Don’t Fuck with Phobetor
But there's something so much worse where you sleep. He wears the face of your walls and dresser drawers and chair legs.
You may have noticed we’re in a brand new section…
They're lying. They're all, always, forever, lying. You think that they're protecting you, but they won't tell the truth.
Eight scary facts about where you sleep, they promise, the junkets and anchors and sensationalist bloggers. Even the tabloids are in on it now.
Bedbugs, they say. And sleep apnea, and acute respiratory distress syndrome. All of which might, perhaps, barely register on the fear scale (measured in skipped heartbeats) for the mere mortals who have nothing worse to dread.
But there's something so much worse where you sleep. He wears the face of your walls and dresser drawers and chair legs.
Yes, Phobetor, that damn god of nightmares got loose again. I knew the instant I awoke.
I'll admit, this one may be a little bit my fault. It wasn't intentional or anything. I wouldn't say I'm an inherently evil creature; it's just that, sometimes, well, I toe the line a bit. And maybe I really liked the Sandman and thought it would be cool to get coffee or— no, not coffee, I guess. Tea? Decaffeinated? I might not have thought this through entirely.
I should have known better. I should have known better than anyone that the walking, talking, personifications of myth are not limited to the ones we've heard of and read about, any more than choosing to clamp your mouth shut before murmuring in astonishment, "Slenderman?" will stop him targeting you.
Someone thought of them once. And now they're real.
And all I can say is goddamn ancient Greeks.
So anyway, I tried to get in. Into the dream world. It... did not go well. It's guarded, it seems, by beings and sensations so eldritch as to be indescribable in our, or any other, language. Many of them are loyal to Phobetor. Apparently, his benefits package is just incomparable. Something about no limit to the number of limbs insured or the dimensions in which they might exist.
Luckily for me, there are still a few (ever-dwindling) holdouts who protect Morpheus, the only one who seems to have a bit of a soft spot left for the humans. Even us half-cybernetic ones.
I thought I was dead, gone— just as a hazy triangle of malicious intent was preparing to devour me, a pair of winged electric eels came to my aid. One went after the triangle (I lost track of how, exactly, as it's rather hard to observe solid objects combating sentient ideas), while the other scooped me up, proving surprisingly strong, and shocked me into waking.
I thought everything was fine. I didn't try again.
The thing is, it seems a little something came back with me. Came back and leaked out into the world. And he's getting stronger.
Phobetor can take the shape of anything and everything. He can create living nightmares and trap you in your dreams. He doesn't kill, not often, but as your mind slowly dissolves, you wouldn't know the difference, anyway.
I am barely clinging to the belief that I am awake now.
But if I am, I have to warn you. Warn everyone. I know I haven't always been the best person. There was that debacle with the tectonic plates and my little slip-up with that North Korea thing. I know you have no reason to trust me. But this.
This is worse than anything I could have conceived, and I didn't even mean to do it. Sure, if it were intentional, it could be seen as a masterpiece of modern art, causing the world to fall into chaos as people question everything they've ever known. But.
The thing is.
I would never have done this. Even I have standards, and this goes so far past them as to render the whole universe a mere puff of wind in the rearview mirror. I have to try to fix it, don't you understand that? This— this thing I let loose is—
It's everywhere. But how can it be? Even Phobetor must have limits. I can sense him now. He is in the soft cotton of my shirt, the motes of dust hanging lazily about the corners, the oxygen itself, he—
The blood pumping through my veins, ticking away each moment of life (or freezing in fear), the slight stretch of my fingers, the tapping of my foot— how can he be here? In me? Does that mean— it must mean— the only way to bring him out of this world, to fix what I have done, to save everyone—
I must.
I must—
. . .
I have something to tell you. They're lying. They're all, always, forever, lying. You think that they're protecting you, but they won't tell the truth.
Well isn’t this just glorious 💕