The weight of the nurse's words settled heavily in the room, a chilling confirmation of Mike's deepest fears. His mother, Abbey, missing. The connection to his own terrifying ordeal was undeniable, a sinister thread weaving through the fabric of their lives. John's face, already etched with grief, contorted with a fresh wave of panic.
"My wife… Abbey… is she alright?" John's voice was a raw plea, the professional facade he'd maintained crumbling under the immense strain. The nurse hesitated, her gaze unable to meet his directly. "We don't have any information about her current condition, Mr. John. We're mobilizing search teams immediately."
Mike, still reeling from his own nightmarish vision, felt a jolt of adrenaline. The demon in his dream, its insatiable hunger, the suffocating darkness – it all felt terrifyingly real now, a tangible threat that had extended its reach beyond his own consciousness. "It wasn't just a dream," he insisted, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands. "That thing… it's real. And it has my mother."
The journalists outside, sensing the escalating tension, pressed closer, their microphones and cameras a relentless invasive force. "Is it true that Abbey has been abducted?" "What is the hospital doing to ensure Mike's safety?" The questions were a jarring intrusion into their private agony.
John, with a visible effort, regained a modicum of composure. He turned to Mike, his eyes conveying a desperate plea for clarity. "Mike, what did you see? Anything that can help us find her?"
Mike closed his eyes, trying to conjure the fragmented images from his dream. The demon's form, its guttural whispers, the suffocating darkness. "It was a spiral," he began, his voice low and intense. "A dark spiral, and then it… it became a creature. A demon. It was trying to swallow me. And I felt… a pull. Like it was being drawn to something, or someone."
He looked at his father, a dawning horror in his eyes. "It felt like it was connected to Mom. Like it wanted her too."
The nurse, who had been listening intently, stepped forward. "Mr. John, your description is… unusual. We need to document everything you remember. Every detail could be crucial." She pulled out a notepad, her professional demeanor a stark contrast to the unfolding chaos.
As she began to question Mike, a sudden, piercing scream echoed from down the hospital corridor. It was a woman's scream, filled with terror and despair, and it sent a fresh wave of cold dread through Mike. He and John exchanged a panicked look.
"Mom?" Mike whispered, his voice choked with a desperate hope.
John was already on his feet, his earlier exhaustion replaced by a primal urgency. "We have to go!" he declared, his eyes fixed on the direction of the scream.
The nurse tried to intercede, "Mr. John, you can't—" but John was already moving, Mike stumbling to keep pace. The journalists, sensing a story breaking, surged forward, their pursuit a relentless tide.
They burst out of the room and into the bustling corridor, the source of the scream now a focal point of frantic activity. A group of nurses and orderlies were gathered around a gurney, their faces grim. And on the gurney, pale and disheveled, was Abbey.
But something was terribly wrong. Her eyes were wide open, staring blankly ahead, unfocused and vacant. A thin trail of blood trickled from her nose, and her breathing was shallow, almost imperceptible.
"Mom!" Mike cried out, rushing towards her, but John held him back.
"Careful, son," John warned, his own voice strained. He knelt beside Abbey, his hand gently touching her cheek. "Abbey? Abbey, can you hear me?"
There was no response. Her lips parted slightly, and a faint, guttural whisper escaped them, a sound chillingly familiar to Mike. It was the same horrific sound he had heard in his dream.
"It… it took her," Mike breathed, the realization hitting him with the force of a physical blow. The demon hadn't just threatened him; it had claimed his mother. The darkness he had glimpsed was no longer a metaphor; it was a terrifying reality that had swallowed his family whole.