The Sleepless Night of Thomas Riddle by Olivia Salter | Flash Fiction

 

The Sleepless Night of Thomas Riddle

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 988

Some people fear what lurks in their dreams. Thomas feared his own mind.

It had been three nights since Thomas Riddle last slept. Every time he tried to close his eyes, his mind dragged him back into the same nightmare—back to the old apartment, the place he’d left years ago and vowed never to see again.

In the dream, the apartment lay empty and silent, like a tomb waiting to swallow him whole. He’d open the door and step inside, feeling the sticky residue of smoke and sweat clinging to the walls. Shadows collected in the corners, thick as ink, and the air smelled like damp wood, as though the place itself was rotting from the inside out. Every time he returned, he could feel it creeping over his skin—the sense that something was wrong, that he was not alone.

And each time, he’d start to search.

It was an endless, compulsive urge. He’d rifle through every drawer, lift every cushion, pace the cramped rooms, feeling his hands grow cold and damp. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he sensed—no, he knew—that if he found it, he could finally leave the nightmare behind.

But always, he found himself standing in front of the bathroom door.

Tonight, Thomas was determined not to sleep. He sat on his bed, his face illuminated by the cold glow of his phone screen, scrolling through meaningless headlines, trying to keep himself awake. He’d drunk enough coffee to keep his nerves thrumming, his hands shaking. But even that couldn’t keep his eyelids from drooping.

He checked the time: 3:12 a.m.

“Just stay awake,” he muttered to himself, his voice a dry rasp. But his vision blurred, the room swayed, and against his will, he felt his body sagging, slipping toward the pillow. His breathing slowed, and the bedroom around him faded, darkening, dissolving.

And then he was back.

***

He stood in the doorway of the old apartment, staring at the peeling wallpaper, the stained carpet, the broken-down couch. A faint sourness filled the air, like stale cigarette smoke and something else, something he couldn’t name but tasted metallic and sharp on his tongue.

His hand drifted to the countertop, brushing over dust and grime. Then he started to search, just as he always did. He didn’t want to, didn’t know why he had to, but his hands moved anyway—opening cabinets, shuffling through the junk drawer, glancing under the couch. Every time, it was the same relentless, helpless compulsion.

And every time, he would end up facing the bathroom door.

Tonight, though, it was different. The door was open, just a crack, the darkness within shifting like smoke. He couldn’t see much, but he felt it—the presence on the other side, watching him, waiting for him to come closer.

A tremor ran through him, but he took a step forward, then another, as if something had wrapped itself around his heart and was pulling him toward that door. His fingers brushed the cold, rusted handle, and he pushed it open.

Inside, slumped in the corner, was…himself.

Thomas’s breath hitched, his chest tight. The figure was thin, hunched, its skin pale and stretched, bones jutting under the skin like knives. Its head was bent, its arms wrapped around its knees, and its fingers were smeared with something dark, wet, and sticky.

The figure lifted its head, and he saw his own face staring back at him—gaunt, hollow-eyed, lips drawn back into a twisted, bitter smile. Its eyes were empty, glassy, but locked onto him with a raw, hateful intensity that froze him in place.

“Thomas,” it whispered, his own voice but scraped down to something raw and unnatural. “You left me here.”

A memory surfaced, jagged and painful. The last night in this apartment—the fight, the slamming door, the vows he’d made to never come back. And yet, he had come back, over and over, in this nightmare, drawn back to the very thing he’d wanted to leave behind.

“You left me here,” the figure said again, and Thomas felt a chill settle deep in his bones, a darkness that crept through him like ice. He stumbled backward, his breath ragged, his heart hammering. But he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the figure, from the way it stared at him with those cold, accusing eyes.

He glanced down, and his hands were wet—slick with the same dark, viscous stain that coated the figure’s fingers. It felt warm, sticky, pulsing as though it had a life of its own.

“You brought me here,” the figure whispered, its voice rising into a sick, mocking tone that echoed off the walls, bouncing through his mind. “Now stay.”

He tried to move, to turn and run, but his legs felt rooted, as though they’d been buried in the carpet. The walls seemed to close in, the air thickening, pressing down on him, crushing him. He gasped for breath, feeling his lungs straining, his vision blurring.

Wake up, he thought desperately. Just wake up!

But he didn’t wake.

***

Thomas’s eyes snapped open, his body drenched in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. He was back in his bedroom, the familiar hum of his fan in the background. He took a shaky breath, then another, trying to calm himself.

But as he sat up, he noticed something in the corner of his room—a dark shape, huddled and motionless.

He blinked, his eyes adjusting, but it didn’t disappear. It was still there, hunched and still, its head tilted, watching him. The shape shifted slightly, and he could just make out its face.

It was him.

His heart sank, a hollow dread spreading through him as he realized he’d never left the dream. He was still in the apartment. And he knew, with a sick certainty, that he’d never leave again.