Dear Creepypasta [#Wattys2016]

The girl in the nightgown

"Am I asleep or am I awake?" I ask myself for the fifth time this week. I blink rapidly, trying to force my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting of my bedroom. Dark, blurry shapes come into sharper focus.

Now, I can see the foot of my bed, piled with the usual discarded sheets and blankets I've kicked off during the night. There is the TV mounted in its place on the wall, the basket of laundry I'd neglected to fold is still on the floor, the half full glass of water is there on the nightstand... everything is in its place. The details are so present and accurate; I almost think this could be real.

But I have to be dreaming again. Because the girl in the nightgown is back.

This time, she is perched on top of my dresser. Her knees are pulled up to her chin and covered by her white, linen dress. Her arms are wrapped around them, pulling them close. Her head is down, so I can't see her face. I never can see her face. Her long red hair hangs loosely over her shoulders like a smoldering shroud.

She never moves; she never makes a sound; and I never see her face. But that will change.

Each time before, I would quickly dismiss her as a strange figment of a strange dream. Then I'd fade deeper into sleep as she faded away into blackness. And when I would wake up, I'd forgotten her entirely.

But tonight is different.

Is she moving? I think her shoulders are rising and falling. Like a child trying to hold back silent sobs. I push myself up to my elbows, trying to get a better look.

Her body is shaking with the intensity of her soundless cries. I look on with concern. I know this is only a dream, but her sorrow yanks at my heart. Something is very wrong.

The silence is destroyed in an instant by an ugly, loud ringing. My eyes open again, this time for real. It's my alarm clock. I slap a palm down on top of it to turn it off. I suppose this confirms that it was indeed a dream. A girl in a nightgown did not break and enter my apartment in the middle of night to climb up and cry on top of my dresser. I laugh dryly at the absurdity of that notion.

I swing my legs over the side of my bed and head for the bathroom. Pushing aside the shower curtain, I turn the water on to a brutal hot. I brush my teeth at the sink as it heats up.

"Aaron Jakobs, you look like shit," I say to my reflection. Uncharacteristic bags have camped out beneath my eyes like puffy blueish black bruises. My eyes themselves are as red as if I'd opted for a morning joint instead of my usual cup of coffee. I feel too tired to care much about it and slip beneath the welcoming stream of the showerhead. The scalding drops that roll down my skin feel heavenly.

Dreams usually dissipate as soon as the alarm clock nags me back into the real world. Most days, I couldn't tell you the subject of my last dream if my very life depended on it. But today in the shower, I was surprised to find my mind dwelling on the scene from last night.

Looking back in the light of Monday morning, I suppose that I should have felt afraid. Possessed, little kids in the night are a tried and true staple of horror movies for a reason. But I don't think she was really a little kid. Maybe thirteen- or fourteen-years-old. And there was nothing malevolent about her. The sight of her was heartrending. Even now, I feel sad for her.

My consciousness tells me to "shake it off, Aaron, and get on with the day." I oblige. I dry my dark hair roughly with a towel, comb it into place neatly, but not too neatly. Yank on dark grey slacks, button my shirt, straighten a tie around my neck, and flip down my collar. As I lock my door and walk to my car, I decide I might as well grab coffee and a bagel on the way to the office.