The Nightmare by Emma Jones
I try to get closer to the door, but my legs are numb with pain. It is as if they are being dragged down by a pair of decaying hands which pull me toward the ground. The walls start to close in on me. The door in front, ten miles away. The hands grasp my ankles tighter and tighter.
As cold as ice, the decaying hands creep up my back. It’s oddly excruciating.
Then. It all stops.
It was another nightmare.
Now I am lying face down on a bed, with the leak from the roof splashing against my back.