A Dream With Grandma

 Last night, I had the most terrifying dream — one I can’t seem to shake.

I dreamed of my grandmother, but it wasn’t the comforting woman I remember from childhood stories. This version of her was haunted, desperate, and trapped in something far worse than I could have imagined.

We sat beneath the great oak tree from my other dreams — the one with the face carved into its bark, its eyes slow and watching. The leaves rustled softly, but the air felt heavy, almost suffocating.

Grandma was knitting, her fingers trembling with effort, but her eyes were wide and filled with sorrow. I asked her what was happening to me — about the shadows that chased me, the whispers I couldn’t understand.

She looked at me, tears pooling in her eyes, and said,

“I’m sorry, Eva. I never wanted this for you. Our bloodline is cursed—tangled with darkness that goes deeper than you know. The Cult of Adriel has marked us… and I couldn’t stop it.”

Her voice broke as she spoke, and suddenly she started coughing—violent, guttural. I reached out to help, but then I saw it: beneath her skin, something wriggled. Her throat bulged grotesquely as she gagged, her hands clawing at her neck like she was trying to tear something out from inside.

Then, with a wet, sickening sound, a huge centipede slithered out from her mouth. It was as thick as my wrist, glistening and segmented, with hundreds of tiny legs that jerked in frantic, frantic spasms.

Grandma fell back, gasping, eyes wild with terror as the creature crawled down her chest, its legs scratching her skin, leaving tiny, bleeding scratches in its wake.

And then it turned to me.

It lunged forward with impossible speed, aiming straight for my face. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. It forced its way into my mouth — cold, slimy, writhing as it slipped down my throat.

I could feel each of its countless legs clawing and scraping against the delicate flesh inside me. It was suffocating, like trying to breathe through a storm of ice shards. My throat contracted violently, choking on the creature’s bulk.

It felt like I was being torn apart from the inside — every movement a brutal assault, sharp and relentless.

I struggled to breathe, my chest tightening as panic clawed up from deep inside. I wanted to fight it off, to spit it out, but it was like it was alive — determined to bury itself deeper.

And then… I woke up.

Gasping. Choking. Covered in sweat.

There was a single white rose petal on my pillow.

I don’t know what it means. But I think my grandmother’s warning was real. And whatever is coming… it’s closer than I ever feared.