure, overwhelming terror.

The kind of fear that strips away language itself.

I woke up gasping for air.

My bedroom was empty.

The house was silent.

Everything seemed normal.

Until I looked at the wall across from my bed.

There was a photograph hanging there.

A photograph that had never existed before.

It showed me sleeping.

Taken from the corner of my room.

Beneath it, written in careful handwriting, were four words.

"Now they can see you."