Nightmare: n/a
by Hels
Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em. Don’t own nothing ‘cept my story.

Note: This just came to me out of nowhere. I’m not sure whether it has potential, whether it could go further. Any ideas would be very gratefully received. (email me: kaikoura@postmaster.co.uk)


She was running, running. She barely felt the cold night air rush past her face and whip her hair. The edges of her vision were blurred, and strange things seemed to lurk there just out of sight. Behind her, the vampire was accelerating, the sound of its feet growing louder on the hard, dry turf. The trees at the cemetery edge loomed up out of the darkness, and Buffy found herself fighting for air, as though they trapped her in some hot, clammy prison. She emerged from the trees into a warm, moonlit summer night, and without pausing she ripped off her hat, scarf and jacket and carried on running. Then, in the blink of an eye she was running along the beach, the dark bulk of a stormy autumn sea raging on her right hand side, and the great mass of the cliffs on her left. Then again she felt a change in the air and she was cold, so cold. It was raining, sheets of black pouring from the sky and blinding her. She ran on, not wondering why the night kept changing, only knowing that no matter where she ran, the vampire would still be right behind her, snarling and seething with anticipation.

She was back in the cemetery, running through the big mausoleums. She smelt the death and decay, and choked. Suddenly the blur of the sprint was over and there was nothing but blackness around her. Pain from all her limbs filtered through to her tired brain, and she lay paralysed in the mud. The vampire’s growls grew louder. It approached the gaping mouth of the grave, and prepared to jump. Buffy heaved her protesting body to its feet and turned to face the monster as it landed. She swung her strong arms out to connect with the vampire, but she watched in horror as they flailed, in a sickening slow motion failing to connect with the target. She pushed helplessly against the thickening air, and began to feel tears of despair rolling down her mud-streaked face. She was hopeless, out of control, lost. This feeling sat like a knot in the depths of her stomach, and as more punches failed it grew, spreading through her legs, leaving them leaden and unable to move, spreading through her arms so they hung limply by her side, and finally to her neck. It rose slowly, choking her. More tears rolled down her face as she screamed for help. The vampire moved in for the bite.

She was quiet and listened to the creature as its fangs brushed her neck, then gradually bit deeper until she could feel the blood about to break through. The artery in her neck was throbbing; she was out of control. She didn’t struggle, she stood limply and waited, waited for the vamp to open its mouth and-

She opened her eyes with a gasp and sat up rigid in her sweat-dampened bed. The nightmare world still seemed real in the dark corners of the room, and she would not close her eyes and return there. The clock on the dresser read 5:30, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer climbed unsteadily out her bed and headed down the hall for a shower, silently praying that her dream was not prophetic. It was Buffy’s deepest, darkest fear that she would one day lose control and finally reach her end like any other human being, lost to terror and hopeless in the arms of a monster.


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