Dreaming My Body Melts Horror Story

Table of Contents

Haunted Dreams of a Melting Body

Catherine never believed in ghosts. Even as a child, she had always trusted logic more than legends, science more than superstition. Her mother used to tell her stories about spirits and strange dreams, but Catherine would laugh them off as imagination. However, everything changed after her mother passed away suddenly, leaving Catherine alone in the old two-story house near the edge of town. The silence inside the house felt heavier than ever, and every corner seemed to whisper memories she wasn’t ready to face.

Now a college student, Catherine lived a life filled with lectures, late-night study sessions, and part-time work at a small bookstore downtown. On the outside, she looked like a normal young woman trying to survive adulthood. But inside, grief had carved a deep hollow in her heart. Every night, when the world grew quiet, that hollow space filled with strange thoughts and darker dreams.

The nightmares began only weeks after her mother’s funeral. At first, they were simple dreams of being lost in unfamiliar places. But soon, they became something far more disturbing. The dreams felt real, vivid, and impossible to forget. Catherine could still remember every detail, every sound, every sensation, even after waking up.

In the first truly terrifying dream, Catherine stood in the middle of a place that felt both familiar and wrong. The ground beneath her feet looked like cracked concrete, but when she stepped forward, it felt soft, like warm wax. Each step made a faint, sticky sound, as if the floor itself was alive. The air smelled of rust, wet soil, and something rotten beneath it all. Tall, shadowy structures surrounded her, bending and twisting like melted towers frozen in motion.

The sky above was dark red, swirling like blood in water. No sun, no stars, only a massive crimson storm that never moved. The silence was heavy, broken only by a distant dripping sound that echoed endlessly.

Catherine looked down at her hands and screamed.

Her skin was dripping.

Not bleeding. Not burning. Melting. Her fingers stretched like soft clay, sliding off her bones in slow, sticky strings. The sensation was strange—not painful at first, but deeply wrong. Her nerves felt numb, cold, as if her body were no longer hers. Her arms sagged, her legs weakened, and her form began to collapse inward.

“No… no, no, no,” she whispered, staring at her reflection in a black puddle forming at her feet.

Her face was still recognizable, but it was sliding downward. Her eyes sank into melting skin, her mouth drooped like wax under heat, and her hair stuck to her dissolving cheeks. She tried to scream again, but her lips stretched and slid apart, producing only a wet, distorted sound.

Then a voice echoed through the nightmare.

“Catherine…”

It sounded like a woman’s voice. Soft. Broken. Filled with sorrow, like a curse that belonged in a story of Speaking to the Dead, A Whispering Curse.

Before Catherine could turn around, the ground beneath her collapsed. The melting floor swallowed her whole, dragging her into endless darkness.

She woke up screaming.

Her sheets were soaked with sweat. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it might tear through her chest. Her breathing was shallow, desperate, and uncontrollable. The room was dark, silent, and cold, except for the faint glow of the streetlight slipping through the curtains.

“Just a dream,” she whispered to herself, wiping tears from her face.

But the smell of rust still lingered in her nose, and the image of her melting body refused to fade from her mind.

From that night on, the dream never stopped.

Every few days, Catherine found herself back in that horrifying world. Each time, her body dissolved faster than before. Sometimes her legs melted first, trapping her in place as she helplessly watched the rest of her body drip away. Sometimes her face slid apart until she could no longer scream. And every single time, the same voice whispered her name from the darkness.

“Catherine…”

The repetition of the dream began to affect her waking life. She struggled to focus in class, forgot assignments, and often stared blankly at her reflection in mirrors, half-expecting her skin to melt away.

Worse than the dreams were the things happening when she was awake.

The old house felt different after her mother’s death. The familiar warmth it once had was gone, replaced by a constant chill that no heater could fix. The walls creaked in strange patterns, almost like footsteps. Cold spots appeared in the hallway, even during the hottest summer days. Sometimes, Catherine felt as if someone were standing right behind her, breathing softly into her ear.

One night, while brushing her teeth, Catherine noticed something strange in the mirror.

A figure stood behind her.

Tall. Motionless. Dressed in white.

Her heart nearly stopped. She turned around instantly.

Nothing.

The bathroom was empty. The hallway light flickered once, then stayed on. Catherine stared into the darkness, her reflection trembling.

“I’m losing it,” she muttered, gripping the sink for support.

But deep down, she knew she had not imagined it.

The next encounter happened a week later. Catherine was in the kitchen, reheating leftover noodles at midnight. The microwave hummed softly, its light casting long shadows across the walls. The house was silent except for the ticking of the clock and the gentle buzz of the appliance.

Then she heard footsteps upstairs.

Slow. Bare. Heavy.

Her mother used to walk like that.

“Mom?” Catherine called without thinking.

No answer.

The footsteps stopped.

The microwave beeped. Catherine froze, staring at the stairs. The air felt thick, like breathing through fog. A deep, unnatural cold spread through her chest.

Then, from the top of the stairs, a shape appeared.

A woman in a long white dress.

Her hair was black, tangled, and completely covered her face. Her body swayed slightly, as if moved by an invisible wind. Her bare feet did not touch the floor. She hovered just above it.

“Mom?” Catherine whispered again, her voice shaking.

The figure tilted its head slowly.

Then it raised one pale hand and pointed down the hallway.

“Catherine…” the voice whispered.

It was the same voice from her dreams.

Catherine screamed and ran out of the house, not stopping until she reached the street. Her neighbors’ lights turned on, but no one came outside. The world felt unreal, like she was trapped between a dream and reality.

She didn’t go back inside until morning.

After that night, the haunting became more frequent. The white figure appeared in reflections, in doorways, at the foot of her bed. It never showed its face. It only watched. Sometimes it whispered her name. Sometimes it cried. And sometimes, Catherine woke up with scratches on her arms that she couldn’t explain.

And every night, Catherine melted in her dreams.

Desperate for answers, Catherine visited the college counselor, Dr. Lewis, a calm middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a gentle voice.

“I think I’m being haunted,” Catherine said quietly, her hands shaking.

Dr. Lewis folded her hands. “Tell me about your dreams.”

Catherine described the melting body, the red sky, the whispering voice, and the woman in white.

“Grief can manifest in many forms,” Dr. Lewis said softly. “Your mind may be processing your mother’s death through symbolism.”

“Then why do I see her in my house?” Catherine asked. “A woman in white. She calls my name.”

Dr. Lewis hesitated. “Hallucinations can occur under extreme stress.”

Catherine nodded, but she didn’t believe it.

That night, the dream changed.

Instead of standing alone, Catherine found herself in a long hallway, a place that felt like something from The Backrooms Empty Nightmare Story. The walls were peeling, dripping like melting paint. The floor was sticky, pulling at her shoes with every step. A faint crying echoed from somewhere far away.

At the end of the hallway stood the woman in white.

“Who are you?” Catherine demanded.

The figure did not move.

Catherine walked closer, her feet sinking into the soft floor. As she approached, her arms began to melt again, skin sliding down like liquid.

“Stop this!” she cried.

The woman slowly lifted her head.

Her face was still hidden behind her hair, but a soft sob escaped her lips.

“Help me…” the voice whispered.

Suddenly, the hallway collapsed into darkness.

Catherine woke up gasping for air.

The next morning, she noticed something strange.

Her right hand felt numb.

When she looked in the mirror, she saw faint red marks along her skin, like melted wax hardened into scars.

“This isn’t just a dream,” she whispered.

Determined to uncover the truth, Catherine searched through her mother’s old belongings in the attic. Dust filled the air, and every step made the floor creak. Boxes of forgotten memories surrounded her.

She found photo albums, letters, and documents. Most of them were normal. Family gatherings. Holidays. Birthdays.

Then she found a small locked box.

Inside was a birth certificate.

Not hers.

The name at the top read: Emily Harper.

Date of birth: Three years before Catherine was born.

Parents: Margaret Harper and Thomas Harper.

Her parents.

Catherine’s hands trembled.

“I had a sister?” she whispered.

Under the certificate was an old photograph. Two little girls stood in front of the same house Catherine lived in now. One was clearly her, about five years old. The other was older, wearing a white dress, smiling softly. Her hair was long and dark.

The back of the photo had a message written in faded ink.

Emily, 10. Gone too soon.

Catherine felt her chest tighten.

She searched deeper and found hospital records, police reports, and a yellowed news clipping.

Emily Harper, age 10, was found dead in the basement of her family home. Cause of death: unknown. Authorities suspected an accident.

But the details were missing.

That night, Catherine confronted the spirit.

She stood in the hallway at midnight, heart pounding.

“I know who you are,” she said.

The air grew cold. The white figure slowly appeared at the end of the hallway.

“Emily,” Catherine whispered.

The figure froze.

Then it began to cry.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Catherine asked.

The spirit lifted her head slightly. For the first time, her hair parted enough to reveal a pale, damaged face.

“They erased me,” Emily whispered. “They buried me in silence.”

“What happened to you?” Catherine asked.

Emily pointed toward the basement.

“Come,” she said.

Against her better judgment, Catherine followed.

The basement door creaked open. The air smelled of mold and rust, just like her dreams.

In the corner of the basement, beneath old furniture, Catherine found a hidden door.

Inside was a small, sealed room.

“This is where I died,” Emily whispered.

Catherine’s knees shook.

“They locked me here,” Emily said. “They said I was sick. That I was dangerous.”

Catherine realized the truth.

“You saw things… like me,” she said.

Emily nodded.

The walls began to melt. The floor softened.

“This is your dream world,” Emily said. “It is built from my pain.”

“Why show me this?” Catherine cried.

Emily stepped closer.

“Because you are the only one who can set me free.”

The darkness swallowed them.

Catherine woke up on the basement floor, shaking.

From that night on, Catherine shared Emily’s story with the world.

The house grew quieter.

One final night, Catherine dreamed of the red sky again.

But this time, her body did not melt.

Emily stood beside her, smiling.

“Thank you, little sister,” she said.

Then Emily faded into light.

Catherine woke up in peace for the first time in months.

The house was silent.

And the nightmares were finally over.