Before You Sleep

Nobody truly understands fear until they face it. You can tell somebody that clowns scare you, but you can never tell them the way your heart grows colder with every thud it knocks against your rib cage in an attempt to escape when you come face to face with it. So the only way to understand fear is to face it, but will you be able to survive the journey?


1. Story Time

When I was 9, I started coming home from school with all different kinds of spooky, horror books from my school library that I was get through in a matter of days each. My mother found it terribly amusing, seeing me so intently fascinated in these stories of wolfs, witches and vampires that one night, whilst the wind was howled through the trees and the rain tried to smash its way through the long patio door leading out to the moonlit garden, she suggested we make up our own horror stories and see who's is the scariest. My 9 year old self absolutely adored this idea. Thinking I had it in the bag, what with all the books and plots I had packed inside my brain, we began.

We stole away two hours of the night with tales of creaking doors, evil cackles and creatures that only appear in your worst nightmares. Soon, our horror story nights became all part of a routine; we would have tea, get little evening duties done, and when the clock struck seven I would find my mother sat on the living room floor with pillows, blankets, hot chocolate, a torch and a head full of spooky stories to send a chill down my spine.

One night, at exactly seven o'clock, I found myself making my way to the living room when I spotted my blue notebook lying on the table. I'm not entirely sure how it captured my attention, or how it got on the table even, all I could assume is that my mother found it under my bed and placed it there. Somehow, I could bring myself to continue my route to the living room without take the notebook and pen with me, so I could write down all of the wonderfully chilling tales that would be created tonight, so I took it with me, found my mother sat sipping at her hot chocolate and sat down opposite her as usual, opened my book, and began to write down the first idea her imagination could create.

By about nine o,clock, sleep was starting to take its toll and I had to fight to keep my eyelids from slowly drooping as I tried my hardest to concentrate the story I was being told. My mother soon noticed me sleepy state, so simply closed her story off with

"To be continued, my dear child."

She scooped me up in her delicate arms and placed me on the sofa with a blanket before whisper in in my ear,

"Want to hear the shortest horror story?"

My eyes lit up and I nodded my head eagerly, awaiting her answer of,

"The last man on earth sat alone in a room. He heard a knock on the door."

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