by Bryan Kwasnik

First published on the NoSleep subbreddit September 2017.
The premise of the subreddit isto post a scary story as if it were truly happening to you and you were seeking advice or just to let others know before it was too late.

Recently, I moved into a small, Cape Cod style house. It’s cozy but comfortable with just enough space for what I need. The basement is unfinished with a low ceiling that barely gives you room to stand up straight. It’s an old house, and this is more evident down there. I tried cleaning it up as much as I could, but for the most part it is how it is. We are in a flood zone, so it didn’t make sense to put a lot of work into it. I never got a weird vibe down there, but that’s changed this past week.

My dreams have always been pretty vivid and weird—I’ve driven cars off cliffs, been swarmed by zombies, flown around like a superhero, you name it. But this past week I’ve had the same dream. Or at least they are very similar. The location might shift a little bit from one to the next, but for the most part the dream followed the same series of events.

I’m standing in front of a dilapidated door in the basement. The paint is peeling off—sometimes it’s forest green, other times white or red. Each time I’m locking the door with really flimsy locks—rusty chains, or a tiny hook that couldn’t stop a fly. It was usually a combination of a few things that clearly wouldn’t prevent someone from coming through. The door itself was loose on the hinges already. I then step back in the main room which is just concrete and about ten or fifteen feet tall. Narrow steps poke out of the wall and then climb up and around the adjacent wall. I wouldn’t be able to climb it without falling if not for a rusty chain that’s bolted into the walls above the steps. I go up and into the main house. It shares some resemblance to my current home, but has elements from other places too. One night it’s my parent’s house, the next an old friend’s. But, in each dream it is at the same time a cabin in the middle of the woods. Tall trees tower over the tiny house. From outside it’s barely a shack, no matter how the rooms look inside. The trees seem almost like giant sequoias in comparison.

Next, I wake up in my bed. It’s pitch black and the power is out. I use my phone as a flashlight, but my movements through the house are awkward and forced. I’m not in control. I can’t speak either, as if the air is stuck inside my chest and won’t come out. It feels like choking.

There are three people in the living room sleeping on three separate couches in a tight U-shape. Usually it’s my sister, my girlfriend, and then another family member as well. In a separate room my girlfriend’s sister is sitting down, with a bloody bandage around one hand. I hear her mention something about an axe, but I cannot ask questions no matter how hard I try. Even my vision seems to be failing me.

I end up in another room walking past the basement door and look to see it open on its own—its fluid, but slow. At the bottom of the stairs is a man in a white mask. The mask is featureless, just plain white (except the last time where a blue line was painted across the eyes). He is mopping up a puddle of blood.

Then I wake up.

Normally, I wouldn’t think too much about it. I have a lot of scary dreams. But every single fucking time this week I woke up exactly at 3:33 am. The fact that it is recurring is freaking me out too, because though I have had the same dream more than once it is usually months after the fact, never five days in a row.

The only reason I’m even mentioning it is because of this morning. I had to do a load of laundry. Since it’s been raining nonstop there were several puddles in the uneven floor. But I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw the mop leaning against the washing machine. It wasn’t there last time, and I don’t even own a mop. I left my house and went to work and really don’t look forward to going back home.

Update #1

Sorry this took so long, I haven't been sleeping well and it's hard to get motivated to even come on here to post. The dream came back last night (except there was a yellow streak of paint on the mask this time). Again, I woke up at 3:33. Still didn't venture back into the basement.

Luckily, I stayed with family for a couple days. I slept better. There were no dreams of any kind—which is just as strange, because I usually dream every night. Still, I was happy not to see the guy mopping up blood in the basement.

I came back home yesterday feeling somewhat renewed, and worked up enough courage to go in the basement and do the laundry that I desperately needed. The puddles of water hadn't receded—if anything they'd grown. The old mop was nowhere to be seen, and I'm starting to wonder if I'd imagined it. I put the load in and raced back upstairs.

Later, I went back down to move my clothes  into the dryer. As I opened the lid, I heard plops behind me. I turned, but saw nothing. I examined the pipes to see if there was a leak, but everything seemed okay. I went back to the machine and heard a series of splashes. This time it wasn't like drops were falling into the puddle, it sounded as if something was moving within in. Again, I saw nothing, but that was more than enough for me. I grabbed the soaking wet laundry and ran upstairs.

My clothes are still hanging all over the house, and I've since pushed my couch against the basement door. I don't know what's going on, but I'm afraid I'll find out before long.

Update #2

These past three weeks have been terrible. I'm hardly sleeping anymore except for napping in my car during my lunch break at work. Being away from home doesn't even help anymore—I still get the dreams. The masked guy would still mop up blood in the basement every night. The colors on the mask continued to change. Sometimes I’d know beforehand. This time a purple stripe. This time a red dot.

So instead I chug coffee, and watch bad movies all night. I sit on the floor instead of the couch that's pushed against the basement door. I know that I might be crazy. They're just dreams aren't they? But I'm losing sleep, and I'm losing weight. When I look in the mirror, there's something artificial about me. Like I'm wearing that fucking mask too. I’d tap my cheek half expecting it to be glass or plastic or wood. As of now, I’m still me—physically at least.

It’s hard to think straight. Sitting here typing this takes more concentration than you’d think. I’m increasingly experiencing the world as if I were outside my body. There is a disconnect from what my body is doing and what I’m feeling and thinking. I’m basically turning into a zombie. I’m amazed I’ve been able to get to and from work. Sometimes I don’t even remember driving in the first place.

Things got worse last week. A tropical storm hit my town. It was nowhere near as intense as other places, but still the wind tore branches off trees. We lost power for the night. The rain sounded like hail as it pelted the windows. But worst of all I knew the basement was flooding. I didn’t bother to open the door to check. I don’t want to ever open it again. Even without looking I could feel the murky water seeping in. And amidst the howling wind and booming thunder, I swore I could hear things moving down there.

Strangest of all, I didn’t have the dream that night. I know I slept, but the dream didn’t come. It didn’t seem like I had a dream at all. Or maybe (thankfully) I’d forgotten it. I even felt somewhat refreshed. People at work seemed to notice—they commented on my appearance, said I looked better. I didn’t even feel apprehensive about going home. And when night came I actually lied down in my bed for the first time in about a week.

I had a dream that night, but it wasn’t much. Just darkness and a pale green shape in the center. There was no motion, no creepy house or creepy man. Just colors. Again, I woke up refreshed. Finally, I thought, I got it out of my system. Whatever it was—too many horror movies, or comics, or the news—it had passed. I could relax. Dreams could go back to the normal subconscious stuff that everyone experiences. I had another good day.

The following night it got strange again. The dream had become clearer. The darkness wasn’t darkness, but water. It was endless—a vast sea of murky water. The pale green shape would skate just below the surface, its dimensions unclear. Sometimes it was quick and serpentine, other times fat and sluggish. It would dive down and then later a fin or flipper or something would splash the water in the corner of my eye. It was teasing me. It wanted me to know it was there, that it was coming.

I woke up in a cold sweat. It was 3:33 again. I could hear rain. The forecast hadn’t shown any rain that day. I went to the window and pulled back the curtain. The sky was clear. My chest and throat tightened, just like it had in the previous dreams when I’d see the janitor. I wanted to get out of that house as soon as I could, but my legs wouldn’t work. The sounds were coming from the basement.

I stood there looking out my window until the first rays of sunrise slipped through the trees.  I stayed at a friend’s that night, but the dreams followed me. It had changed once more. I was again standing in front of the old door in the basement, but this time it was wide open. Through the door I was looking down into the murky water as if I was above it. A wave of vertigo swept through me, and all the while the sickly green shape splashed around below (or ahead?).

The water was slowly rising, and I was paralyzed. I screamed in my head, “Shut the door!” “Run!” “Do something!” But I only watched as it rose closer and closer. Then I awoke. 3:33. Always 3:33.

The next night the water was higher. Same the night after.  Last night it was only a few yards away. I could see how the green thing’s body was slick and slimy. Its body constantly changed. I’d see flayed tails, or spiny fins, even scaly claws like an alligator. It transformed in twisted shadows, turning effortlessly into countless grotesque creatures.  I wondered if it might encompass the entire sea.

Sometimes I catch a silvery glare from beneath the surface and knew it is smiling at me with hideous, twisted fangs. I could hear them grinding in its wide mouth. I could feel the vibrations cascade up and down my skin. Though nothing could be worse than the sounds I heard after.

A deep, ugly voice as if each word was vomited up. The voice sounded like it was decaying as it slunk to my ears. I could even feel it burrow inside my head, like a fucking parasite. It was incredibly painful, I remember the room spinning when I woke up and stumbled to the medicine cabinet for some Advil.

The language was nothing I knew or cared to know and the words themselves seemed to twist and change as the creature did. They’d stretch out and collapse in on themselves again and then burst apart into a dozen other words. But as the nauseating speech came to a close there was one word I did recognize. I’ve tried all day to convince myself I was just looking for patterns in the unintelligible mess, but I know that’s not true. The word was perfect clear.

It said, “Hungry.”

Update #3

I can’t begin to describe how surreal the past months have been. I am only writing this down now as a way to sort through what was true and what wasn’t. And if it was all true then let it serve as some sort of explanation. Not an excuse—no, we are far, far past excuses. But at least someone will know what happened.

The horrible voice continued to itch at the back of my mind. Nothing I did silenced it. Medication could make me sleep, but I had no intention of returning to that dream. In the dream I’d not only hear it, but see it too. In the real world (I still believe it to be the real world, but who can say?) I turned the TV volume to max and blasted the busiest, most raucous music I could find in my headphones. My eardrums ached at the abuse, and yet it was better than that horrible voice.

I don’t know what it is, or if it’s real. In my dreams the thing changes so fluidly, that it’s impossible to even guess what it may look like. Maybe it doesn’t have one body, but several. It could be a shapeshifter or have no corporal form. I’ve stopped guessing. It is what it is, and what it is is beyond my comprehension.

I was stuck in the dream several weeks ago. The monster in the puddle vomited out gibberish through the murky water that was pouring in through the open doorway. Then it was replaced by a pool of blood being mopped up by the masked janitor. At this point it would begin to loop. Once a night wasn’t enough anymore, I’d go through it countless times. I was overjoyed when a loud noise dragged me out of the loop. There was something banging against the side of my house.

I went out to investigate, more curious then anything. My experiences of late have made me numb to everything else. The idea of other dangers seems preposterous. I went out barefoot, holding only my phone as a flashlight. The cold air drained the heat from my exposed skin as I rounded the house. My garbage can was rocking back and forth, slamming against the wall.

An animal (possibly a raccoon or squirrel) had lifted the lid and fallen inside. I could hear its desperate whines, but they were distant, as if in another world. What I heard loudest was the crude, throaty voice in my mind. “Hungry,” it said. Over and over, like an annoying child. “Hungryhungryhungryhungry…”

I don’t remember dragging the garbage can inside until I was already moving the couch away from the basement door. I paused as I unlocked it. The voice was deafening, pounding inside my head in rhythm with my frantic heartbeat.

HUNGRYHUNGRYHUNGRYHUNGRYHUNGRYHUNGRYHUNGRYHUNGRYHUNGRY

Fuck it, I thought, and ripped the door wide open. The voice vanished. Every molecule in the house seemed to freeze. Even the creature had quit its clamoring. It took a staggered breath, taking in the silence for the first time in days. It was probably the best feeling I have ever felt. I can’t imagine any other time where such relief swept over me.

It was fleeting, of course. The can began to shake and jostle around the floor. I picked it up and brought it to the basement door. “Sorry,” I said as I kicked it down the steps, and quickly shut the door.

The animal screeched as it bounced down into the basement, coming to a hard stop against the wall. It scratched at the plastic, desperate to be free. And it whined as another sound echoed from below.

PLOP. PLOP. PLOP.

I could hear the lid get torn off the can and the terrible shriek of whatever poor thing was stuck inside. I squealed in absolute horror before being silence by a loud CRUNCH.

I pushed the couch back against the basement door and sat down. I waited for whatever it was to climb the steps and take me next. I knew it was coming, and could swear I felt its breath on my neck even through the door.

But, I awoke the next morning safe in my bed. I must have moved there sometime in the night. I stretched and went through my daily routine. Strangely, I felt calm and alert. I even cooked breakfast instead of grabbing something on the way to work. The voice was gone. The sounds of water were gone as well. And, as far as I knew, I had no dreams that night.

The rest of the month went by without incident. I actually started spending time with my friends. We hung out, went hiking just as the leaves had begun to change colors. I was actually happy.

Mid October the dreams returned. They were different this time though. They begun as the first group of dreams had –in a house that was somewhat familiar in the middle of the woods, family sleeping on couches, open basement door, and when I look down I see the masked janitor mopping up the blood. But this time it switched perspective. Now, I was the one looking up at myself. I could hardly see through the tiny eye slits in the mask, and could feel my hot breath trapped beneath and pushing upwards through my eye lashes. Eventually I’d look away and go back to mopping up the blood. It was dark and thick and no matter how hard I tried, there was no end to it.

I woke up at 3:33 again. I wasn’t surprised. Mostly, I was angry at myself for believing it was over. As if reading my thoughts, the terrible voice laughed in the basement below me. HUNGRY, it said.

The next few days were a blur. I don’t remember going to work or driving or even eating. Again, the times I’d catch my reflection, my image appeared fake. The mask was growing around me, or within me, or both. It was like a disease.

I had blackouts for days at a time. I’d regain consciousness and wouldn’t know how I got where I was. I wasn’t ever anywhere strange. Just around my house, or in town shopping. What was I shopping for? I’d blackout again before I could remember.

The next time my memory returned, I was sitting at my kitchen table dipping strips of newspaper into a large bowl of cloudy water. I then wrapped it around a plastic milk jug. This was something I had done once in elementary school. Tubes of paint were lined in a row at one end of the table. I finished the papier mâché and let it dry.

I sat in the living room while I waited. Near the doorway I could see a big bowl of candy. The clock said 12:34. I should be at work, shouldn’t I? I didn’t seem to care. A couple hours passed and I went back into the kitchen. I spurted some of the white paint onto the left over newspaper and started to paint my creation. I chose to go with a white base and added a streak of blue across the eyes and a red dot on the chin. The paint hadn’t even dried before the doorbell ring. The first trick-or-treaters had arrived.

That’s how it all happened more or less. I tried mopping up the blood in the basement, but all I do is push it around. The basement floor is covered in dark red puddles and streaks of blood. I need a better mop. My hands shake a bit while I try to clean, but what else is there to do. I can see the door plain as day now. It rattles on its hinges as the horrible voice cries out over and over again. HUNGRY, it says. And it must be fed.