# THE PHANTOM LIMB

Daphne pulled her collar against the damp London wind. Heedless of the wet pavement, she ducked into the stately brick clinic where her husband, Dr. Rex Malvason, was chief of prosthetics. The air inside was antiseptic and heavy. Dr. Rex, a kind-faced, silver-haired man, greeted her. “Daphne! Just in time. I need to check on Mr. Grenholm.”

He led her into a therapy room. David Grenholm sat rigidly in a wheelchair, the stump of his left leg resting on an elevated support. His face was a mask of smoldering rage. Dr. Rex, placing a hand on David’s shoulder, was saying, “David, the new bionic limb fits better today…”

David shrugged the hand off. His eyes went directly to Daphne, wide-eyed with apprehension. He looked from her to her unscarred limbs, to her silk scarf, and back. His smile was razor-thin. “Ah. The lovely wife. Here to see the monsters?”

Daphne faltered. “I’m here to see my husband, Mr. Grenholm. But I am… I am so very sorry for your loss.” It came out automatically, a polite condolence for an unspeakable accident.

David exploded. “SORRY? You pity me? *Me?* You, in your fancy coat, living your whole life? I don’t want your pity, you soft, unbroken thing! I want your terror.”

Dr. Rex tried to soothe him, but David’s voice became a chanting, menacing rasp, rising above the clatter of the clinic. “I curse your sleep, Lady Malvason. While my ghost limb rots, yours shall grow claws. Every breath of yours will be choked. Let the nightmare begin.” He pointed a trembling, gloved hand at her.

That night, it began.

Daphne’s dreams became a single, static horror. She was no longer Daphne. She was a body, draped across a luxurious, ancient bed in an undated room. Every detail of the painting was there: the carved bedside table with its strange bottles, the rich red and gold bed drapes (the same drapes from the painting), and her own prone figure, head thrown back in a silent, arching scream. Her limbs were leaden; she couldn’t move.

On her chest, squatting and pinning her breath from her lungs, was a hideous, misshapen brute. It was a goblin-like creature, its features a mix of baboon and gargoyle, its face leering down at her with malicious glee. Its heavy weight was crushing. Its clawed hands were inches from her throat.

But the truest horror was in the shadows. Through the crimson folds of the drapes, the head of a demonic horse with burning, lidless eyes appeared, its nostrils flaring with hell-fire. This was the Nightmare itself, watching. Daphne felt a coldness creep up her limbs, starting from her left foot, as if it were turning to stone. In the real world, Rex found her convulsing, her mouth forming a silent ‘no’. Night after night, the scene repeated, exact and unchanging. Daphne grew gaunt, her mind unraveling.

In desperation, Dr. Rex, having exhausted all medical options, sought out the eccentric, reclusive medium, Reba Herald.

Reba arrived at the Malvason home, carrying only a worn leather valise. She smelled of sage and rain. “There is a sickness here,” she said, her large, dark eyes scanning the room. “Not of the body. Of the spirit.”

Daphne, barely conscious, lay on her real bed. Reba instructed Dr. Rex to leave the room. She closed the door and turned to Daphne. “The curse has grown a physical form within your sleep-scape. We must force it out.”

Reba sat by the bed and took Daphne’s limp hands. She didn’t light candles or chant, but she began to hum a low, discordant tone. As she did, the room’s air grew frigid. The air in the room pulsed, then hardened, thickening until it felt like water.

Daphne felt herself slipping into the dream again, but this time, Reba was there, a presence on the periphery, a single point of cold focus.

Daphne was in the painting again. The Incubus squatted, leering. The horse watched. The terror was overwhelming.

Then she felt Reba’s voice. It wasn’t a word, but a command: *EXHALE*.

Daphne screamed, her whole body arching. Reba’s form in the real world clamped her hand over Daphne’s chest, pushing down with a counter-force.

In the dream, a violent wrench tore at Daphne. She felt her chest explode outward. The goblin on her chest roared, not with malice, but with sudden, blinding fear. A surge of light, like a solar flare, erupted from Daphne’s very soul.

The light hit the goblin. It didn’t just push it off; it unraveled it. Its dense, furry form dissolved into smoke. The leering face shattered like glass. A shockwave went through the painting-scape. The great horse-demon reared back, its burning eyes widening in surprise as its own form disintegrated, the light tearing it to atomic ash. The ancient bed drapes dissolved into ribbons of light.

Daphne’s prone, elegant figure in the dream was bathed in this radiant light, rising from the bed. She felt the weight lift. She felt the warmth return to her frozen limb. She felt life.

Back in the real world, the room was silent. Daphne took a deep, rattling breath and her eyes snapped open. The terror was gone. She was warm.

Reba stood by the bed, her face pale and damp with sweat, but her eyes steady. “It is done,” she said. “The ghost limb has been banished.”

Daphne gripped the real sheets, her knuckles white, feeling the full length of her legs, the air moving freely in her lungs. She looked at Reba and nodded, unable to speak. The only monster left was a man with a wooden leg, but his power over her was broken.