Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.
*****
Trish was never the type to take flights of fancy. She was a firm believer in having to see it to believe. She didn't believe in ghosts, Gods, ghouls or aliens. Or she didn't used to anyway.
It started with dreams. She would only remember little flashes; impossibly long fingers, glistening black eyes, like pools of ink. Thick, ridged, viscous tongues. She would wake up wet every morning and wonder why these dreams kept returning when she didn't usually dream at all. Shed never even enjoyed reading science fiction or horror. Where were these thoughts and dreams coming from?
She started noticing little unexplained marks and bruises on her body. The bruises were clustered around her inner thighs mostly, though she spotted some on her breasts. Tiny red marks that looked like puncture marks dotted her inner elbows, throat and breasts. Her throat would be sore upon waking and her pussy would be wet and feel swollen.
She became afraid to sleep, trying to stay awake all night to avoid the dreams, becoming slowly convinced that she was experiencing some sort of mental illness that was making her touch herself in her sleep. She used to work in the mental health system and did not have much faith in it, and was terrified to approach her doctor, but more frightening was to do nothing.
First though she thought to set up a nanny cam Teddy bear in her bedroom, to see exactly what was happening. The first seven days of using it nothing seemed to happen in the night; she did not dream and woke with no new marks or unexplained wetness. She began to relax; she did not know why it had stopped, but she wasn't about to complain.
On the 8th morning she awoke groaning. Her stomach was in knots, her asshole sore and her abdomen was tender. She ran to the bathroom and experienced the most unusual feelings as she passed whatever was inside her pussy and asshole. It felt like small eggs were pouring forth from her. When it finally stopped she cleaned herself and looked into the toilet with terror, only to find some globs of clearish goo that looked like cum or grool and water that looked to have been recently disturbed.
When she checked the nanny cam, it hadn't recorded anything that night.
She determined that she had to do something but she didn't know what. Did she go to her doctor and hope it was a treatable mental illness? Did she go to the police? She thought the second would probably just send her to the first. She thought the first would either commit her or drug her so much she wouldn't know what was real or not anyway.
She had to know for herself what, if anything, was happening.
That night, she set the nanny cam, her phone recording on a tripod facing the bed, the TV on loud with a action movie playlist, and settled in, determined to stay awake but look asleep, and see if she could catch whatever was happening. Hours went be and she struggled against the heaviness of her lids, constantly drifting and being jolted awake by gunfire and explosions from her TV.
She drifted again and jolted awake in a split second, suspended between realities, and realised that though she was awake, she was entirely unable to move.