A short horror story dealing with aliens, abduction and reality.
Published in Gothic City Press
By Erik Menches
Ian blinks awake, a harsh white light streams down on his face. He squints to locate the light source. His head is strapped down, which stops him from looking around the room. His vision limited to straight ahead, at the ceiling.
Frustrated, he attempts to move his arms and legs. They are also strapped down, wrists and ankles tightly secured to a cold metal table.
He’s had this nightmare regularly, ever since he was a little boy. Always sweating with fear, it feels intense and real. He violently tries to break his restraints... Only one thing ever changes, the boxers he’s wearing. They always match what he wore to sleep, down to the exact color and pattern.
While feeling vulnerable and breathing heavy, his pupils dilate. He strains to see through a bright red light that begins shinning from his left. It appears to be a floating camera, the likes of which he has never seen. It’s futuristic, but somehow not human. He doesn’t like it; he’s never experienced this part before... Ian yells, “Help!”
He directs his yells over and over at the alien camera. Left to hope that someone is nearby.
“Somebody please help! Let me go! Anybody!”
Ian’s efforts are met with a deafening silence... Closing his eyes as tight as he can, he wills this nightmare to disappear. Whispering to himself,
“This can't be happening. This can't be real.”
After deciding it’s been long enough, he must be safe in his bed. Ian opens his eyes...
Staring down at him are two bright blue and glowing eyes.
The figure standing over him is shrouded in black. No facial features can be made out, except for its eyes. Ian can feel them staring deep into his soul. His past nightmares were but a prequel to this horror...
The shadowy figure backs away and fades into the shadows. Ian quickly searches the room, twisting his head as much as possible. Anything to find that figure again... Left in silence, he starts to hear something, drip... drip... drip.
Searching for the sound, Ian discovers an IV setup on the right side of his table. He follows the tube with his eyes, searching for its victim.
While distracted by those glowing eyes, he’s been injected with an IV. Survival instincts kicking in, he tries to wriggle it out of his arm... These efforts toward freedom leave him oddly fatigued. He can barely keep his eyes open, his thrashing has almost stopped.
Ian’s vision starts to blur... He blinks in desperation, as he sees multiple figures approaching the table. Each time he opens his eyes they are closer, their glowing eyes growing ever larger.
Ian wakes to three figures huddled over him. Hard to breathe, he finds himself gagged. What his mouth can no longer taste, his nose can smell. Putrefaction and human waste overwhelm him. Luckily, the figures have yet to notice that he’s awake.
In complete silence, the figures seem to be working on his lower body... Ian can't quite make out what they are doing, but he can see their hands, three long black fingers. With only a thumb and two fingers, they appear to be reptilian in texture.
A sudden whoosh of noise comes from his legs. One of the figures lifts a jar, full of what looks like blood... Putting a lid on the jar, he walks it to Ian's left. Where a table has been setup, it already holds multiple jars.
To his horror, he can see someone’s feet have been removed and placed into two of the jars. In sudden revulsion, Ian forces himself not to vomit.
The figure on his right turns toward Ian, he can’t close his eyes in time... It reaches down for something and walks toward Ian's head. That’s when he hears it, a machine. It sounds like a sputtering chainsaw. He blacks out...
Ian jumps to consciousness, visibly shaking. He looks around the room panting and covered in cold sweat. He is home.
“Just a dream... It was only a dream.”
With a glance up, he sees a red light emitting from the smoke detector above his bed. While listening closely, he hears his bathroom sink as it consistently drips. A whoosh above his head comes from one of the pipes in his loft. Then the refrigerator starts up, sounding like that terrible chainsaw.
Relief starts to sweep through him. He rubs his head in wonder. This was the worst one yet. It will be awhile before he can sleep again. While pulling the covers up, he spots something strange...
A fresh spot of blood... Right where an IV would enter his right arm. He throws off the sheets searching for other wounds...
His entire body is held together with bloody stitches...