The Nightmare
Huff—
Huff—
The sound of frantic, ragged breathing clawed at Lucy Sweetin's ears.
It took a dazed second to realize it was coming from her own lungs.
She was running.
Driven by some unseen force, her legs pounded against the pavement as she sprinted into the void.
The night was a wall of ink, thick and suffocating.
Rain poured down from the sky in sheets.
A sudden wind rose up, carrying the force to destroy everything, and together with the torrential downpour, it slammed into the city wrapped in darkness.
Lucy ran without caring, water exploding beneath her boots.
Then, at some point, she stopped.
She looked up and saw a tall, thin man not far away.
He wore a plain black hoodie.
His face was young, his skin pale.
Rain soaked his hair, plastering it across his forehead, shielding his eyes from view.
In his hand, he held a bloody knife.
The downpour washed over the blade, but the blood clung to the steel, dripping slowly from the razor-sharp tip.
At his feet lay a man in a pool of blood.
Stabbed in the abdomen.
The blood seeped into the ground, mixing with the rain and snaking its way toward Lucy's shoes.
Her terror lodged in her throat.
No sound came out.
The scene was a frozen tableau.
The young man with the knife stood completely still.
The victim on the ground was already silent and unmoving.
The wind and rain lashed at them both, merciless, as if punishing the crime.
Then, cutting through the rain, came the wail of sirens.
Red and blue lights fractured the darkness as police cruisers swerved into view.
The young man didn't react at all.
He stayed frozen in place until several officers slammed him against the car.
They cinched the handcuffs around his wrists and began to haul him away.
Just before they put him in the car, he seemed to snap out of his trance.
He lifted his head and looked around frantically.
Then his gaze swept the area, panicked, and stopped right on her.
Lucy held her breath.
He was looking at her.
The distance was too great, and the rain too thick to read his expression, but the weight of his stare was suffocating.
Then they shoved him into the back seat, and that stare was gone.
The rain kept falling.
Suddenly, a piercing digital chime cut through the storm.
Lucy's eyes flew open.
She stared at the familiar cracks in her bedroom ceiling, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
That dream again.
The alarm on her nightstand kept chirping.
She reached for her phone, fingers trembling, and turned it off.
Then she pressed her palm against her forehead.
For an entire month, she had had the exact same dream every single night.
Same setting.
Same people.
And that wasn't even the strangest part.
Most dreams dissolve like mist the moment you wake up.
But this one?
It stayed.
Every detail — every drop of rain, every line of that man's pale face — was etched into her mind with the precision of a photograph.
It felt less like a dream and more like a memory she hadn't lived yet.
She sat up and pulled a small notebook from her nightstand drawer.
Leaning against the headboard, she flipped it open.
The same bullet points stared back at her:
Heavy rain.
Open lot.
Young man in black hoodie (killer?).
Male victim in a pool of blood.
Police cars.
She thought about the young man with the knife.
His face was still burned into her memory.
His skin was very pale.
He was beautiful.
The thought made her flinch.
In the dream, he looked terrible — a killer covered in blood.
Why did her brain insist on calling him beautiful?
She shook the thought away.
She had never seen this man in her life.
She didn't watch true crime docs, she didn't read thrillers, and she certainly hadn't witnessed a murder.
So why was he haunting her?
The question had been eating at her for weeks.
She slumped forward, exhausted, and dropped her face onto her comforter.
No answer came.
She rolled onto her back, stared at the ceiling for a while, then got up.
She put the notebook back, threw off the covers, and headed for the bathroom.
The woman in the mirror looked haggard.
Her skin was sallow from a month of interrupted sleep.
She splashed cold water on her face.
"Pull yourself together," she muttered.
Then she grabbed her toothbrush and cup.
Over the past month, she had seen a therapist, and then a psychiatrist.
No conclusions.
The doctors all said the same thing: stress, overwork, mild nervous exhaustion. Get more rest. Exercise. Go outside. Relax.
They gave her sleeping pills.
They didn't help much.
Every time she fell into deep sleep, the dream came knocking, like a switched-on trigger.
Lucy had even wondered if she had experienced something and then forgotten it.
She called her parents back in Idaho to ask.
They got worried the big city was breaking her and threatened to fly out.
She had to hang up just to stop the interrogation.
After brushing her teeth, she put the dream aside for the time being.
She went back to her room, patted on some moisturizer and serum, then poured herself a glass of water in the small living room.
Her apartment was tiny.
The kitchen was right next to the living room, open plan.
The smell of freshly ground coffee beans filled the room as she prepped her French press.
She tossed some bread, eggs, and bacon into the air fryer for a quick sandwich.
As she poured the steamed milk into her coffee, a flash of the dream flickered in her mind.
She saw the man looking at her from the police car again.
Suddenly, a wave of profound, crushing sadness washed over her.
It was so heavy it made her chest ache.
Why?
Why would she feel sad for a killer?
The coffee overflowed, splashing onto the counter.
"Dammit," she hissed, grabbing a rag to wipe up the mess.
The air fryer dinged.
She stopped thinking about the dream, took out the sandwich, cut it in half, and sat down with her coffee.
She ate breakfast while checking her phone orders.
Five orders yesterday. Two of them were birthday cakes.
Lucy didn't waste time.
She finished eating, cleaned up the kitchen, packed the leftover sandwich and coffee, and headed out.
On her way downstairs, she texted her best friend, Rose.
Lucy rented a baking studio on the ground floor of her apartment building — Sweetin's Treats.
It was her sanctuary.
She unlocked the door, changed into her work clothes, washed and sanitized her hands, and pulled ingredients from the fridge and shelves.
One customer's birthday cake was for noon pickup.
Lucy whipped the heavy cream and put it in the fridge to chill.
She was in the middle of making fruit mousse when someone knocked on the studio door.
She set down what she was doing, washed her hands, and opened the door.
Rose stood there.
"Hey," Lucy said with a smile.
She picked up the sandwich and coffee and handed them over.
"Here. Made too much this morning. It's for you."
Rose lived nearby. She took the breakfast with delight.
"God, I love you. What is it?"
"Bacon sandwich and a mocha."
"You are a saint, Lucy. I'm definitely bringing you something good after work to make up for this."
Lucy laughed.
"You said that last week. Then you ran off to meet your Tinder guy."
"Hey, that was a one-time slip-up. I'm all yours tonight," Rose promised, checking her watch.
She paused, her expression softening.
"So, did you have it again last night?"
The smile faded from Lucy's face.
She nodded.
"Same one."
Rose was the only one who knew.
She frowned.
"That is so freaking weird, Luce."
"Tell me about it," Lucy sighed, waving her off. "Go. You're going to be late."
"Don't overthink it. Just breathe. I'll see you later."
Lucy watched her leave, then shut the studio door.
She went back to the counter and continued making the cake.
During the day, she rarely thought about the dream.
Only when she had downtime did it cross her mind.
Last week, Rose had taken her to see a renowned spiritual advisor named Dr. Aris.
He had told her that this kind of situation followed the law of cause and effect.
Everything had its place in the karmic cycle.
The dream was a message sent through her consciousness.
It was showing her the effect first.
Behind every effect, there must be a cause.
She just needed to stay calm and patient.
At the right time, the cause would reveal itself, and the dream would resolve.
It sounded mystical, but Lucy felt there might be something to it.
She had a gut feeling that the dream was trying to tell her something.
But what?
Lucy worked until evening.
She finished the last cake of the day.
The customer couldn't pick it up, and Lucy had thought about using a courier service, but she didn't have anything else going on.
So she packed the cake and decided to deliver it herself.
The customer lived in Queen Anne Heights, the most upscale part of Seattle.
She followed the GPS to the Link light rail station.
The neighborhood was a different world.
Manicured lawns, silent streets, luxury towers with guard booths at their bases.
The security guard at the gatehouse wore a suit that cost more than her car.
He checked her ID, verified the delivery, and buzzed her through.
She reached the 32nd floor and found the right door.
She rang the bell.
After a moment, a polished woman in her early thirties opened the door.
"Hi. I'm Lucy from Sweetin's Treats. This is the cake you ordered yesterday."
"Oh, thank you," the woman said, taking the box. "You delivered it yourself? That's so sweet of you."
"No trouble at all."
The woman paid by phone.
Lucy saw the amount and noticed an extra hundred dollars.
"Excuse me, ma'am, you overpaid me."
The woman smiled gently.
"Consider it a tip. It's miserable out there. Take an Uber back, okay?"
Lucy's heart swelled.
"Thank you so much. I really appreciate it."
She looked at the transfer record on her phone, filled with gratitude.
Some rich people are just genuinely nice.
As she walked back, she saw a man in a concierge uniform standing outside the neighboring apartment.
He was holding a bag of takeout.
Just as Lucy passed, the apartment door opened from inside.
The concierge handed the bag forward.
"Mr. Vance, here's your takeout."
A hand reached out from the shadows to take it.
Lucy's attention caught.
She glanced into the apartment.
And then her steps faltered.
Her feet felt like they had been fused to the floor.
Her blood turned to ice.
Inside stood a tall, thin man.
Black t-shirt and pants.
His skin was strikingly pale.
His dark hair was a mess, curling around his neck and falling over his eyes in jagged layers.
But beneath the hair, she saw his face.
Young. Haunted. Beautiful.
Lucy's breath hitched. Her face drained of all color.
It was him.
The young man with the knife.
From her dream.
