The worst nightmare I had ever, woke up clutching my throat

My exams are going on so me and my friend were pulling an all nighter. Around 4am my friend crashed on my bed so I made a makeshift bed on the floor and slept. Now, I stopped having dreams for about 6 months until now. The dream went like this-

I find myself inside a strange bedroom, one that feels like an attic but is clearly designed to be lived in. The space is large, the walls brick but painted over—intentional, deliberate. There are no lights in the room, no lamps or bulbs, yet everything is visible under a dim, unsettling blue glow that seems to come from nowhere. It isn’t natural light. It’s just… there.

My gaze is fixed on the right wall. Mounted high above, nearly touching the ceiling, is a painting. It’s the kind you’d find in a dusty museum—traditional, heavy. A woman in white sits silently on a stool, swallowed by a dark, ominous background. There’s something old about her, something that doesn’t move but isn’t still either. She watches, but not with eyes.

Then something begins to shift.

The room flickers—time collapsing and reforming. I see the room in the past. Everything is crumbling. The walls are cracked and peeling, wild vegetation forces its way in through the brokenness. Sunlight floods in from somewhere, warm and bright, but it stops right before reaching the painting. That image of the woman remains untouched—ageless.

Then, present. The walls are restored. The painting is gone. In its place is a tall mirror, wooden-framed, ornate with curling edges, stretching from the ceiling halfway down the wall. I see the mirror clearly, but there is no reflection of myself in it. Only the flicker of candlelight on the wall opposite. That’s all I see—no windows, no bed, no me. Just that golden flickering glow dancing on the bricks like something sacred… or warning.

This transition—past to present, painting to mirror—repeats again. Five or six times. The change is always focused on the right side of the room, as if the room itself is split down the middle. I never see the left side.

Until now.

Suddenly, I see the whole room.

The right half still holds the mirror, shadowy and cold. But the left side—it’s brighter, like it belongs to a different place. There’s a single bed with white sheets. Behind it, a cabinet or old almirah stands against the wall. Beside it, a small bedside table with drawers. That side feels almost peaceful.

Two little girls, sisters maybe, are playing there—giggling, running around. Their joy is radiant, bright enough to feel. One of the girls runs and climbs into the cabinet, shutting the door behind her. It’s playful. But then—the other girl is gone. Just… not there.

And then comes the scream.

Sharp at first. Then guttural. Wrong.

It’s the girl in the cabinet—but her voice warps mid-scream into something primal, guttural, ancient. And in that moment, my perspective shifts. I’m no longer just watching. I think I become the girl outside the cabinet… or maybe still myself, now moving forward.

I open the cabinet.

Darkness. Real, living blackness, as if space itself ends beyond the door. I don’t see her—but I feel her. I know she’s there. Possessed. Not the child anymore. I know it’s the woman from the painting. She’s returned. I don’t know how, but I know she hates the laughter, the brightness, the life in the room that once belonged to her. This was her space. The joy has violated it.

She sees me. No—she senses that I sense her. And she wants that.

Time slows. I can feel the seconds stretch. I can’t move. Her hand—ice-cold and absolute—clutches my throat. Her head turns unnaturally, now parallel to the ground, and she inches closer.

I know she’s going to bite me.

She knows I know.

Her mouth opens slowly. Her teeth sink into my throat. Not just the skin—I feel the pressure, the bones giving way. The cartilage snaps. Something cracks.

That’s when I wake up—gasping, the echo of the bite still pulsing in my body.

But even before that final scene, before the girls, before the cabinet—there was one more moment.

A flash.

I was looking up at the painting again, from below. The room was bathed in candlelight. No ceiling lights. No sound. Just the flickering shadows dancing on the wall behind me.

Then the painting changed into the mirror before I knew it.

And in the mirror—nothing.

No reflection of me.

Only the room.

Only the flame.

I woke up with my heart racing. I was genuinely relieved to see I was still in my room, on the floor. I've been thinking about the dream since then and I just had to tell someone. I shared it with my friend and he suggested me to post it on Reddit so here I am.