An Extract from The Hidden

It was four o'clock in the morning when the dreams woke her again. Her heart was thumping rapidly against her chest as she leapt upwards in her bed, lungs gasping for air. Still clinging to the sheets she rolled over, falling to the floor where she crouched, retching for what felt like forever as the cool sweat dried against her skin. Fumbling frantically above her she found the bedside lamp and with shaking hands managed to turn it on. As the light flooded into every corner of the small room, the sudden change making her eyes cringe, she leant back thankfully against the built in wardrobes, and breathed deeply. She was still shivering, but as she focused on the familiar surroundings, her body slowly calmed down. Hauling herself to her feet, she made her way into the bathroom to splash her face with mercifully cool water.

God, she looked like shit. Sure, the mirror was old and a bit cracked, but it was still reflecting faithfully enough. Her blue eyes were just a little too pink around the edges, and the rings underneath were getting blacker daily. She'd also lost weight. Hah. No wonder she hadn't been getting laid lately. She forced a smile. Soaking her hands first, she ran them through her hair, the only part of her that still looked healthy, and sighed soulfully. Maybe it was time to go back to the doctor and get some Valium or whatever the nineties version was. The shrink certainly didn't do any good, but then, that could hardly be classed as his fault. How can you analyse someone who's being ripped apart by terrible nightmares when they can never remember the detail from the moment they wake up? God, she was fucked up. The last five months had seemed like an eternity, every night worse than it's predecessor, dreams emerging from nowhere, for no real reason.

Her head was starting to throb, like the onset of a bruiser of a migraine. Great. Perfect. Maybe it was a tumour growing insidiously inside the shelter of her skull. She pushed that comforting thought right out of the way and reached for the handle on the cabinet above the sink, sure that there were paracetamol waiting to rescue her within. She stopped halfway; her hand hovering uncertainly in the air, for the moment completely abandoned by her brain. Something was happening in the mirror. Something small, but something that was growing fast. There were colours, shapes, things moving. She looked closer, confused, her head really thumping now, her heart rapidly catching up with it. What the fuck was that? Something she almost recognised was trying to pull itself into form, but was getting all messed up with her reflected face, distorting it, stretching her lips and eyelids. It wasn't nice. She wanted it to stop now, oh yes, stopping now would be good. Her stomach knotted with dread as the world around her drained away, leaving only the mirror and the headache. Her heart was trying to escape her chest and her legs were like water as she felt the heat rush to her face. She was starting to panic, and dimly, beneath the haze of pain her bladder gave way and she heard the rush of liquid as it hit the tiles beneath her. The pain was engulfing her completely and she slid down the wall behind her, coming to rest in the warm puddle of pee she had so recently released. Please God, I don't want a brain tumour, please God, I don't want to die in my bathroom, please God, make whatever's happening in the mirror go away, please somebody help me, please. She was moaning gently, indistinct sounds, slipping away uselessly.

The surface of the mirror was stretching out towards her, whatever thing that was in there, eager to be released. This was it, she was dying, she knew that now. She could see what was happening in the bathroom but knew that none of it was real, none of it could ever be real. It was in her mind. None of it mattered, except she was dying and she didn't want too. She was dying in her own piss, alone and terrified. She could feel consciousness wresting itself away from her desperate grasp and just when she thought terror would overcome her, she glanced back up to see the writhing shape before her smashing the mirror, as it emerged new-born.

It was then that it all became clear, the dreams flooding back in a flash, images piercing the pain. She realised with terrible clarity that there were some things that were worse than death, some things that were much much worse, and as the figure leant over her smiling, she screamed and screamed with the last of her breath; not for help, because she knew that would be futile, but screamed for what she knew was to come.

For what the dreams had shown her.