Muffled voices whispered crackling words behind smooth oak doors, sentences hissing and slurring together with an attempted quiet. They were completely unaware of the visitor standing on the other side, a burning ear straining against cold wood.

Her breaths came out sharp, cut off and clogged in a closing throat, rising confusion masking stagnant fear in a stomach of rocks.

Clammy hands rested lightly against the oak, twitching fingers clawing crescent indents into the taupe stained door, following the beat of an erratic heart.

Max's hazel tinged eyes scanned the door rapidly, focusing with futile intensity, picking up only bits and pieces of a puzzle she couldn't possibly decipher without being whole.

She blew a strand of frizzy white hair away from her view, opting to tuck it back behind her free ear after it fell relentlessly back onto her cheek.

For as long as she could remember, her pin straight hair had been white, a "vitamin deficiency problem," her mother always told her.

Her mother.

On the other side of that tall oak door, whispering unintelligible words and walking with near silent footsteps, sharing a conversation with her counterpart, harboring secrets and holding puzzle pieces, was Max's mother.

Except it wasn't.

Just like how the man she was conversing with wasn't Max's father, the house they lived in wasn't Max's home, and the earth they inhabited wasn't Max's world.

It was all a figment of her imagination, a universe in her mind that she couldn't seem to escape. She didn't know when or why or how long she had been inside of it, but Max knew for certain that it wasn't real.

A few weeks ago, while scrolling through her phone, tapping mindlessly on apps she had checked only minutes prior, Max noticed something.

A photo in her camera roll stood out against the others, one taken only days before. It was a selfie. Max had snapped the particular picture during a day out with her friends.

At first glance, it looked innocent enough. Smiling faces, shining eyes, sunny skies and green painted landscapes. But upon closer inspection, Max saw it.

On her left hand, right below the knuckle of her ring finger, contrasting heavily with her pale skin, there was a crimson scratch. Only a couple centimeters long, it tugged across the back of her hand.

But, when Max originally took that photo, that criminal scratch was on her right hand. She knew it was, she remembered it clearly. The whole reason for taking the photo with her right hand was so the mark wouldn't be visible, one Max had received after bumping her hand into the corner of a counter.

But, when hazel eyes scanned her dominant hand for any signs of a mark, there was nothing. Instead, on her left hand, right below the knuckle, a scabbing wound was starting to heal.

After that scratch, Max began to notice other things, bigger things.

Books would disappear, her shoes would be in a different room, paintings and family portraits would have different colors and poses.

The biggest change, however, the one that Max couldn't possibly find an excuse for, couldn't possibly ignore, was in her own "father."

After becoming paranoid and holing herself up in her room, making connections and searching desperately for answers, Max decided upon confrontation. But, when going to question her father, Max found herself at a loss for words, tongue twisted with utter shock.

When her father had turned to look at her, his eyes were an ocean, sea foam green with overlapping waves of frosty blue.

Max's father had brown eyes.

The white-haired girl shivered at the memory, thoughts regrouping toward her current situation; eavesdropping on the strangers who had taken care of her for who knows how long.

But for whatever reason, the two adults had stopped talking and Max had gained zero information on her dilemma.

With a defeated sigh, she turned away from the oak and let her feet slide down, pushing her back against the wall as she landed on soft, carpeted floor.

This had been her one chance of figuring things out, revealing the truth, and with it a possible escape. Now there was nothing but silence and more questions tucked into her already confused brain.

While she racked her brain for possible ideas, Max couldn't help but notice that not only had their voices stopped, but their footsteps had as well.

In fact, everything had stopped. There was no audio indication of life behind those doors, not that she could tell, anyway.

Something was wrong. Even more wrong than this reality.

Max pulled herself up from her spot on the floor, brushing dust and stray hairs off of her form. She turned slowly to face the door, placing a shaking hand on the brass, weathered knob, gripping it with little force, as if it would grip back if she held it too hard.

With one sharp intake of breath, she turned the handle, pushing the door open slowly, cautiously. It creaked with age, and to Max, it was the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard, scratching against the hinges with ghastly groans.

She tilted her body to the left, eyes peering into the quiet room, searching desperately for any sign of life. Her green brown irises rested upon a leg, covered in dark blue denim and unmoving.

Upon further inspection, which meant opening the door all the way, much to Max's dismay, she found the the other leg, thankfully attached to a body of a woman, who was currently laying on the floor, stomach up, eyes closed peacefully, seemingly sleeping.

To her right was a man, much taller than the woman, face worn with years of experience as a father. He too rested on the floor, his body limp with peace.

Max noted to herself that they looked eerily similar to those dolls whose eyes closed when you laid them on their backs.

Porcelain and perfect, fragile to the touch.

It sent a chill up her spine. These people, these dolls who pretended to be her blood, were passed out on a bedroom floor, breathing, but passed out nonetheless.

At least, she thought they were breathing. Max couldn't be sure without getting closer, but at the same time, she kicked herself for even thinking about going into the room.

However, her curiosity got the best of her and she took a timid step into the room, teeth locked on each other, grit together behind pursed lips, mostly to keep her from breathing so loud. Her tongue felt like lead in her mouth, heavy against soft, pink gums.

She began scanning the bodies that took up residence on the carpet, half expecting their eyes to open and follow her movements, but when they didn't, Max picked up her pace, sock covered soles making progress, finding themselves stopped mere feet from the doppelgängers.

She leaned down slightly, staring carefully at the man's chest, watching as it rose up and down ever so casually. Max sighed, closing her eyes for a moment, somewhat relieved they seemed to be alive. She'd hate to become a murder suspect in a broken reality.

With one harsh swallow, Max pride open her heavy lids, straightening herself upright as she did so.

And the second she opened her eyes, the bodies were gone, in their place stood something far more intimidating.

Jagged, broken horns poked out from a lumpy, misshapen skull. Black tar flesh melted over empty eye sockets, creating a web where irises would have been. Crooked teeth sat haphazardly in a smiling mouth, pointed and sharp, slick with a mix of spit and blood. There were no lips, just gums that were held together by the strands of stringy skin, overlapping with the razor blade teeth, tearing and hanging over edges.

Its body was much like its eyes, melted strands of inky skin that crossed and looped over each other, revealing intestines that poked out of broken holes. A beating, blackened heart sat in a cage of flesh, oozing foul gray liquid that spurted against breaking strands, dribbling down onto other organs.

Its hands and feet held massive claws, ones as sharp as the crooked teeth, with the same skin wrapping and stretching around each limb, like a vine climbing up the side of a tree.

The most prominent feature, however, was the single eye that sat in the middle of its forehead. It dripped the same gray fluid as the heart, waterline covered in the vile slime that moved slowly down the rest of its face. The onyx pupil and iris flitted back and forth with rapid speed, moving bright veins that decorated a yellowed sclera.

Max couldn't help it as she stumbled backwards, falling back against the door, which had now been slammed shut and locked behind her. Her own eyes widened with a growing fear, voice lost to shock, the same shock that held her in place on the floor.

Its mouth began to move, grumbling words tumbling from a blistered tongue.

"You've become a pest, Max."

Max's body shook violently, her nerves vibrating against her will, the beast before her shuffling closer to make his point.

"I don't find your incessant investigating amusing. I should squash you like the little bug you are."

Max swallowed harshly against a sandpaper throat, hands gripping onto the wool of the carpet, knuckles white from her hold. She couldn't summon up a single sound from her throat, only broken gasps that left in shattered breaths.

"Have you nothing to say? No explanation? No reasoning?"

Max just stared, eyes trained and locked on the unblinking forehead.

The beast gave a low growl, saliva dripping onto the floor in large drops, sinking into the carpet and disappearing while it absorbed. He stepped towards Max, claws ripping up cream colored wool, singing it black with every step. His face lowered down to the small, shaking girl, empty eye sockets level with Max's full ones. He leaned in close, his breaths contaminating her oxygen supply, covering it in a smell that could only be described as rancid, larvae infested meat.

His voice rung in her ear, grumbling syllables leaving permanent stains in her memory.

"Say. Something."

Max glued her eyes shut for a moment, half praying the creature would disappear, but unlike the bodies, he stayed. She did her best to compose herself, taking one shaky breath in, exhaling another out. She opened tear-soaked eyes, staring back into the only eye she could, and let out a small question.

"What are you?"

His growls turned to laughs, mixing together like cement, burrowing deep into Max's brain.

"I'm your worst nightmare, the thing everyone fears deep down, the one who you can't win against."

"Excuse me?"

He smiled, skin catching against gums and teeth, and Max couldn't help but gag.

"My name is Somnal, and I'm your sleep demon."

The words smacked her in the face, piercing through her ears and stabbing at her mind, echoing around in her skull. So this was what had happened, this creature, this demon, had latched onto her and left her in a slumber she couldn't awake from, some sort of twisted Sleeping Beauty story.

"Except in this story, the princess doesn't wake up."

Her eyes widened even more at the words, practically bulging out of her head. He wasn't only keeping her asleep, he was hearing everything in her head.

"Get out of my head."

A wave of adrenaline washed through her, Max's fists removing themselves from carpet now slick with her sweat, mouth set in a firm line. With newfound bravery, she did the only thing she could think of.

She punched him in the face.

What was meant to be a crippling blow ended with one claw wrapped tightly around Max's throat, blocking air from entering her lungs and crushing her skin beneath a black tar hand.

He spoke angrily, his eye rapidly blinking with what Max read as fury.

"You've become too much of an issue, Max. I was doing you a favor keeping you alive, but now I see I was wrong for doing so. You pester and bother and tear my little world apart, and I can't have that."

Max's hands clawed desperately at disgusting flesh, tears flowing freely down her face now. She spoke through broken cries, eyebrows furrowed in an attempt to look dangerous.

"I would rather die than be a demon's puppet."

Somnal grimaced for a second, but soon his dismay turned to pleasure as an idea bloomed in his twisted mind.

Within a second, the pain around Max's throat was gone and she was on the ground, eyes shut tightly for reasons she didn't know. There was something warm in her right hand, plastic and bumpy in texture. From what she could tell, it was a handle of some sort, but as she opened her glued eyes, her realization turned to unsaturated horror.

At her feet were her mother and father, her real parents, covered in their own blood, lying twisted and broken on their backs. Stab marks riddled their stomachs, slashes covered their throats, and their eyes had rolled into the backs of their heads.

Police sirens screamed somewhere in the distance, close enough that Max could see blue and red flashing lights outside the open window, quickly drawing nearer with each wail.

She felt something drop down onto her knee, something wet, warm, covering her leg. With sharp inhales and harsh swallows, Max looked down, half knowing what to expect, half hoping she was wrong. But the truth was evident, and so was her new dilemma.

The knife was in her hands.