Part 1 of a promised story with a Halloweeny theme, but with my own twist. Part 2 is here: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/58679895/Jack Stanton bolted upright, heart hammering, drenched in sweat. His vision swam in and out of focus. “Eyedrops,” he muttered, instinctively reaching for relief he knew wasn’t there. His trembling hand found a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand instead. The clock’s red glow blinked back at him: 3:47 A.M. He yanked the rusty chain on the lamp, casting a dim, sepia-toned glow over the room—a light that brought no comfort.

It was always the same time. The same dream. No amount of whiskey or pills kept it at bay. The doctor had prescribed him enough benzos to put down an ox; one night, he’d taken ten. They’d done nothing. The dream always came back.

In the dream, he was outside, beyond the trees, stumbling through dead brush. It was October-cold, the wind biting at his skin, yet he felt nothing. Jack ran, pushing forward as fast as he could, but his body was stuck in an agonizing slow-motion sprint, as if something held him back. He wasn’t fleeing, though—not in terror. He was chasing something. A shadowy figure, waiting in the distance. And behind him, he felt the presence of others, silent faces hidden in the dark, watching his every move. Then the voices would start—a deep, rhythmic murmur, like a chant in a language he couldn’t understand. The sound stirred something within him, a strange mix of comfort and dread. Just as he thought he might reach the shadow, the dream shattered, and he’d wake, the memory slipping away like mist.

Still trembling, Jack ran his hands through his damp brown hair. He smelled like pine sap and peat moss, as if he’d spent hours digging in the garden. Outside, the skeletal pines loomed beyond his window, stretching endlessly under a thin veil of moonlight. By day, the forest felt peaceful. But at night, it was different, as if he were trapped in some foreign, timeless realm where nothing—not even himself—felt quite right.

A strange compulsion made him turn his hands over, examining his nails in the flickering light. They were clean, of course, but he half-expected to see them caked with soil. It was always like this—no evidence, no trace, no sign that he’d been anywhere but in his bed. Sarah had never caught him sleepwalking, not once, though they’d tried to capture it with a phone camera one night. The footage showed nothing but darkness, the two of them lying still, his wife beside him, unaware of his torment.

It was as if some secret was being withheld from him, hidden just out of reach. He couldn’t name it, but the feeling clung to him, always slipping away the moment he thought he might finally catch a glimpse of it.

Jack’s voice was a whisper as he sat at the edge of the bed, his throat parched. “It’s not real… it’s not real…” he repeated to himself, the words a fragile mantra keeping his wandering mind in check. For a fleeting moment, he felt grounded, his heartbeat steadying as the familiar chant took effect.

Then he turned, as he did each night, looking for his wife. She was never lying there, as he expected, but her voice, soft and steady, cut through the dark. He knew she’d be standing in the doorway, watching him in silence, waiting for him to calm down. That was always Sarah’s way—a quiet guardian, unwavering.

She crossed the room, her ash-blonde hair in a tangled mess that matted her worried face. Without a word, she handed him a glass filled with ice and fizzy water. “You’re dehydrated,” she murmured. “Rest a while, Jack. Don’t get up just yet. I don’t want you to fall.”

He drank without a word, the water tasteless but soothing. A faint, weary smile crept across his face as he looked at her, then down at the empty glass in his hand.

“Just what the doctor ordered. Thanks, babe.” He leaned over, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. She managed a smile in return, but concern creased her brow as she stood, crossing her arms.

“We can’t keep doing this, Jack. I don’t think you realize how bad it’s getting,” she said, her voice edged with a rare vulnerability. “Every night… you’re different. Less like yourself. It scares me, Jack. I’m afraid something bad’s going to happen.” Her Tennessee drawl, usually faint, sharpened as her guard slipped, and she knew it, too.

Sarah wasn’t one to admit fear, and the weight of her words hit Jack hard. His face darkened as he leaned back into the shadows of the room.

“What am I supposed to do? We came all the way out here thinking it was just nerves,” he said, his voice flustered. “But it’s not nerves. Even the doc doesn’t think that anymore. And I know you don’t either.”

He didn’t want to accuse her of hiding anything, but after so many nights of restless dreams, his patience was wearing thin. If Sarah knew something, anything at all, he needed to hear it—for his own sanity.

“Fine, Jack,” she replied, holding her ground. “We’ll talk about it in the morning, once you’ve had some sleep. I’ll be up by seven. We’ll go through it all then, I promise. Okay?”

“Sarah, I didn’t mean… I just—thanks for always taking care of me. Just let me lay down for a minute.”

She nodded, her gaze softening. Without a word, she flicked the light off and walked back toward the den, cradling a mug of coffee that was rapidly cooling. Before disappearing down the hall, she paused to glance out the window. The wind had picked up, rattling the shutters, and the pines swayed in unison, as though disturbed from some deep slumber. She felt a shadow of doubt creep over her, gnawing at the edges of everything she thought she knew.

Stumbling slightly in the dimly lit hallway, Sarah’s eyes stopped cold on a pair of Jack’s jeans crumpled on the floor, the fabric torn in three places. He slept deeply enough after his episodes that she could always switch them out without him noticing, but her routine was fraying. She couldn’t hide this from him forever. With a grim look, she tossed the jeans into the trash, pouring her coffee over them.

To mask the scent.