The Dream Catcher

Michael was a young man whom sleep had long since forsaken, despite having not yet surpassed his twenty-eighth year. He could discern no distinct reason for this affliction, perhaps attributing the blame to the obscure hallucinations that had begun to gnaw at his mind. This was despite the assurances and profound perplexity of his physicians, who collectively agreed that hallucinations and a melancholy of such severity did not typically afflict anyone save those who had endured crushing emotional traumas. Michael, however, possessed a quiet certainty that he had never experienced anything of the sort. He had, with entirely conscious volition, taken a rigorous decision to uproot the very catalysts of pain, opting for complete isolation and a total withdrawal from the company of women.

To his mind, the equation was perfectly lucid. Women were creatures overflowing with warmth and human gentleness, yet he was convinced that beneath those delicate, angelic visages lay concealed sharp claws and fangs, merely awaiting the opportune moment to strike. The bitter experiences of his acquaintances, and their endless tales regarding courtship and matrimony, served as a perpetual warning bell ringing within his head. Consequently, he preferred to salvage himself and retire from their peril-laden world, exempting but a single woman from this strict blockade: Matilda.

Matilda, his sister and his designated psychiatrist, possessing credentials from the most prestigious of British universities, had been his lifeline and his faithful guardian since the very first wave of hallucinations ambushed him three months prior. She accompanied him through his desolate nights, sitting patiently beside his bed until a sparse, fragile slumber finally overtook him. It was she who had noted his panicked convulsions, discovering that he was falling prey to horrific nightmares. And it was she who later deduced the progression of his condition, linking a complex state of dissociative identity disorder to a severe affliction of somnambulism.

The nightmares continued to hound him each night, reducing his existence to a living hell, until that precise moment when Matilda suggested:

Michael did not hesitate. He downloaded the software onto his computer, inputting his residential address as instructed. Scarcely half an hour had elapsed before a courier arrived, bearing a small parcel adorned with a crimson eye, beneath which a slogan read:

He unsealed the modest package, discovering within it a ring of black metal and a pair of spectacles. He read the concise instructions that materialized on his computer screen in a faint, red glow:

With the desperate hesitation of an entirely broken man, he slipped the ring onto his finger. The dark metal pulsed with a faint blue light for a solitary second, confirming the connection, and then extinguished. He rested his heavy head upon his pillow, surrendering his eyelids to the gloom. Surprisingly, the very moment the ring settled against his skin, he was swallowed by a profound slumber, completely devoid of sensation, as though he had plunged into a bottomless well of darkness.

Michael awoke the following morning, his mind enveloped in a dense, suffocating fog. He felt a peculiar numbness creeping through his limbs, accompanied by a sharp, muscular ache tearing at his shoulders and arms. He sat heavily upon the edge of the mattress, removed the ring and the spectacles, and placed them beside his open computer on the desk. With unsteady steps, he navigated towards the washroom, opening the cold tap to bathe his pale, sweat-drenched face, attempting to rouse his blunted senses.

Upon returning to his chamber, his gaze was drawn to the monitor. It was glowing with a pallid light, displaying a central notification:

The moment he clicked the alert, the application did not present a video file as he had anticipated. Instead, another message materialized, pulsing with a red luminescence:

He furrowed his brow in profound confusion. He retrieved the ring hesitantly, and the instant he slipped it back onto his finger, he experienced a sudden, electrical jolt coursing through his nervous system. It dragged his consciousness violently into a dark, frantically spinning vortex. When the maelstrom finally ceased, his perception split entirely in twain, experiencing the identical moment through two wildly contradictory rhythms.

From the vantage point of the victim: Michael found himself lying upon an unfamiliar bed, submerged in a heavy sleep. He awoke abruptly to the horrifying sensation of a massive weight pressing down upon his chest, paralyzing him completely. He opened his eyes into the thick darkness, only to discern a figure draped in pitch black looming directly above him. Before his mind could fully grasp the magnitude of the catastrophe, he felt the icy bite of a thin metal wire winding around his throat, like a serpent forged from frost.

He felt the wire sinking deep into his flesh, severing veins and carving a brutal path towards the cartilage. His lungs burned as though boiling acid had been poured into them. His eyes bulged, and the blood congested in his head with a force that threatened to split his skull in two. In the sheer desperation of his final throes, his hands thrashing blindly at the air collided with the rigid arms gripping the wire. The wire tightened inexorably. His limbs went slack following a final, violent tremor, and he surrendered his spirit to the void.

From the vantage point of the killer: Michael tasted an intoxicating, pitch-black euphoria, a primal predatory instinct he could not comprehend having awakened within him. He felt the cold steel of the wire in his own fists, and the desperate twitching of the victim's artery pulsating beneath the taut snare. The harder the body struggled beneath him, the greater the sadistic thrill that trembled through his wrists.

The thrill of absolute dominion ignited within his mind. He alone dictated precisely when this heart would cease its beating. Adrenaline surged, searing through his veins. He observed the spark of the soul extinguishing in the victim's bulging eyes with a manic delight. When the body finally fell entirely still, he inhaled deeply, smiling into the pitch blackness, absorbing the scent of terror and death, not unlike a deranged artist who had just put the finishing touches to his greatest masterpiece.

The vortex concluded as abruptly as it had commenced, and the connection was instantly severed.

Michael gasped violently, akin to a man freshly dragged from beneath the water's surface. He wrenched the ring from his finger and cast it away onto the surface of his desk. Cold sweat drenched his physical form, and his stomach contorted with profound nausea.

He looked down at his shaking hands, fully expecting to see them slick with blood, but they were entirely immaculate. He attempted to persuade himself that it was merely an advanced artificial intelligence, a highly sophisticated neural virtual reality reading the suppressed waves of anger within his brain.

Yet, the cursed human curiosity, and that pitch-black euphoria he had involuntarily tasted from the killer's perspective, had forged a terrifying addiction within him. In the evening, instead of deleting the application, he found his hand extending towards the ring and the spectacles, resolving to wear them for a second night.

On this particular night, Michael surrendered early. The moment he slid the ring onto his finger and donned the spectacles, a profound sleep swallowed him, sending him plunging once more into the well of darkness.

He awoke the following morning to find the fog encasing his mind with even greater density. There was a sharp, muscular pain concentrating intensely in his right wrist. He removed the ring and stumbled towards the washroom.

Upon returning, he directed his gaze toward the monitor. It glowed with the identical red light:

With a trembling hand, he clicked the alert, only to be met by the second crimson message:

He did not hesitate. He retrieved the ring and slipped it onto his finger. The electrical shock struck him anew, dragging his consciousness back into the frantic maelstrom. His perception split immediately.

From the vantage point of the victim: Michael found himself inhabiting the body of a young woman in her nightclothes. She was standing barefoot upon cold tiles in a darkened kitchen. Michael lived the sudden, horrifying sensation of a shadow creeping up behind her, followed instantly by the unexpected bite of a razor-sharp blade grazing the back of her neck. Before her senses could translate that touch into a realization of peril, the agony detonated. It was a searing, tearing pain, as the flesh was parted, and the veins and windpipe were severed in a single, merciless stroke of a knife.

The glass of water tumbled from her hand. Michael tasted the hot, metallic flood of blood that filled the woman's mouth. She collapsed to her knees, and through her clouding eyes, she saw the killer clad in black, watching her with absolute frigidity. She realized her life was ending, fading into an expanding pool of crimson beneath her knees, until total darkness finally closed over her.

From the vantage point of the killer: Michael was inundated by the sensation of a lurking, sadistic predator. He experienced the terrifyingly smooth passage of the sharp blade through human flesh. The slight resistance of the cartilage transmitted a tremor of pure, undiluted pleasure into the killer's wrist—the very same tremor and numbness with which Michael had awakened in his own right wrist.

He lived the sensation of the warm spray of blood as it scattered to stain the surroundings, intoxicating his senses. He felt absolutely no revulsion or remorse, only a profound sense of triumph. He stood contemplating the corpse as it twitched in its final spasms, feeling a deep, abiding contentment.

The vortex concluded, and the connection was abruptly severed.

Michael gasped and stumbled backward until his shoulders struck the wall. He tore the ring from his finger. The coppery taste of blood still lingered on his tongue.

He attempted to convince himself again that it was merely an ultra-precise simulation. But terror was not the sole emotion possessing him. There was also that euphoria. He craved that sensation once more. The application had mutated into a dark addiction, nourishing a monster he had been entirely unaware existed within him.

Michael stood, his body feeling leaden, and dragged his feet towards the living room. His exit coincided with the sound of a key turning in the lock of the main door. Matilda entered. She removed her coat with her customary smile, but it swiftly evaporated when she observed her brother's deathly pallor.

Michael rested his collapsing frame against the sofa, passing his trembling hands over his face: "I slept, yes. But what occurred defies the mind's capacity for belief."

While Matilda listened to his brief recount, attempting to pacify him with clinical words regarding the subconscious mind, the television in the corner of the room was broadcasting the morning news bulletin.

Suddenly, the news anchor's tone shifted, adopting a grave severity:

Michael was rooted to the spot. Upon the screen, two juxtaposed photographs of the victims materialized: a middle-aged man and a young woman.

The blood froze in his veins. He raised a trembling hand to point at the screen, his voice escaping as a death rattle: "Matilda, look! Those are the very people I dreamt of! The man who was strangled in his bed, and the woman who was slaughtered in her kitchen... Matilda, I was not dreaming, I was there somehow!"

He had scarcely concluded his panicked outburst when the morning stillness was torn asunder by the deafening wail of police sirens. The violent screech of braking vehicles halted directly beneath their building. Mere seconds elapsed before the thud of heavy boots was heard charging up the stairwell, culminating in the terrifying splintering of the front door.

A tactical unit surged into the living room, leveling their automatic rifles directly at Michael.

Michael was forced brutally to the floor, iron handcuffs snapped around his wrists. He was utterly bewildered, watching Matilda as she retreated backward, her hands clamped over her mouth in sheer panic.

Michael was marched outside, heavily shackled. The reclusive young man was instantaneously transformed into the primary subject of consumption in every household. Public opinion boiled over, and the front pages of newspapers were washed in crimson:

Behind the imposing walls of the security directorate, the interrogation persisted for three uninterrupted days. Michael sat denying every accusation, swearing he had merely been a prisoner within a horrific nightmare. Yet, the public prosecutor listened with absolute frigidity, tossing the investigation file onto the table, dismissing everything as a cheap defensive ploy.

Matilda did not abandon her brother. She stood as a defensive bulwark, weeping bitterly before camera lenses, and engaged the services of one of the most celebrated defense attorneys. However, even this veteran lawyer emerged dragging the heavy skirts of defeat. He confronted a collapsing Matilda in the hallway:

The attorney was not engaging in hyperbole. The forensic medical reports arrived effectively as a pre-emptive death sentence. Microscopic fragments of human tissue discovered beneath the victims' fingernails were a perfect match to Michael. Furthermore, the victims' struggles offered a lucid explanation for the angry red scratches carved into Michael's own arms and his right wrist.

Yet, that which demolished the final bastion of defense, the irrefutable proof that struck Michael himself entirely dumb, was that the forensic evidence team had discovered Michael's personal identification card, lying conspicuously upon the blood-stained floor of the second victim's kitchen.

The attorney attempted desperately to have Michael committed to a psychiatric facility, citing his documented medical history of hallucinations and somnambulism. However, the public prosecution rejected the petition with absolute finality, bolstered by immense public pressure.

On the morning of the trial, the street outside the criminal court was transformed into a human volcano boiling with rage. The courtroom was packed to bursting. Within the iron defendants' cage, Michael stood utterly alone, lost within a vortex he could not begin to comprehend. In the front row sat his sister, Matilda, draped in black mourning attire, weeping in total collapse behind her spectacles.

The public prosecution's opening arguments began like a hurricane. The prosecutor presented the physical evidence, the forensic reports, and finally delivered the fatal blow, holding aloft the personal identification card discovered at the crime scene. The defense attempted to play the card of psychological instability, but the words shattered entirely against the immovable rock of the physical evidence.

Upon the conclusion of the arguments, the presiding judge looked down at the documents before him, then raised his eyes to face the attendees, and delivered the historic verdict:

The end became an inescapable inevitability after the court of cassation rejected his appeal. Throughout this period, Matilda’s weekly visits to her brother never ceased. She would sit before him in the dim visitation room, her eyes concealed behind thick, black-rimmed medical spectacles that never left her face.

Michael had surrendered entirely. He had become firmly convinced that he was the monster. During one of these visits, he pleaded with her in a voice dripping with terror: "Matilda, I am so deeply frightened. I beg of you, do not let me walk to the execution alone. Be with me until the very end."

Matilda pressured the veteran attorney to wage one final battle. He managed to secure a highly exceptional permit, allowing Matilda to accompany her brother into the execution chamber itself to witness his final moments—an unprecedented event within the prison authority.

The dawn of the execution arrived. Michael was led forth in his red uniform. Matilda walked beside him, draped in black, her unwavering spectacles resting upon her eyes. They stepped into the execution chamber. Michael stood beneath the gallows, trembling. Before the black hood was placed over his head, he turned towards his sister, offering a broken smile of profound gratitude that she had not left him to face the end alone.

Matilda stood there with absolute rigidity. The eyes hidden behind the glass of her spectacles did not blink. When the wooden floor fell open with a horrific crash, she continued to stare with unwavering focus. She observed the final moment of death, recording with her tear-filled eyes behind the spectacles every solitary second of his suffering, until the body went entirely still.

Following the procedures, Matilda emerged from the towering gates of the prison. She was not weeping. Instead of returning home to mourn, she hailed a taxi and directed it towards a luxurious hotel situated in the downtown district.

Matilda pushed open the door to the hotel's restaurant. She made her way towards a quiet corner where an elegant man, attired in an Italian suit, was quietly sipping his coffee. She seated herself before him.

She did not smile. "I thank you for the compliment, but what is most important now is what you possess."

His smile widened. He unfastened a travel bag resting beside him, revealing three million dollars nestled within. He then produced his laptop, and opened his palm in silent anticipation.

Here, for the very first time, Matilda discarded her mask. She removed the black spectacles that had never left her side, and with nimble fingers extracted a microscopic memory card from them, placing it gently into his open palm.

It was a deranged competition residing at the very bottom of the Dark Web—a three-million-dollar prize for anyone who successfully fabricated a crime culminating in the execution of one of their own relatives, documented to the bitter end. Every other participant had failed to secure the permit to attend the execution. Matilda alone had accomplished the feat.

The man closed the video and tapped upon his keyboard, summoning an announcement upon the screen:

Matilda's eyes gleamed with an inextinguishable, greedy luster. She picked up her telephone, and with a radiant face and a voice dripping with absolute innocence, placed the receiver to her ear: