Inside My Nightmares

By Ronald W. Gillespie Jr.

A collection of stories, this is a glimpse inside the nightmares of the author. 

 

A Christmas Wish - A little boys wish for christmas. will it come to be? Even if it seems impossible?

Animal - When Marketing hits too close to home, what happens then? 

Date Night - Location matters, or Does it?

Dream Home - If it is too good to be true, sometimes it really is.

Late Night Phone Call - A last goodbye from a surprising place.

Patient Number Twelve - inside the mental ward, a little girl exists. 

Thirteen - A reoccurance of the number 13 is more than coincidence.

Urban Legend - The Story of Old Man Driskoll

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fae Corps Publishing
• Release date: Feb 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224328697

Book preview

Copyright © 2024 Ronald W. Gillespie Jr

Publisher Fae Corps LLC

OEBPS/images/image0001.png

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction, any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

Fae Corps LLC

5415 Raven Dr

Charleston WV 25306

Faecorpspublishing.org

Contents

Acknowledgments

Foreword

A Christmas Wish

Animal

Date Night

Dream Home

Late Night Phone Call

Patient Number Twelve

The Thirteenth Race

Urban Legend

About The Author

About the Publisher

Acknowledgments

This book is a culmination of many years of saying One of these days…. The publication of this collection of short stories came about by happenstance and wouldn’t have happened without the help and guidance of several people.

First and foremost, of course, the highest praise I can give has to go to my mom and dad, who have always been willing soundboards for most everything I’ve ever written. My mother has always been my biggest proponent for pushing me toward getting published. My senior year in college, I doubled up on Creative Writing classes because my professor advised me, I could graduate sooner. This is not something I would recommend as it doubles the amount of reading and writing you are required to do. I lost a lot of sleep that semester. I wanted to push my graduation out by another semester, but my mother was there telling me that was a stupid idea, do whatever I need to do to get it done and make it happen. And I did. It wouldn’t have happened without her voice in my ear. So, for that, I thank her.

Also, many thanks to Raz T. Slasher, fellow writer, haunter, all around good guy for introducing me to Fae Corps Publishing. He is the literal happenstance that got the ball rolling.

Thanks also to Patti, the brains behind Fae Corps Publishing, for making the process easy, and for being eternally patient with all my questions and nit pickiness. And to her girl Friday, Jenny Elliott, for the incredible amount of work she does keeping the entire Fae Corps roster on track with social media and marketing. And to Kari Sanders for being a beta reader and helping me tighten up the loose spots.

Raz, Jenny, and Kari, along with several others, make up the Owl Light Network, a group of podcast shows about writing, comics, Dungeons and Dragons, and basically anything nerdy. I must give a special thanks to Owl Light for accepting me as one of their own and making me feel like family.

Finally, I give an honorable mention to one of the teachers who guided me toward being a better writer. The most influential teacher I’ve ever had, Mrs. Nancy T. Nance, my English and Creative Writing teacher in high school. Not only was she just one hell of an incredible teacher who knew everything there was to know about English Royal history, she was the first person to start calling me Ron when everyone else called me by my childhood nickname, Ronnie. She said, It sounds more mature, and mature writers need mature names. It seems innocuous, but it was a lesson in not being afraid to write what I felt, what I thought, to start writing from a more mature frame of mind. Also, thank you to anyone who has ever sat still long enough to listen or read any of my short stories and to offer feedback on how to make it better. You all are the real heroes.

Here’s to all the Stories Unwritten that are bursting to get out and live on their own. This may be the first, but it won’t be the last.

FOREWORD

All the stories you are about to read are a byproduct of dreams I’ve had. Some are straight up nightmares; some start out scary, but once I realize I’m dreaming, I can usually control them. Some have woken me up in the middle of the night with sleep paralysis and soaking the sheets with sweat.

I have a hard enough time falling asleep at night, being the perpetual night owl that I am. I’ve learned over the years that I can make myself fall asleep by focusing my mind on a specific character, then putting that character in a situation, then writing that story in my head. I can see the images and hear the narration simultaneously as I would write the story. If you have ever seen the Will Ferrell movie Stranger Than Fiction it is very similar to that. An omniscient voice that dictates the actions of the character. I do this, and before I know it, I’m asleep.

Sometimes, a lot of my stories are inspired by other media content, books, and movies that I have read or watched lately. And sometimes, little tidbits of these influences make their way into my stories. While certain elements may have been inspired by outside media, I always try to put my own take on it. To delve into all these influences, you might find within the stories would most likely be a whole different book, but I consider them Easter eggs. If you find something you think is influenced by other media, it probably is. Feel free to ask me about it. Other elements in the stories are ripped directly from my own life experiences. I will give an example of this one. The grotto at the beginning of A Christmas Wish does exist. Or, at least, it did. It is taken directly from my childhood and was at the end of our driveway. And I made snow angels there. However, the last time I was able to visit my childhood home, the grotto was grown over and was no longer accessible. Also, the main character of the story, Joey’s disdain for Christmas music is my own. While I don’t hate Christmas music outright, it really is the same songs over and over done in different styles. And because they start playing at the beginning of November, the air is supersaturated, and they grow old quickly. There are many other examples I could go into from the stories that may relate to my life experiences, but perhaps those are better suited for a blog post.

I do try to write about things I think will be relatable to everybody. I tend to look at something and think, How could I make that scary? Some stories come easily. The words are a panicked rush to leave my brain, and I can’t type them out fast enough. Other times, a story needs to gel in my brain. I’ll mull it over, sometimes obsessively, trying to figure out who is the best character to tell the story, which character needs to die, and the ultimate question, what will have the biggest impact on the reader?

Nightmares are curious things. While we would prefer not to have them, they are a necessary thing. At least, they are for me since they inspire a lot of my writing. Often, I don’t remember my dreams. Unless I wake up directly afterward and write it down, which I’m not always wiling to do. I need my beauty sleep, you know. Therefore, it must truly be the special idea that survives the night and remains with me in the morning when I can apply conscious thought to it.

That’s what this book is, a collection of stories inspired by dreams and nightmares that survived the night, long enough for me to put them to written word and give them lives of their own. And my hope is that after reading these stories, you will now share in these nightmares so that I don’t have to suffer alone.

These eight stories offer a peek at the horrors that wake me up at night. As unsettling as some of the images may be, and I suppose here is where I should put the usual disclaimer – intended for mature audiences; may contain triggering situations, depictions of violence, strong language, and gore; read at your own discretion – I will say, in closing, to the nightmares, may there be many more of them!

A Christmas Wish

Snow angels.

It’s really hard to resist the temptation to make them when you’re lying face up in eight inches of snow, staring at a pale blue sky, cloudless, just fresh after the previous night’s snow fall.

It was my favorite spot.  It was a small clearing at the end of our driveway. Mainly I used it to rake the leaves into during the fall, but today it was my own personal snow globe. I lie there with the snow piled up around me.  The snow around my head creating a peaceful silence as it muffled out the rest of the world. Each slight move I made intensified the crunch of the snow in my ears. I love that sound.

The clearing was in a natural grotto between two banks of trees. One had fallen long ago on one side of the grotto making it the perfect bench. During the summer when there was no snow, I would come out here to read my favorite books. Today, the log was covered and barely visible.  Today I was covered and barely visible. I could fall asleep here.

Mom says you need to finish chopping the rest of the firewood or you’re not going to the mall.

Or not.

It was the voice of my big sister, Lucy. Her voice invaded my tranquility worse than nails on a chalkboard.

Joey? You hear me, retard? Mom said…

I heard you, I cut her off. I heaved a deep sigh. The snow crunched in my ears. I’m on it, I said reluctantly.

Not with any great speed or enthusiasm, I pulled myself out of my man-made angel of the winter, being careful not to disturb its perfection.

***

Contrary to what my mom and sister might believe, I actually do not mind chopping firewood. It is, out of all the chores I am tasked with, my favorite one. I love the smell of the wood, the satisfying CRACK when the wood splits, the weight of the axe and the sense of power it brings being in control of such a dangerous tool. Hardly something you would expect an 11-year-old to be responsible with, but if not me, who else?

The thought brought about a fleeting moment of melancholy. Attached to it was a memory.

All right, sport, you’re the man of the house while I’m gone, okay? So you have to take care of mommy, okay?

I shook my head yes, but my eyes were filled with tears. That means you have to be responsible and do your chores. Clean your room, do the dishes, chop the firewood like I showed you. Can you do that for me, sport?

Again I shook my head yes. But, Daddy, when will you be back? I hope to be back by Christmas. Don’t worry! It’ll be here sooner than you know! You promise? I did not try to hold back the tears. I let them flow.

I promise! he said.

Hey, retard! You done yet? Again that excruciating voice snapped me back from my memory.

Yeah, I’m just finishing up. Without turning to face her, I choked down the tears that had suddenly welled up, wiped my face on my sleeve, and brought the axe down one more time lodging it into the stump I had been using to prop up the wood pieces.

Let’s go, I said. I brushed past her without making eye contact.

***

The mall was crowded as usual for this time of year. We had split to go our separate ways so we could shop in privacy. I’m going to see Santa, I had said which brought a sneer from my sister’s lips.

Grow up, she said. You’re eleven years old.

Now, Lucy, Mom had interjected. If he wants to go see Santa, I think that’s great. At least he’s trying to get into the Christmas spirit, Ms. Mopey Pants! You could do with a touch of the Christmas spirit yourself.

I smiled inwardly at this, my sister being admonished. Though I didn’t feel much in the way of the Christmas spirit, I let her believe whatever she wanted to believe.

My sister harrumphed. I wish Dad were here, was all she said.

Mom looked as if about to say something, but then thought better of it and quickly changed the topic. "All right, you both better cheer up now. You both have your money? Everyone knows what time we’re meeting back here, right? If you’re good then maybe I’ll buy us all hot chocolate on the way home.

How does that sound?" She did her best to put a smile on it.

I’m down for hot chocolate, I said hoping to lighten the situation. Lucy kept quiet.

Good! said Mom without missing a beat. I’ll meet you back here at three! With that we split up.

The line to Santa was not very long as it was still early in the afternoon. As I fell in line with my hands in my pockets, I tried to shut out the screaming babies and the cacophonous hubbub of the mall shoppers. From all sides cheerful Christmas music played. I hate Christmas music. It’s the same six songs over and over again done in different ways by different artists. There’re only so many times you can hear Silent Night before you wish they would shut up so you could actually have one! And poor Rudolph, a victim of discrimination and bullying. No self-confidence. Couldn’t stand up for himself. And then Santa said Hey, Rudolph! I have a job for you! And did Rudolph get an ego? Nope. He stayed as humble as ever. Instead of prancing around like he was suddenly Big Reindeer On Campus. Or the North Pole. Whatever. The point is, I hate Christmas music.

You’re next!

My mind was ripped from images of Rudolph opening up on the reindeer community with an UZI.

What? I said looking around. You’re next to see Santa! It was some girl dressed in an elf costume. She looked about as thrilled to be here as a porcupine is to be combed. Which is to say, not much.

Oh, I replied. Thanks. I ascended the three short steps to Santa’s rather girthy lap. Most guys use a pillow to achieve the look. This imposter had it all natural. I looked up at the phony beard, the glassless spectacles.

And what’s your name, little one? he asked in an overbearing cheerful tone that was about as real as professional wrestling. I think his garlic breath did far more damage than any wrestling move.

I played along. Joey, I responded. And, Joey, what would you like for Christmas? His hand on my back was unnerving. But his smile never wavered. Neither did his garlic breath. My head swam.  I swallowed. I couldn’t keep eye contact.

I want my father to come back from Afghanistan.

Santa looked confused. Oh, he said. Uh… He floundered for words. Then he gestured to the elf. She approached and motioned for me to come with her. I