The oppressive scenes of the village, the curse, and the shadowy, unknown voice that seemed to cling to her thoughts, dark and chilling still haunted Emily's mind. Back in her reality, the daylight streaming through her window should have been comforting, but everything felt dimmed, heavy. The usual hustle of her morning routine felt foreign, each movement weighed down by echoes of the nightmare.
George's knock at her door came earlier than she expected. The door creaked as he opened it slowly, poking his head in with that familiar smirk on his face. She felt a wave of relief at his presence, something grounding in his very real, very present self.
"Hope I'm not interrupting any thrilling nightmares," he teased, stepping inside. "Maybe just a touch less murder and mayhem in today's edition?"
She gave a small laugh, trying to match his lightness but feeling its hollowness within herself. "I'll make sure to pencil that into my subconscious agenda," she replied, rolling her eyes. She wanted to smile, to match his easy wit, but the weight of last night still pressed on her.
As George settled into the chair by her bed, he glanced at her with a mixture of playfulness and concern. "So, Miss Sleepyhead, what kind of terrible curse did you run into this time?"
She wanted to brush it off, to throw a witty comment back, but as she looked at him, her defenses softened. Maybe it was time to let him in on the reality of what she was facing.
"George…" she started, voice softer than she intended. She looked down at her hands, picking at her nails. "It's… it's not just some bad dreams. It feels so real. Like I'm trapped there, like there's no way out."
The levity left his face, replaced by an attentive seriousness. "You're talking about those nightmares again?" he asked gently. "You've had weird dreams before, but this seems… different."
Emily nodded, taking a breath. "I keep ending up in these places that feel like different worlds, like pieces of hell disguised as reality. Last night, it was a cursed village… there were people worshipping a statue, and this man—he'd made a deal with the devil, cursed the whole town."
"Classic villain move," George muttered with a lopsided grin, but his eyes were warm, filled with compassion she wasn't quite ready to face.
Emily gave a weak smile. "I'm serious. It wasn't just a bad dream. I can feel it, even now. Like whatever… creature… was watching me is still watching. It was saying things, things that no nightmare should say." She trailed off, looking down again.
George was quiet, taking in her words with surprising calm. He sighed, then leaned closer, his hand brushing hers. "Hey, listen," he said softly, with that comforting playfulness. "If you're being stalked by a demonic village dweller or some Satan-worshiping cult leader, I think you need to upgrade your social circle. What's wrong with good, old-fashioned nightmares? Bring back the zombie clowns, or whatever happened to harmless sleep paralysis?"
She chuckled, despite herself. "I wish it was as simple as zombie clowns," she murmured, her fingers tightening around his.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while. George leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head, glancing over at her thoughtfully. "Look, maybe there's more to these dreams. But maybe they're also just that… dreams. Your mind trying to work through something. I mean, you're stressed, you barely sleep… sometimes dreams get weird when you're running on empty, you know?"
Emily thought about his words, letting them settle in her mind. But the weight of the curse, the village, the voice in her head—they weren't the usual dream fragments. They felt like they were part of her reality now, woven into her waking life.
She looked over at him, grateful for the lightness he brought, even if it didn't quite erase her fear. "I appreciate the therapy session," she said, rolling her eyes slightly, a smile tugging at her lips. "Next time, I'll tell you when the devil himself shows up."
George grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Perfect. But if he does show up, maybe don't let him in for coffee. Word is, he's a terrible company."
They laughed, a real, genuine laugh that made the room feel brighter as if George's humour could chase away the lingering shadows.
Later that evening, Emily sat alone in her room, feeling the familiar ache of loneliness creep in. George had left, and with him, a sense of comfort and warmth had vanished from the room. Her thoughts turned to the village, to the images of those cursed people, and to the man's horrible smile as he delivered his twisted sacrifices.
Her hands clutched her blanket as she tried to hold onto the remnants of her time with George, hoping it would be enough to keep her grounded. But as the minutes ticked by, the night seemed to close in around her. The walls felt too close, the air too thick.
She took a shuddering breath and closed her eyes, willing herself to relax, but the silence around her felt unnatural as if it were waiting for something to happen.
Just as she began to drift into an uneasy sleep, the same cold, mocking voice she remembered from the village echoed in her mind, sharper and clearer than before.
"You cannot run, Emily," it whispered, oozing with malice. "These walls won't protect you, just as that boy's jokes won't save you."
Her eyes shot open, her heart pounding. She sat up, looking around the darkened room, her hands shaking. Her chest tightened as the voice lingered, a haunting reminder of the horrors she'd faced.
"What do you want from me?" she muttered into the darkness, her voice barely a whisper.
There was no answer, just silence as if mocking her as if waiting for her to acknowledge it. She took a deep, trembling breath, pulling the blanket around her shoulders like a shield. She knew it wouldn't protect her, not really, but it was all she had.
The minutes ticked by, each one heavier than the last until her exhaustion finally pulled her into sleep. And as she slipped into darkness, she braced herself for what new horror awaited her on the other side.