Writing Prompt #113 — The Scratch on the Outside

Prompt: You thought it was just a dream. However the next night you notice scratches on the outside of your bedroom window. The fact that you live on the 13th floor makes them a bit difficult to explain.

It had to have been a dream; must’ve been one. My apartment was on the 13th floor, far too high for anyone to reach, even if they dared to climb the brick building… But, the were scratches on the other side of the window. Deep, rigged, like someone had taken a razor to it.

I can barely recall what the dream was, like always. I’ve tried to piece it together in my mind, but it’s impossible, like trying to catch a handful of fog or passing your fingers through water. In here, I’ll try and hopefully feel better afterwards.

I was in my room, lying in bed. Even though I was asleep, I knew I was in my room, as though I was two different people. Then, I awoke and quickly sat up. It was dark, but lit enough to see by. Moonlight but without the moon. The air seemed misty, as if I left the window open and fog rolled in, but the window was closed. But, the sky looked different, odd.

I don’t remember getting out of bed or going to the window, but one moment I was under the covers, the next I was before the window.

The world was upside down. The sky was below and the town above. Buildings and homes hung from the heavens like chandeliers or arms of grandfather clocks, yet I wasn’t upside down, or was I? Or was my building or apartment floating somewhere in the middle?

There was no moon, no stars, no horizon, the sky met the city like two halves of a sphere, perfectly aligning, melding together.

I heard a whispering in the air, but couldn’t make out the words. There was a chiming of dozens of bells, like the fluttering of wings, somehow. Something rose from below, towering over the building, reaching the town above. It was darker than night but lighter than space, a blue-black silhouette. Thin, gangly arms, torso, legs… They moved like streamers in the wind, like fish swimming against a current. I couldn’t make out its head, couldn’t see above the mist that seemingly came with it.

Then, it bent towards me, and the mist was gone and its head, or what must’ve been its head was elongated on both sides with jagged, jutting poles, and hundreds of tiny rusted bells dangling from the ends, jangling. It had no eyes, nose, or mouth, but two wide holes spanning its features, and deep within were small lips, thousands, if not millions, of them moving, gibbering, whispering the nonsense now bombarding my head.

It raised its arm and placed its pointed end to the window and ran it down the pane, leaving deep, curved grooves…

Then, I awoke, covered in sweat, gasping for air.

Looking at the window in the waking world, I’m realizing they aren’t just scratches; but a symbol, something that signifies that it it has found me and it’ll return…

 

Read my previous prompt, “Now Artificial, Never Real”

Read more of my writing prompts here.

Check out my bibliography for more of my work.

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