I’m a lucky devil. I have a movie director in my head who makes horror films for me to watch while I’m asleep.

Yes, really.

He sits in a little director’s chair at the edge of my dreams, squinting at a monitor, barking things like “More trauma in scene three!” and “Let’s get that unsettling coat swap moment in the final act.”

So I said to him:

“Oi! What’s with the scary movies?”

He just shrugged and kept fiddling with his headset, like I’d interrupted a very serious Zoom call with my subconscious.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to sleep. And instead, I find myself in some strange dreamscape where I’m walking up the street in clothes that don’t fit properly. My trousers are too short, my shirt’s on backwards, and people are pointing. Laughing. One of them takes a photo. Someone else offers to knit me a better outfit—while I’m wearing it.

So I run. Naturally. Into a house where everyone’s dressed just as weirdly. Except they’re confident about it, and they’re still laughing at me.

Not scary, exactly. But definitely unsettling. Like someone made a horror film based on mild social embarrassment and the wrong trousers.

I wake up with that weird post-nightmare feeling. Not quite fear. Just… displacement. Like I’ve returned from a parallel universe where fashion is policed by sarcasm.

That night, I confront the director again.

“Oi! Pack it in. These movies are crap.”

He sighs and folds his arms.

“You make ’em. I just direct them.”

“…What?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you know that?”

He takes off his sunglasses. His eyes are hollow and black. Then he lifts his fedora and scratches the top of his visible skull.

Smiles. Grimaces. Could be either.

“You dream it, mate. I just make it watchable.”

I wake up again. Same weird feeling. Like I’ve been gaslit by a skeleton in a hat.

I tell Mary about it.

“Don’t think about bad things, then,” she says, cheerfully.

“I don’t!”

“You must do. Otherwise, where are the nightmares coming from?”

It’s a good point. Bloody inconvenient, but good.

Later, I doze off in the armchair.

The director shows up again. Arms crossed.

“Oi, mate!”

“What now?”

“No nightmares for me today. I’m off duty.”

He scowls and sits down, sulking.

I sleep. Peacefully. No dreams. No weird outfits. No sarcasm.

CRASH!!!

I wake with a start. Eyes blurry. Arms twitching.

My notebook’s fallen on the floor.

So now I’m awake.
And somewhere in the back of my head, I know he’s still there.
Scripting something.