Premonition

Dahlia wasn't insane... was she? Insane or not, she was still dropped into the most dangerous place she could be. The results of spending time in this hell will be bloody. Literally.

Premonition

The death of Dahlia

Bright white lights with dark and sinister pasts hang in the corridors of this asylum. Spirits roam these hallways every night. I wander with them, though I didn’t always. I used to be a free spirit, a free body, before they put me in here, unknowing of all the danger that lurks in this manor.

It started about thirty-four years ago. I was seventeen years old and completely unaware of the dangers being an adult foretold. I enjoyed being in the same dark depression I’d been in all of my life. The one mistake I made was telling my father, somebody I thought would understand, that I had about thoughts of killing myself numerous times.

He told my mother, who contacted a therapist, who diagnosed me as insane. They didn’t understand a single thing about my state of mind. Surely I wasn’t insane… was I?

No matter what I did, how much I begged and pleaded, they still sentenced me to this very asylum.

This was not the fate I deserved, and I hated telling my father with every fiber of my being. What they thought was best for me soon turned out to be brutally wrong.

The first thing I noticed when I got to this hell was that everybody seemed to be missing a soul. The rest of the patients sulked about everywhere—to appointments with therapists, to group treatments, everywhere.

Next, you ask? The therapists who were supposedly helping us all had an eerie aura. When I talked with the one they assigned to me, he would just sit there and stare at me with lust in his eyes.

But the lust wasn’t romantic. It was more of a blood lust. Every night when I’d lie awake, unable to slumber, I’d remember the sickening look in his eye earlier in the day. The images of the brutal murder stories I’d watched on television so many times would fill my mind, replacing the victim with myself and the culprit with my therapist.

One crisp, frosty night, I had a strong passion that it’d be my last. I couldn’t explain the premonition, but it was so very repulsive. The pictures I had imagined so many nights flashed before my very eyes again. Yet this time, they were much more vivid.

The bright lights flashed through the doorway. I was surprised that nobody else started hyperventilating. I felt as if the life was being sucked right out of me.

Though the temptation to retreat back into the safety of my comforter was high, the curiosity and wonderment of what was going on caught the better of me. Slowly, and ever-so-carefully, I made my way into the light, the ghostly sensation growing with each inch I went.

At the moment I stuck my head out into the foyer, the sentiment I felt began strangling the breath out of me, physically and mentally. There wasn’t a single soul in sight, yet I swore I could hear deathly screams. My eyes searched frantically for reassurance, but they couldn’t rest on a single thing. If I screamed, would anybody even hear it?

Using every ounce of strength I had with the sheer terror I now held within the depths of my heart—a heart that was beating so rapidly I feared it was going to burst—I turned and ran back to my bed.

The lights in the hallway flickered and I remembered the silly tale I was told in elementary school. “Every time a light flickers somebody’s closer to dying.” I tried to turn it into something comforting, but all I could gain was that I knew I was going to die.

I ducked my head under the covers, refusing to recognize the light flickering more and more frequently. The emotion boiling up inside of me was even worse than before. I knew if whatever this thing was didn’t kill me, I’d kill myself.

The overhead fan, one of the only things with blades we were allowed to have, stopped spinning. The tiny entrails of light I could see before through the small threads were cut off. Cool drips of sweat rolled down my temple.

I sat there for a few minutes, darkness having engulfed my entire fortitude. The feeling was waning; whittled down by panic. I felt not one presence. Nobody was even thinking that something was wrong in this situation? It was mad!

A squeaking sound came through the silent shadows. It wasn’t raining outside, but a slow rumble could be heard in the distance. I didn’t want to believe in it, but I knew what the sound was. I heard it every day when that wretched man glanced at me.

“Dahlia, I know where you’re hiding,” the voice called out, followed by a cruel laugh. The fantasies were about to become reality.

Everything after the frantic shrieks that escaped my mouth became blurry, yet decipherable.

The blankets were ripped off my trembling body, exposing my cowardly nature. Visible in the dim light that seeped through the cracks in the window, my therapist stood in front of me. The seemingly placid content he carried so well before was substituted with a maniacal craze.

I was paralyzed. Not with fear, psychically paralyzed. My arms refused to push him away as he neared my, a jagged blade in his mighty grasp. My legs denied the urge to crawl away. I couldn’t even scream anymore.

I stared at him, eyes wide with betrayal. How could somebody who was supposed to be helping me harm me so?

One quick slash was all it took. The blood staining the white sheets a magenta tone. The bitter sweet taste stung my throat, overflowing and oozing down the side of my mouth.

Even though I wanted it to end so badly, this wasn’t the way I wanted to leave the world. I just wanted to take away all the things I’ve done—the endless attempts at suicide, the over dosing, telling my father, and any other wrong thing I’ve done.

After the death of myself, I watched over my body. I can’t explain how my soul didn’t leave, but I know what they did with the body. And I finally understood why the others didn’t seem real.

In the cellar, in a tiny room way off in the corner, massive amounts of corpses and skeletons were clearly visible. I examined the faces closely, each one the same as one of the other patients here. I didn’t believe this was possible, but it had to have been for me to live it.

My face, the faces of the others, it was all too bizarre. If these people had been walking in the hallway so many times with me, how were they already dead?

It was a haunting all its own. All the ghost shows I doubted when I was younger, they finally caught up with me.

As for my parents, the “leaders” of the clinic called them up and told them I had committed suicide. They said it was common, and most patients unwilling to cooperate did it. My mother and father were unwilling to believe, but they did anyway. They didn't even try to investigate. I still walk these passages. I don’t fully understand why I’m unable to leave, but there’s just an essence, and unspoken rule if you must, that makes it impossible to leave.

All I can do is wander. Wander and hope that someday, some inquisitive outsider will come and discover our remains. Maybe then, can we be set free… maybe.

Author's Note

Again, this was off the top of my head.

Reviews

[Hannah Monttkomepy]

This was actually kinda freaky. I don't really want to sleep in my own bedroom tonight without someone with me. But because it had that effect on me, it's a good story. It was very well written and I just loved it. I'm just a little freaked out.

I love the ending! It's probably my favorite part.

[Andrian D]

Very intriguing. Nice twist about seeing the ghosts of the others. a few typos and grammatical issues, but not too bad.