Michael Adler
It was the perfect
weekend getaway. That morning, Anne and
her mother had driven up into the mountain forests of Montana to spend the
weekend away from the city and go for long leisurely walks, enjoying the solitude
and natural surroundings. Her mother’s
co-worker had lent them a log cabin situated about 40 miles southwest of
Missoula.
At
the age of ten, Anne was a playful young girl who loved to read tales of
fantasy and romance, enjoying the care-free escape from boring reality. She had been looking forward to the weekend
retreat for some time now and was quite happy to have finally arrived at the
beautiful location. The two of them had
spent the day relaxing in the tranquility of the cabin and its isolated
setting, going exploring in the forest and enjoying nature at its best. Night
fell, and her mother tucked her in to the soft, warm inviting bed, saying
“Sweet dreams Annie.” Anne bundled up
in the scarlet red sheets and fell into a deep sleep, her mind wandering
through a fantasy land with no cares whatsoever.
She
began to dream. She was in the old
cabin, walking down the hallway. She wandered into her mother’s room and stood
there for a minute, gazing at her silhouette under the white sheets. She was happy. Silently, Anne crept closer
to the bed, a smile cracked across her wet lips. She reached the bed and noticed that she was lifting her
arm. A large kitchen knife glinting in
the pale moonlight clutched in her upraised fist. With one powerful stroke, she slammed the knife downward,
silently plunging it deep into her mother’s chest. Her mother lay still,
peacefully breathing in her slumber.
Anne grew angry and withdrew the knife and plunged it again and again
into her mother’s reddening torso, ripping through organs and muscle with a
satisfying gurgle of dying bodily tissue. frayed every last bit of flesh until
what once resembled her mother’s body lay peacefully oozing bile on the
blood-drenched sheets, the knife dripping blood on the floor. Anne calmly
reached down and clutched her mothers hand. She sliced off her mother’s right
index finger and raised it up to look at it in the moonlight, then replaced the
knife in her mother’s lifeless chest. She admired her work with satisfaction.
Anne’s
breathing began to speed up. Her heart
raced and her vision became blurry, until all was white and she fainted,
falling backwards with a thump onto the hard wood floor.
Her
eyes snapped open, she realized she was In her bed, and she began to cry. Her
heart was beating like a drumroll and she was near hyperventilating. Bolting
out of bed she ran crying into her mother’s bedroom to find some consolation
for her disturbing nightmare. She burst
through the doorway and wailed hysterically.
“Mommy I had a bad dream!” there was no response.
“..Mommy?” She made her way over to the side of the bed and attempted to shake her mother awake. Nothing happened. Anne withdrew her hands, and a horrible feeling washed over her as she discovered that they were wet, and sickeningly warm. Frightened, she flicked on the light switch and stopped breathing. What was left of her mother lay bloody and motionless on the wet, blood-soaked sheets, a kitchen knife wedged in her chest, her right index finger severed at the knuckle. A small, weak whimper escaped her lips as her terrified gaze shifted to the wall, on which warm blood inscribed the words:
“A Nightmare Is a Beautiful Thing”
In the corner lay half of an index finger, the blood that once ran through its veins now dribbling down the wall. Anne vomited. A few drops clung to her trembling lip as she frantically sucked air into her convulsing lungs, watery mucus flowing freely from her nose. She stumbled and fell, her eyes not leaving the morbid message scrawled on the cabin wall. Crawling over to the finger, she picked it up and grasped it in shaking hands, stroking it, feeling the warm folds of flesh.
The phone rang.
Anne didn’t hear it at first, and when she did she ignored it. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, and anyways, who could be calling at this hour? 4,5,7 times it rang, and didn’t stop at that. The aggravating ringing did not cease, and Anne grew angry, tired of listening to its piercing scream. She ran over to it, picked it up and hung it up quickly without answering. It began to ring again. Furiously, she hung it up again, but the ringing wouldn’t stop. Screaming in a fit of hopeless insanity, she ripped the red knife out of her mother’s corpse and slashed the phone cord.
Silence. She let the knife drop from her sweaty red hands. Grateful for the calming silence, Anne’s crying became a little less violent and she wiped her nose on her sleeve.
Ring, Ring. Ring Ring.
“Stop it! Stop ringing damn-it no!” She curled up in a fetal position, rocking back and forth, madly shivering and sobbing uncontrollably. Her sobbing increased to violent painful cries as the phone continued to ring and did not stop. Seconds, minutes, maybe even hours passed and still the phone rang and Anne lay sobbing, shivering and mumbling incoherently while she caressed the finger, blue eyes fixed on the soiled wall. She clasped her hands over her ears to deafen herself from the torturous ringing, but it did not suffice to end the pervasively evil bell. The continuous ringing assaulted her ears, penetrated her skull and stabbed her already tormented brain until she could bear it no longer. Anne launched herself up off the floor and ran furiously to the bedside table, ripping the phone out of its cradle and silencing the sickening noise.
“Who the hell is this?” she wailed desperately, ending her demand in a long painful sob.
Her heart stopped beating as a harsh whispery voice cooed at her through the earpiece:
“A nightmare is a beautiful thing. Your daddy will soon find out. Sweet Dreams, Annie..”