The Horrifying Nightmares

The Horrifying Nightmares

A Story by Relic

Extracted from a poem.

If you promise not to speak to anyone about this, I'll tell you my story. It's not out of shame or embarrassment that I prefer confidentiality. It's just that, well... not many people believe such a wild tale.  

You see, around this time every year, I am tormented by a nightmare. I've tried to stay up without sleeping, but I inevitably fail at my attempts each time. It's as though I'm under some menacing spell that refuses to break its hold. But I believe I may know the source of its origins.  

I've been a Buddy Holly fan since I can remember. His guitar playing sounds like a breath of fresh air to me, and the 1950s seem like such a magical era.  

When my first girlfriend broke up with me, I consoled myself by listening to his song "Learning the Game." And his song "Peggy Sue" had such a great beat that I drummed along to it on my bed every night. I even learned the paradiddle pattern I knew his drummer, Jerry Ivan Allison, performed on the song.  

But about five years ago, something happened that I can't explain. I know this sounds rather peculiar, but you see, every February 3rd, the idea of going to sleep horrifies me. As though I'm cursed, I experience the most terrifying nightmares that leave me questioning why.  

It happens like this...  

At around 1:22 in the morning, there's an eerie breeze with a whistling wind that borders on being sinister. Then, Holly's voice will come fleeting by as though pulled from the fabric of time. His melodic southern drawl is unmistakable as he sings:  

"You say you're gonna leave, you know it's a lie 'cause that'll be the day that I die."  

As the last word dissipates, there's the sound of a coin dropping to the floor.  

The following sounds of a troubled, sputtering engine descending to the ground at high speed keep me locked in terror. My face will fill with sweat. A trickle will run down my cheek. Internally, panic will set in. A quick series of sickening thuds will fill my room before finally, it all comes to a frightening stop. The silence that follows keeps me from opening my eyes.  

What happens next torments me. In the dream, I'm suddenly at the crash site. I see the plane smashed beyond recognition, the skid marks, and the dreadful sight of the bodies spread throughout the freezing, snow-covered cornfield.  

Then, in ghostly form, I see him. Holly looks at me with a fearful expression, repeating the words: "I'm not supposed to die. Please don't let me die! Don't let me die."  

In a flash, he's lying back in the bloody snow with a piece of his head missing. How can I possibly describe the icy feeling I'm left with? It's like being in a freezer, unable to move a muscle.  

But the sound of that coin never goes away. I can't get that out of my head.  

As the story goes, before the flight, Holly flipped a coin with country star Waylon Jennings, who was part of the band (The Crickets) that night. Whoever tossed heads was the one who would fly on the plane and avoid the drafty bus that everyone got ill on while rolling across the country. After Holly won, he jokingly said to Jennings, "I hope your bus freezes up." Jennings joked back to Holly, "I hope your plane crashes." The rest is history.  

The small private plane took off on February 3rd at around one in the morning after a show at the Surf Ballroom, which starred Holly, The Big Bopper, and Richie Valens. The pilot, Roger Peterson, put the plane on autopilot, unaware of the rough winter weather ahead, and the plane crashed in a cornfield in Clear Lake, Iowa.  

I wasn't alive in 1959 when the crash happened. I'm just a fan like everyone else.  

Why the nightmares? I don't know. But I do know this:  

The dreams have always been a part of me. They've haunted me every year. I go to sleep, and then, as it always does, the music dies�"in the cold, silent snow.  

So now you know my story. Please, tell no one.  

Oh, and there's just one more thing. For the last three days, Holly has visited me in my dreams. Each dream is identical. He stands in my bedroom holding a bouquet of flowers next to a coffin. The top is open. As I stand up from my bed, I look in to find it's me lying inside.  

You see, yesterday, I was diagnosed with stage four cancer.  

I may have only days or weeks to live.  

Reviews

[Ern M. Yoshimoto]

you have a natural ability to tell a good ghost story with surprising turns and a sustained eerie mood. i'd like to continue reading more of your stuff as this is the type of horror that i am most into. no feedback for this story. it really worked and every paragraph had me guessing 'what's going to happen next?'

[Relic]

Thanks so much for your interest and comment, Ern. :)

[Coyote Poetry]

I hope the ending was true my friend. A entertaining story. My dreams are war and chaos. I believe in karma. I must of been fighting wars in other lives. Thank you for sharing the tale.
Coyote

[Relic]

The ending was just fiction, Coyote. Dreams of war can be horrific. Thanks for the comment. :)

[Coyote Poetry]

I am glad and you are welcome my friend.

[wordman]

and so the history of rock and roll with all it`s tragedies of early death to masters of the art

[Relic]

Correct, wordman. Thanks for reading.

[wordman]

you`re welcome

[wtp]

Great plot twist at the end. I was really wondering how you were going to bring it to climax since the Buddy Holly crash story is so well known. The cancer dignosis was a twist I could not see coming.

Thanks for sharing.

[Relic]

I appreciate your comment, wtp. I'll get to one of your stories when time permits.

[Chris Shaw]

Great story telling Tim. I'm not normally a reader of stories, being a poetry freak, but you managed to keep my interest all the way through. An interesting plot, suitably eerie and I was always a fan of Buddy Holly. Such a tragic ending he had. Thank you for bringing him back in such a colourful way.

Chris

[Relic]

I appreciate you taking the time to read it, Chris. I'll be back in a couple of days to review you. Thanks. :)

[Samuel Dickens]

Who knew you were a storyteller? Well, you are, and pretty darned good one. It's well-written and held my interest from beginning to end. Frank Marino claimed some kind of otherworldly connection to Hendrix, so hey...
About Buddy Holly--I was nearly eleven when he and the others went down in that plane. Though I wasn't really up on all the musicians at that time, my oldest sister was, and she took it very hard.

[Relic]

I think I remember seeing Marino on California Jam.
Strange Dreams was my favorite from him. Thanks very much for the comment, Sam. I've been having some eye pain lately so I'm taking two days off from screen time. I'll be sure to read a story from you when I'm back. I need my sam fix. :))