Excerpt from a story I will (probably) never finish writing

First and foremost, this is a book blog. But I had a dream/nightmare a while back that has stuck in my mind ever since, and I took a shot at putting it on paper late last night. Basically, I need someone to tell me if it sucks or if I should keep going with the world. I probably won’t keep this post up (like I said, this is a book blog) but I really wanted your guys’ honest opinion. SO here goes!

I was born in the time after people forgot how to dream. We used to be happy. Life was made up of daydream and nightmare, but in equal parts. Always a balance, always a grain of sand to fall on either arm of the scale when one became too heavy. Nobody had to fear falling asleep. Nobody had to fear the memory thieves. 

People have different names for them, some more ominous than others. Shadows, Faceless, Bones. To each person they appear different, and to each person they observe a different title. But they always take the same. They start slow at first, feeding on the nightmares and tragedies, memories nobody would miss. Buoyed by a sense of weightlessness following the first attacks, nobody noticed anything was wrong. Who would want to question the disappearance of malease, fear, and sadness? Not a soul. Until they started taking more. The thieves would transform into the stolen nightmares, ripping every happy thought away from your skull. Every memory that made life worth living dissolved. And when the last emaciated thought slipped from your mind, you were no longer you. You were one of them.

They were a constant, looming presence. They walked the halls of my childhood, haunted every memory, turning them tinged with fear around the edges. Even the most precious, even the most pure. Living with a horror like that, it has a way of laying claim to everything inside you.

I don’t remember the first time I saw one, but I do remember the last. I woke up to the familiar pickling sense down my spine, the white hot trail of fear’s caress. I saw it standing over my brother’s body, a spiral of blue-white memory arcing up toward the creature. It’s face was bleached-white bone, the face of a deer, wildly pointed antlers reaching impossibly to the sky. The stench of decay oozed from the gaping holes in it’s skull. The rest of it’s form was incorporeal, shrouded in black mist, shifting and churning. A skeletal hand reached out to tip back my brother’s blissfully unaware head. 

I knew for days his end was coming. After a certain point, there is nothing to do but wait. When there is no cure for their curse, and they never succumb to death, the only answer is to run. We tried to, a band of the more resilient left on Earth. And it worked for a wfile. For some reason our minds were not quite as permeable. Probably because anybody still surviving was left with bitter nightmares; much less appealing than the sweetness of dreams. But at a certain point it became impossible. It’s pretty hard to do anything when you can’t even remember how to put one foot in front of the other. 

For me they were known as Whispers. They were the promise of death rustling into every meandering breeze, every softly spoken word, every shaky breath. They moved silently and swiftly, wearing the face of one of my long forgotten nightmares. I watched as they took more and more from the people around me, heard a fate worse than death approach in their slowing heartbeats and unraveling minds. And now my brother wears their face, too. 

But the last of us are searching for answers. And really, what else do we have to lose?

If you took the time to read this, thank you immensely. Please let me know what you think/ leave constructive criticism in the comments (: also possibly looking for someone to send more ideas to!