"Wish Upon a Nightmare"
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The journey out to the country cabin had been smooth—just two hours swathed in conversations that meandered from his university courses to his dad's recent fish haul from the lake. The weekend promised a rare reprieve for both of them; father and son, back in the rustic sanctuary away from the city's noise.
Oliver lay on the creaky old bed in the adjacent guest room, staring at the corrugated ceiling as a cacophony of his father's snoring practically shook the wooden frames. It was loud—so incredibly loud that even the chorus of nocturnal creatures outside couldn’t drown it out. The snoring was a grating saw blade, the endless rhythm of unrest.
"Please, just stop," Oliver groaned under his breath.
Then, almost by some twist of cosmic fate, he saw it—a shooting star streaking across the inky fabric of the sky. A knee-jerk reaction: he wished for the snoring to stop. He didn't actually believe in wishes, but who could be certain in a forest cabin where the world seemed to work by different rules?
Almost immediately, the snoring ceased.
Oliver's heart picked up the pace. The abrupt silence clung around him like cobwebs. No crickets. No wind. It was as if the entire world was holding its breath.
He pushed the thin blankets away and crept to his father's room. Oil lamps cast elongated shadows, making the hallway feel like the gullet of some great beast. He approached the door, and with a cautious hand, turned the knob.
The room was as he remembered: cowboy paraphernalia scattered, earthy colors, and his father's sizable form splayed under a mountain of sheets. But something felt wrong—fundamentally wrong. The sheet rose and fell with his dad’s now-silent breaths, but there was a peculiar emptiness in the air.
He took another step closer, holding his breath. A closer look revealed that empty space where his dad’s head should be. There was only a head-shaped depression on the pillow.
A scream clawed at Oliver's throat, but he swallowed it, recuperating a moment as his breaths quickened. With unsteady hands, he reached for the bedcovers, rolling them down to unveil his father's muscular shoulders and broad back—headless.
Cold sweats soaked his shirt, but curiosity, that damned curiosity, propelled him further. As he tugged on his dad's broad, firm shoulder, the headless body flopped onto its back. Then it moved, hands and arms—incredibly muscular and hairy—groped for the fallen sheet, oblivious to its headless state.
The body rubbed its chest and belly as Oliver watched, horrified yet transfixed. When its thick fingers brushed a nipple, it triggered an odd reflex. The fingers rolled the nipple, and incredibly the body shivered as if in pleasure. Oliver interconnected the horror with polarity—the body was aroused.
His mind screamed to flee, but he reached out instinctively, taking the reins of whatever bizarre force operated now. Oliver mirrored the body’s action, rolling a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The shivers escalated into convulsions, a series of jerks that seemed to climax in a macabre crescendo of corporeal pleasure. His dad's body then collapsed onto the bed, spent.
Ink-black darkness encroached in, urging him to finalize this surreal act. Oliver draped the sheet over the headless form’s shoulders, only to watch, fascinated yet deeply unsettled, as it clutched the fabric and cocooned itself back to its original sleeping position.
Wind began to rustle outside again. Insects resumed their nocturne. Everything was falling back into its rightful place, except the young man who had just witnessed an aberration that would forever stain his consciousness.
Oliver's hands shook as he closed his father’s door and retreated to the guest room. His mind was a tempest, brewing nightmares out of the evening's events. Exhaustion and terror battled for dominance, but soon, the former won. Just as he closed his eyes, that silence crept back—a profound, disconcerting quiet.
In the middle of the night, before sleep claimed him fully, a gentle snore from the other room drifted in. His heart skipped a beat. Was all of it some twisted dream?
But he knew the truth hid behind that cabin door, echoing every slow, deliberate breath his headless father took.
Morning would come eventually. And with it, questions that would never cleave peace from the answers they found.
This story was generated by user bud with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: write a story about a young man spending a weekend with his dad in his dad's country cabin. at night he hears his dad snoring loudly from his room, keeping him from falling asleep. by sheer coincidence a shooting star streaks across the sky as he wishes that the snoring would stop. almost immediately the snoring stops, startling him and causing him to go check on his dad. he peeks into his dad's bedroom and sees his dad's large form under the covers, the sheet moving up and down with his dad's now-silent breaths, but he senses something isn't quite right. he silently steps closer to take a closer look, and discovers that although his dad is in bed, there is an empty space where his head should be, only a head-shaped impression on the pillow. he pulls the bedsheet down to reveal his dad's broad and muscular shoulders and back, but no sign of his dad's head. he reaches out and pulls on his dad's shoulder, causing his dad's headless body to roll on its back. his dad's hands and arms start searching for the bedsheet, giving him a close look of his dad's bare hairy chest, shoulders and arms, the muscles flexing as his dad's headless body gropes around. he then pulls the sheet completely off, revealing that his dad went to bed naked. his dad's headless body slowly gives up searching for the bedsheet, instead starting to slowly rub its chest and belly. his dad's thick fingers brush against the headless body's nipples and trigger a habit or reflex; the fingers begin to slowly and gently roll them between thumb and fingers, causing other parts of his dad's headless body to become aroused. he tugs on his dad's arm and coaxes his dad's headless body to get out of bed and stand. he reaches out and rolls one of the nipples like the headless body had done, and it shivers with pleasure, then reaches out with its muscular arms to draw him closer. pressed against his dad's headless body, he continues to roll both nipples until his dad's headless body jerks and spasms in pleasurable climax. he then pushes his dad's headless body against the bed, causing it to collapses on it in relaxed compliance, then pulls the bedsheet up to its chest. his dad's headless body than grips the sheet and pulls it over its shoulders, then rolls back into the same sleeping position it was found.
Response: The journey out to the country cabin had been smooth—just two hours swathed in conversations that meandered from his university courses to his dad's recent fish haul from the lake. The weekend promised a rare reprieve for both of them; father and son, back in the rustic sanctuary away from the city's noise. Oliver lay on the creaky old bed in the adjacent guest room, staring at the corrugated ceiling as a cacophony of his father's snoring practically shook the wooden frames. It was loud—so incredibly loud that even the chorus of nocturnal creatures outside couldn’t drown it out. The snoring was a grating saw blade, the endless rhythm of unrest. "Please, just stop," Oliver groaned under his breath. Then, almost by some twist of cosmic fate, he saw it—a shooting star streaking across the inky fabric of the sky. A knee-jerk reaction: he wished for the snoring to stop. He didn't actually believe in wishes, but who could be certain in a forest cabin where the world seemed to work by different rules? Almost immediately, the snoring ceased. Oliver's heart picked up the pace. The abrupt silence clung around him like cobwebs. No crickets. No wind. It was as if the entire world was holding its breath. He pushed the thin blankets away and crept to his father's room. Oil lamps cast elongated shadows, making the hallway feel like the gullet of some great beast. He approached the door, and with a cautious hand, turned the knob. The room was as he remembered: cowboy paraphernalia scattered, earthy colors, and his father's sizable form splayed under a mountain of sheets. But something felt wrong—fundamentally wrong. The sheet rose and fell with his dad’s now-silent breaths, but there was a peculiar emptiness in the air. He took another step closer, holding his breath. A closer look revealed that empty space where his dad’s head should be. There was only a head-shaped depression on the pillow. A scream clawed at Oliver's throat, but he swallowed it, recuperating a moment as his breaths quickened. With unsteady hands, he reached for the bedcovers, rolling them down to unveil his father's muscular shoulders and broad back—headless. Cold sweats soaked his shirt, but curiosity, that damned curiosity, propelled him further. As he tugged on his dad's broad, firm shoulder, the headless body flopped onto its back. Then it moved, hands and arms—incredibly muscular and hairy—groped for the fallen sheet, oblivious to its headless state. The body rubbed its chest and belly as Oliver watched, horrified yet transfixed. When its thick fingers brushed a nipple, it triggered an odd reflex. The fingers rolled the nipple, and incredibly the body shivered as if in pleasure. Oliver interconnected the horror with polarity—the body was aroused. His mind screamed to flee, but he reached out instinctively, taking the reins of whatever bizarre force operated now. Oliver mirrored the body’s action, rolling a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The shivers escalated into convulsions, a series of jerks that seemed to climax in a macabre crescendo of corporeal pleasure. His dad's body then collapsed onto the bed, spent. Ink-black darkness encroached in, urging him to finalize this surreal act. Oliver draped the sheet over the headless form’s shoulders, only to watch, fascinated yet deeply unsettled, as it clutched the fabric and cocooned itself back to its original sleeping position. Wind began to rustle outside again. Insects resumed their nocturne. Everything was falling back into its rightful place, except the young man who had just witnessed an aberration that would forever stain his consciousness. Oliver's hands shook as he closed his father’s door and retreated to the guest room. His mind was a tempest, brewing nightmares out of the evening's events. Exhaustion and terror battled for dominance, but soon, the former won. Just as he closed his eyes, that silence crept back—a profound, disconcerting quiet. In the middle of the night, before sleep claimed him fully, a gentle snore from the other room drifted in. His heart skipped a beat. Was all of it some twisted dream? But he knew the truth hid behind that cabin door, echoing every slow, deliberate breath his headless father took. Morning would come eventually. And with it, questions that would never cleave peace from the answers they found.
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