I Help Boy Part-2

PART-2

The thing is, though, it wasn’t just the frequency of my nightmares that was so odd. Yes, the content was fairly standard, as they usually involved monsters or ghosts or some other unidentifiable menace that went bump in the night, but what stood out was, for lack of a better word, the form. By that I mean, as scary as my early nightmares were, they weren’t actually about me because I never experienced my nightmares in the first person. Rather, I would always seem to witness whatever horror my mind chose to conjure as if it were happening to someone else. It was sort of like watching a play, with all the terror of the experience being transmitted vicariously.

Oh, and that’s another thing. It’s not like I kept imagining bad things happening to different people. The person suffering in my nightmares was always the same: a little boy with long, light black hair, freckles, and a round face. I didn’t really know what to call him, so I just thought of him as the Sad Boy for most of my childhood.

That is, until I got the dream journal. And whether because I dreaded the scolding I’d get for throwing away a Christmas present or because some part of me sensed my parents wouldn’t give up on trying to get me to record my nightly visitations, I kept it by my bed side when I went to sleep that night.

I wish I hadn’t.

The nightmare I had that night was worse than any I’d ever experienced, even with endless terror plaguing my brain. I don’t think I could have forgotten it even without the events that followed. But we’ll get to that soon enough. Let me tell you about the dream first.

In the dream, the sad boy began going to sleep in his bed.When I felt myself in the room, the sad boy was already asleep, and for just a moment, I thought perhaps I might have escaped a nightmare. His sleep was so peaceful. Nothing could disturb it now.

Then his face twisted into an expression of terror and he curled into a fetal position, as thousands and thousands of bed bugs suddenly tore their way out of his bed, and began circling him like a malevolent, blood-hungry cloud. No. No, a cloud wasn’t what it was. It was a vortex, in which the scratching, chittering, biting bugs were mere atoms of filth dragging him down into whatever hellish vision of terror I was doomed to witness. I did not follow him down that crawling, hellish, bottomless abyss of filth and parasitism. But I felt the terror of his experience, and felt the sickening nausea as he twisted through its depths, falling, falling, falling deeper and deeper into some dimension or Hellscape I knew I could not imagine.

He was nearly at the bottom, when his terror reached a fever pitch: a feeling I felt so acutely, that I opened my own mouth to scream. And as I did, a voice infinitely younger, more terrified, and decidedly not my own, poured forth from my throat.

“HELP!”

Part- 1 : https://wrytin.com/abhishekmudigonda/i-help-boy-jqkqin5f