The Nightmare Begins

waking up never seemed like waking up.
in a way, it always seemed like he was asleep,
just moving from one dream to the next.
and this last dream had been a nightmare.

the jet black hearse gleamed in the
glaring desert sun.
sweat poured from his brow and
he looked at the house in front of him.

“it’s my house,” he cried out,
not sure of what was going on
but fairly sure that he
would not like it at all.

“you’re wrong there,”
a booming voice told him.
“the owner of this house is dead…
killed himself months ago.”

he felt a heavy hand fall on his shoulder
and cringed at the weight and coldness.
the hand urged him towards the house
and up the stairs to the sun-blasted door.

the figure behind him handed him a
ring of molded, old keys.
the front door key was a twisted mass
of metal with a skull adorning the end.

he started to tremble as he
slid the key into the door’s lock.
as he turned it, he felt the pins
slid into place with a sickening pop.

the door opened with an ear-piercing screech,
and he jumped… inadvertently into the house.
trying to look back at his mysterious guide,
he felt that heavy hand steer his attention forward.

his footsteps fell loudly on the wooden floor,
echoing throughout the empty house.
he glanced around, noticing the lack
of furniture and other household items.

“yes, the previous owner had a breakdown,”
the voice was telling him,
tugging on his shoulder to turn him around.
“he slashed his own throat.”

he turned slowly around towards the voice
and came face to face with… himself,
the flesh from his throat slashed open
and hanging loosely on his neck.

he screamed and tried to run,
but the hand held him still…
trapping him…
and raised his hand.

a straight razor was in his hand,
open and shining in the afternoon sun.
the ghastly image brought the razor down,
barely missing his throat.

he screamed and tried to fight against his foe…
only to find himself in his bed,
trembling, covered in sweat,
and screaming for his life.