These aren't the stories your mother told you.

No, these are the other stories.

The Nightmare Factory, written by Daniel Wilcox, narrated by Persephone Rose.

I can't remember the last time I slept straight. The last time I woke up with my eyes and mind as crystal clear as chandeliers, the last time I looked

in the mirror and wasn't haunted by what was looking back at me. That's it, maggots, lights out.

Comes the tinny voice over the tannoy, followed by a low, haughty chuckle. The 50 or so other workers

turn in unison to the speaker before climbing in their cocoons,

long metallic pods with lids on hinges that look like elongated sideways eggs,

tapping their dials and snuggling in for the night.

There's a hiss as the hydraulics close the lids and seal us inside.

Then all that remains is darkness. Well, at least for now. When the nightmares

come, it's as slow and steady as the fabled tortoise. Sometimes I wish it could be quick,

that there could be a flash of a skull or a lightning photograph of my father hitting my mother

repeatedly on fast forward. But that's not the way they

like it. That's not the way it works. In order for the gamers to derive their pleasure, they need to

watch us suffer. They need to watch us work. There's a muffled scream from one of the other

pods, words inaudible words of pain and hurt. I find it hard to believe they've already begun.

My pod remains dark. I try my hardest not to close my eyes, but after a time, the sensation that blurs the line between the sleeping world and the waking one is hard to grasp.

I feel as though I'm underwater in a pool of ink,

and there's little space for air. Already, I can feel my heart thumping, my throat growing dry.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes, yet I steal myself, my body, my mind, and remember why I'm

here. Remember that it's just a job that pays the bills.

...