Delusions of Terror (standard:horror, 3636 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Jan 06 2007	Views/Reads: 3988/2421	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A doctor experiences frightening nightmares, but are they true?

Drenched in a shroud of perspiration, he opened his eyes and surveyed
the unfamiliar bedroom. The bare, damp walls, the windows without 
curtains and the solitary wooden table deemed that this establishment 
could be portrayed as a hovel. 

Movement within the bed confirmed that he was not alone. He glanced
across at the thin girl who groped for the sparse, solitary, woollen 
blanket. She shifted uncomfortably before sitting up. 

He attempted to speak, but no words were delivered. It was as if his
vocal chords were paralysed. The girl, who cannot have been more than 
ten years old, removed the blanket and wept softly, after seeing the 
red stain tarnishing her white nightgown. 

His curious eyes were now attracted to the patch of crimson, his
inquisitiveness great. He reached out to the girl and noticed his own 
tiny hands; the hands of a child. Endeavouring to scream, once more, no 
sound was forthcoming. 

“Maurice! Maurice, wake up.” 

He opened his eyes and welcomed the solace of more familiar
surroundings. He looked across at his wife, who was showing concern. 

“Another nightmare, Maurice?” 

He nodded and reached to his bedside table for a glass of water. His
wife brushed away his soaking fringe with her warm hand. 

“You're burning up, Maurice... You ought to see a doctor.” 

“I am a doctor, Cheryl.” 

“I mean a psychiatrist. These nightmares are becoming more frequent.” 

“They're just nightmares... What time is it?” 

“Just after three... Did you dream of the child?” 

“Yes... Listen, it's probably just the stress of my work. I'm due a
couple of weeks off... How does a weekend in London sound to you?” “I 
agree, on one condition.” 

“Go on.” 

Cheryl kissed her husband on the lips and smiled. “Talk to Philip.”
“I've told you, I don't need a shrink.” 

“Talk to him as a friend. Perhaps he can determine why you're having
these nightmares.” 

Maurice Rowlands left his bed and shivered, his sodden pyjamas partly to
blame. He undressed, the vision of his nightmare still haunting him. 
“Go to sleep. I'll take a shower.” 

Maurice Rowlands, at the age of thirty-five was considered to be a
brilliant gynaecologist by his colleagues. Based at the Princess Anne 
hospital in Southampton, he had been offered various tempting 
positions, but so far had remained loyal to his post. 

Sitting at the bar of his local pub, The Eight Bells, he sipped his
whisky and water and awaited his meeting with his friend, Philip 
Darling. The tall psychiatrist made his entrance and strode briskly 
towards the bar. Maurice abandoned his barstool and shook the hand of 
his brother in law. The psychiatrist, although a little over six feet 
tall, towered over his short, slender friend. 

“A gin and tonic,” said Philip to the barman, and briskly rubbed his
hands together. 

The ever-smiling psychiatrist addressed his brother in law. “Cheryl told
me about your nightmares. Well?” 

Maurice led his companion towards the roaring, open fire. He was
thankful for the early evening solitude of the pub, even though 


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