The Fear That Did Not Hurt

We went to bed on a cold January night, warm beneath the blankets, cocooned from the world outside. The room was quiet, held in the soft glow of our night lamp—yellow and gentle, the kind of light that makes shadows behave. Everything felt safe. Familiar. Ordinary.

The wind brushed the windows like a restless thought. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then fell silent. I remember thinking how rare that kind of stillness had become. My husband turned toward me, already half asleep, and I closed my eyes, letting the warmth pull me under.

That was when the ground vanished.

I was standing alone on an island I had never seen before. The air was heavy, damp and unnaturally quiet. At its center lay a lake—dark and motionless—until it moved.

Black shapes surfaced slowly, one after another.

Snakes.

Too many to count.

They floated and swam with deliberate calm, some lifting their heads, hissing softly, mouths opening as if to warn me. I froze, waiting for pain that never came. They surrounded me, brushed past me—but did not strike.

And then, just as suddenly, the island broke apart.

I was no longer alone.

A village rose around us, familiar in shape yet rotten at its core. People moved through the streets with hollow eyes and twisted faces, something inhuman clinging to their skin. Fear took over. My husband and I ran.

We knocked on a door. It creaked open to reveal an old woman—her face carved by age, her expression marked by something far darker. We didn’t wait to understand. We ran again.

Just before the gate out of the village, he stopped.

I screamed his name, my voice tearing through the air as the figures closed in. They watched him closely—yet did nothing.

Just like the snakes.
Just like the lake.

Fear was everywhere.

But it still hadn’t touched him.

Authors Note

This story is adapted from a dream.

A longer version of this story, titled "UnTouched' is available as a free download.