ASTRAL ROB
Episode 1: Waking Isn’t Always Waking
The evening was eerily calm.
One of those beautiful summer nights where even distant traffic sounded hushed, like the world itself had paused to breathe. In a dimly lit bedroom, a woman lay peacefully asleep, her silhouette softened by the silver wash of moonlight.
The room exhaled peace.
But it was a lie.
Subtle twitches began to ripple across her still body. Nothing violent. Just tiny spasms, like wind brushing across a field of tall grass. A sigh might have escaped her lips—but no breath followed. Instead, the twitches intensified, becoming wave-like, unnatural, as though something beneath her skin was crawling outward.
No rapid eye movement. No murmured dreams. Just undulation.
Then, sound. Wet and wrong.
A gurgle. A stretch. A sickening lurch.
Her body swelled grotesquely, skin pulled taut, limbs contorting. The stillness of the room shattered under the weight of her spasms.
And then—
she exploded.
Not metaphorically. Not dreamily.
She burst, in a geyser of gore and shredded flesh. Blood soaked the bedsheets, painting the ceiling in a slow, arterial arc. Bone clattered like broken furniture. Something hissed in the corner. The air grew thick and metallic.
The silence afterward was worse.
—
CUT TO BLACK.
SMASH CUT: ROB’S LIVING ROOM.
The remnants of a party gone long and hard littered the place—empty bottles, pizza crusts, spilled chips ground into the carpet. The TV blared a news broadcast, ignored. A ceiling fan spun lazily, indifferent to the stench of tequila and sweat.
On the couch, Rob twitched.
Jerked awake.
Gasped.
His heart thundered in his chest, pumping hard like it was trying to punch its way out. He sat bolt upright, cold sweat beading on his neck, mouth dry like cotton stuffed with regret.
The dream—or whatever it was—faded fast, like steam on a mirror.
He rubbed his face. Tried to focus. His temples pounded.
That wasn’t just a dream.
That was... something else.
He looked around. His boots were off, neatly placed by the door. He didn’t remember taking them off.
Didn’t remember going to sleep.
The room spun slightly as he stood, stepping over party wreckage toward the kitchen sink. He downed the first thing he grabbed—a glass half full of mystery liquid. It burned. Probably not water.
2:47 PM. Seventeen missed calls.
Three of them from Unknown Number.
The phone vibrated in his hand.
CALL INCOMING: UNKNOWN NUMBER
Rob stared at the screen like it was staring back. His thumb hovered. Every instinct told him not to pick up.
He answered.
“Yeah,” he rasped.
Static. Then a voice—dry, cracked, and impossibly familiar.
“Robbie... you finally picked up.”
He froze.
The line went dead.
Then another call came in. This time from Ava.
He answered with a groggy, “What?”
“Rob, for God’s sake, get your act together,” Ava snapped. Her voice was half concern, half hellfire. “Turn on the news. Any channel. Right now.”
Still foggy, still hungover, Rob shuffled back to the living room and grabbed the remote. The screen blinked, then settled on a stone-faced anchor mid-broadcast.
“The Greyhound Gripper, Glenn Picco, has been denied a stay of execution,” she said, voice tight with gravity.
“His execution is scheduled for two weeks from today.”
Rob didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
The words hit like a gut-punch wrapped in barbed wire. His throat clenched. His heart didn’t race—it stopped.
Glenn Picco. The monster. The man who’d murdered Rob’s family. The man who haunted every last dream. Every blackout. Every... projection?
Two weeks until justice.
But Rob felt no peace.
Only dread.
Because justice doesn’t stop nightmares.
And some nightmares don’t end when you wake up.
TTFN
Frank Sirianni aka Foxxfyrre Cg
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