Murderous dreams
Pale moonlight penetrates the barred, narrow light opening and lies like a silvery veil over the stone floor covered with all kinds of junk.
The objects can only be dimly glimpsed in the misty light: In some places, ferns penetrate the rotting wooden planks lying on the floor, overgrown with moss, which seem to have fallen from the ceiling a long time ago.
Long streaks of dried dirty water reaching down to the floor are visible beneath the rectangular light hatch. Like the annual rings of an old tree that has survived many human lifetimes, the edges of the lime are drawn together in ever smaller parabolas.
Muddy water must have already washed heavily and frequently into this tomb. In the corners of the room, a thick dark layer of mold has formed on the crumbling stone - with furry hairs like the fur of a wild animal. A half-decayed chair is rotting in one corner.
The screech of an owl pierces the silence: “Huuu Huhuhuuuu”. As a small creature with glowing eyes scurries past close to the hatch outside as if driven by wild panic, stirring up dead leaves in the process, an uncomfortably damp, cold draught of air carries a slightly musty smell of decay into the room.
“Drip, drip, drip” drips from the high ceiling almost every second, echoing in the silence. Rusty sewage pipes snake up the ceiling like veins without a pulse on the dirt-encrusted walls until their outlines are swallowed up by the darkness.
Two old workbenches with peeling paint huddle against one of the three windowless walls - one littered with rusted tools, dented cans and brittle metal; the other stands empty, almost oppressive in its abandonment.
“Drip, drip, drip” drops of water fall again on the sunken cheeks of a figure crouching half-asleep on a hard wooden cot. The moldy plank bed made of solid planks stretches out like a tongue into the ghostly room - just opposite the workbenches.
Heavy iron chains, from which blood-red, rusting layers are peeling off, lead up into the rock at the head and foot ends on one side of the old wood - firmly anchored in large eye-shaped eyelets.
A tall, battered locker with a broken lock rears up against the doorless wall opposite the light.
Chains hold the locker to the wall, making it look like a superhumanly large spider lying in wait for its prey in the clammy light. The dents bulge outwards as if an angry beast inside had tried to smash its way out.
The scraps of clothing, smelling of urine and vapors, hanging down from the emaciated body on the cot are repulsive. Deep, dark circles under his eyes bear witness to his severe exhaustion. His face is marked by nervous trembling of the eyelids and around the corners of the mouth.
A thick thread of saliva runs down one corner of his mouth like a remnant of life from his battered body to the cold floor. He looks like an old man. His medium-length hair sticks to his forehead and cheeks, soaked with sweat.
“Drip, drip, drip” the water rolls off his chin. Whimpering, the figure sleepily turns to the other side and falls off the cot onto the hard floor. You wake up startled, your face as pale as the light of the moon.
You wipe the thread of saliva from your chin and try to sit up with a jerk. Staggering slightly, you lean on your trembling, bone-thin arms.
You are unable to think clearly. Instead, you feel a painful rhythmic pounding inside your skull, as if your heart has suddenly entered your head.
You feel nauseous from the sudden awakening from your brief deep sleep. You can only perceive your surroundings in a blur until you can focus your gaze again.
You realize how exhausted you are. As you try to rub the sleep from your eyes, you feel your hand leave a slippery mark on your face.
You try to wipe it away with saliva and taste the iron taste of your own blood. An oppressive feeling spreads through you. You must have injured yourself on impact.
You also smell the stench of urine, sweat and vomit. You wonder where you’ve been and how long you’ve been here.
Your wide open yellowish eyes, which are streaked with many small blood-red veins, wander aimlessly and disoriented through the room. You search nervously in the darkness for a point of reference, but the silver-grey shadows seem to move as if they were alive.
Metal falls on metal with a clanging clang. As if out of your senses, you press yourself against the wall in panic and search for the source of the sound. Filled with fear, you look at the locker at the other end of the room where the noise came from.
You are terrified as you watch the locker door slowly open. A deep cry of fear, or rather a loud whimper, escapes your throat.
Despite your crippling fear, you realize that your surroundings can have nothing to do with reality. You are trapped in a dream. The locker door now opens fully, and gray-black smoke slowly billows out and creeps towards you.
You want to draw attention to yourself so that someone can wake you up and free you from this terrible nightmare.
But your mouth is paralyzed, you can’t utter a word, no matter how hard you try. Even the deep whimpering sound you can only emit slowly with difficulty, as your chest feels as if it is burdened by a heavy weight.
Countless shadows, like curved human figures, slowly emerge from the smoke. Their movements are slow, almost deliberate, and yet there is an eerie presence in their demeanor.
You know that none of this can be real. But the paralyzing fear is as real as the absence of speech and the nauseating smell.
A creature begins to grow in front of a multitude of silhouettes lurking in the background like a silent community, watching what is happening.
You look towards the light hatch for help. But it has moved upwards as if by magic, as if the wall had grown silently and secretly and you were still much deeper in the dungeon.
You feel your heart beat faster as the shadowy figure slowly takes on a human-like face. You recognize the face deep inside and yet you don’t know who it is.
The figure steps closer, its hand rises and something metallic appears. You want to run away. But you realize with sweat on your brow that the smoke on your wrists and ankles and around your neck is materializing into rusty clamps with chains leading to the wall.
You want to scream, but your throat is pressed against the wall by the ever-tightening metal band. There is a gun. The creature is aiming at you. No sound escapes your lips and panic grips you with full force.
A thought echoes inside: “I’m being muzzled. I can no longer speak.” The figure aims with uncanny precision and pulls the trigger.
You see the bullet whistle out of the barrel and hurtle towards you. But instead of killing you, the scene freezes.
A deafening bang shatters the silence and Magnus feels the world around him sink into a maelstrom of blood and pain. The door opens and the dungeon is transformed into a sterile room with white walls.
Magnus pulls himself up with a jerk. His body is drenched in sweat and his breathing is intermittent. He blinks into the bright sterile light. The shadows of the disturbing dream are still in his mind. Was it just a dream? Or has he glimpsed the deepest recesses of his own mind?
A young nurse stands in the doorway. “Magnus, get up. Time for breakfast. The ward round will be here soon.” Magnus tries to answer, but he has a lump in his throat. Coughs, tries to speak.
He involuntarily grabs his throat and feels the bruises. The horror almost freezes him. So not a dream after all? With difficulty and a brittle voice and pain when he speaks, he utters “Good morning” and “Where am I?“.
