 
Dream Time

by Gary Alan Lahner

Copyright 2017 Gary Alan Lahner

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a factitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Lucid Dream

The Naga

The Evil Genie

The Fiendish Flower

The Egyptian God

The Blood Demon

Grandpa's Ghost

The Animist

The Laundromat

The Vampire Dream

The Banshee

Lucid Dream

Before I sleep, I ponder past events of the day that more often are a hazard concoction of disjointed if not disturbed people I have the extraordinary misfortune to share my waking hours with. Am I any better living my shallow and selfish existence in the shadows of my own fears, creating a lonely purgatory? I like to think so, considering the event review of the tortured souls that exist outside this murky psychosis, need the most merciful help in becoming anything near, what can qualify as human. To harsh, perhaps, but not in comparison with how I think I should have been treated. No matter. It is just the day-to-day disgust of an imprisoned existence in a world enslaved by money—money that seems to have eluded my genius, and the genius of like, creative spirits. Fortune crushed by pieces of paper that escape the grasp of my hands as I reach out to the empty air, and fall at the doorsteps of those that have fame based upon a Hollywood or musical birthright, forcing them to share their pathetic reality within my dark, mechanical, and soulless cable box.

Cool sheets comfort my cluttered thoughts as I cover myself up from the cold air of the world. Do I continue my frigid existence lying as a corpse in its icy serenity, detached from the useless babble of life, cozy in a dull, steel box somewhere in the dark morgue of a hospital peacefully unaware? Or, do I face my troubled days like a starved zombie, hands reaching out to brush my rotted teeth, and slide short footed to another day of the useless, unsatisfying drudgery called a chosen profession.

At times such as these when uninvited ghosts swirl within my head, I take to the singular talent I have of reaching into the mysterious world of dreams. A search for answers with the help of an altered state of consciousness to be out of body, or awake within my own demented landscape. All I need to do is give the suggestion before I close my eyes, and somewhere in the tangled mess of the brain, the thought will implant itself to be triggered while I sleep. Which will it be? The future? I hope for more of the moving picture type of future dream, where people and places tell a vague story, a mystery story of events yet to come. A dream as my own crystal ball or will I wake inside my head to shape what I see with the Lucid dream? A playful, virtual voyeurism?

The eyelids get heavy. I am almost certain these abilities come from a damaged and twisted part of my physiology. A twisted mess of neurons clumped together, knotted, like a knot on the brain. I laugh to myself and roll onto my side as I think: a bump on the head to see out of bed or dance with a whim in a dream, goodnight cruel world as the dark unfurls and I wait to awake with a scream.

Frozen! It happened. The instructions implanted before sleep executed by the mind. I am sitting on the floor by the kitchen door aware that this is a dream. I can tell. I'm inside my head, claustrophobic with the images before me, tangible yet, inactive, until I, the master of this realm, reach out to set the elements in motion.

Why I found myself on the floor is left to the mechanics of the mind. In such instances, and from past experience, the entry into this fancy initiates the introduction in the most peculiar fashion. Maybe I missed the chair next to the table where I sat, and it was this action that startled the shift to the dream reality. The dream world normalizes with furniture and books neatly arranged in a balanced order in the small apartment where I spend my days. How odd to be close to my sleeping self and not somewhere grand like Paris, or Vegas, or the Riviera, sipping a glass of wine waiting for a conjured beauty to walk by making the adventure more lurid. Instead before me a simple room and a large, blank, canvas I seem to be holding, having now just noticed. This is to no surprise for I am an artist. A painter. The aberration conforms to the tricks of the mind reminding oneself of the work left undone. Great! Even within my dreams I must be tortured by my waking troubles. Colors screaming as if in agony while I smoke myself into oblivion, trying to decide how to place them. It could be I can make a picture with just a thought, and it would instantly appear on the taught fabric—but I won't! I refuse to give into the unsettled part of my subconscious as it intrudes into my night dream. I would sigh or laugh, but what is strange about the reality is that I can do neither. Such a movement may break the concentration, and I would be wrenched back to the cold bed staring at the ceiling. Commands cannot be spontaneous, but require the utmost focus written within the parameters of the dream, or do I imagine this, afraid to continue? What else to do? Let it play out.

I look around the room thinking how quiet, and solitary my life had become. A rumination left for waking hours as I pondered over the objects placed on tables and walls—memories to remind me of better times.

While perusing my little cache, my eye caught a glimpse of a small, gray statue of a figure by the other end of the sofa. I didn't have a statue placed on the wooden stand and didn't pay much attention to it knowing that all aspects of dreaming may invite its own decorations. As I moved back to view the canvas, a glint of motion twitched the corner of my awareness. The eyes of the statue moved. How can this be since I gave no such instruction? But it did. Curiosity seemed to be enough of a trigger to find myself instantly face-to-face and eye-to-eye with the now observed formless idle. A playful action to be transported without movement in other scenarios—this one a mistake to be so close, so quickly, with something that is unknown. I recall not a breath or heartbeat in a lucid dream, but fear that escalates to terror began its sickly climb.

I waited. Waited for the eyes to blink again. My lids steady as I watched a pall of overwhelming anticipation begin to blind the corner of my vision. I didn't want to blink, but how long could I hold out as the weight of tired muscles started to give in. The shapeless, gray form with only its undefined face looked back—silent—it to, careful not to disturb the delicate structure of the dream. The almost almond eyes lifeless, with a hidden purpose, determined to wait me out gave that notion up, and decided in a devious fashion—to blink! Not of my will! Not of my will! On a will of its own! What aberration of evil could have invaded a realm that should be mine?

I again appeared back by the kitchen door on the floor clutching the blank canvas—my heart thumping a distant awareness trying to break the dream to wake me from the oncoming danger. Why am I in danger? What fiction of terror from my subconscious has tricked me into this apprehension? A childish joke to keep the dream world alive, or a run of interference from the curious nature that could be the only source, the statue that is now sitting at the end of the sofa morphing into, I am sure, a malevolent form.

My focus on the misshaped golem shifted to a dark blur entering the room that stopped with a jolt and an unnatural jerk of the tiny head—its innocent gaze matching mine. A kitten. A small, black kitten. Cute and puffy, begging to be touched ever so gently, as is in our nature to do. A rescue spirit that appears to help my invented nightmare? Why can't I just wake up? No, the malicious form still fragmented and vulnerable summoned a diversion. Pretty and dangerous, but I dare not touch. In past dreams, I was made aware of the deadly effect contact with these creatures can impart on the waking flesh. The touch by evil spirits left a sickness on that area of the body, difficult to get rid of. I will not be so beguiled into this action. Spirits? I have a better word, the rational shattering the vary fabric of my soul. Demons!

But, how did they get in? Was it my ungenerous thoughts upon sleep that conjured this lucid play? The black kitten squinted its eyes as if to study my mind, and it no longer was a kitten, but a big, black cat. It smiled a skull like smile, a horrific grin—a deliberate display for its two rows of razor-sharp, pointy teeth. Something I'd seen from a movie summoned from the subconscious...more attempts at fear the creature was all too familiar with as it rummaged the dark corridors of my demented mind.

I moved back against the table, hands gripped tightly on the canvas as the dream suspended a moment of sanity to study the experience for a plan of defense. I could whack it with the canvas. Beat at both figures until the dream broke, and I woke free. The risk of contact was too great to engage in such an action. To wrestle with the unknown? All it would need was a split second to inflict the most horrific wound. And, time in this reality is uncertain. Clocks melt over the limbs of disenchanted trees, and run backwards with a meticulous beat, in this land of REM. So what to do? I drew my attention to the undulating form on the sofa waiting to be born and wondered why it shaped itself in a slow fashion. What kept it from achieving a quick result to devour my very existence? My eyes looked above where it sat. A crucifix hung on the wall. That was it! Fight evil with the ultimate good.

Slap! A crack of a whip turned my gaze back as a horrendous wail issued forth from the gruesome grin of the big, black cat—which now stood on two legs and changed into something more in keeping with the insidious yell. Little, black furred feet with stunted, even toes. It resembled more of a straight-backed monkey without a tale, exuding the most sickening stench. Ears, greenish, and black-veined twitched as if waiting for an answer, or reaction—clearly fearful of my thought to use the crucifix.

It ran past me and into the kitchen. What mischief would it get up to in there, and why? Another distraction while the danger formed? The gray, blurry blob gained momentum with its wicked self, drawing on the energy of the dream.

More shrieks from the standing cat, with an inaudible dialect from now what was a circle of a mouth, a hollow hole that can speak nothing but lies. Unshaken, and determined to be free, I was moved to look at the refrigerator were the horrible, little figure stood. On the side displayed in perfect geometrical splendor stuck the collection of ornamental magnets. Cartoons, nifty sayings, ingredients for cocktails, accompanied by descriptive pictorials, adorned the metallic, white box. One of the magnetic marvels radiated a light of awareness—it being a picture of Jesus. A redemptive verse printed eloquently next to the portrait. A gift gave from some charity for a small donation. Another wail from the creature as it ran back out into the living room trying to divert my attention and resolve. Now, I knew how to fight against the gaining attack. Blood. The Christ's blood. A visual reminder of its redemptive power, which I could display on the canvas with my own. I reached up slowly to the table and grabbed the utility knife I use for cutting with know doubts as to it being exactly where I willed it to be. I held the tiny blade over my right palm and slashed deeply into the imagined flesh. Red blood flowed down my wrist, and for a moment I wanted to taste it. The salty, metallic flavor, a desire made by an invasion into my thoughts from the malevolent duo. With intense determination I let the blood drip onto the white fabric, pressing my palm to increase the unpleasant volume, and with my hand painted the figure of a cross, the opened slit causing more pain as it brushed against the textured cloth. The figure on the sofa remained still as a square black hole opened in the clay like substance of a head. Teeth formed, and a buzzing sound ensued as if trying to speak. The sound tickled the deep inside of my ear as I held back my stomach from getting sick. The wailing from the impish partner stopped, a tiny little kitten it became again. Fearful of further tricks or that spiritual manifestations could take place I finished with my macabre painting, held it up to both obnoxious and malicious foes, and bang! I awoke.

Chilled and full of anxiety I licked my lips and looked at my palms. No cut. The bedroom, still, dark, and quiet, but with an air of apprehension as to what might have lingered into the real world? I lay back, closed my eyes but halfway through a sigh of relief an explosion of light hit against my eyelids. A light? A flash? My heart hurt from racing too much. Could I still be in the nightmarish landscape of the lucid dream? I stared into the darkness, glad to hear the rumble of thunder.

The Naga

Dreamscapes are the virtual world of the subconscious where hidden fears take precedence over unresolved thoughts of the day. The other self that lurks below rationality never sleeps. It invites us to share the play it has written, performed against the backdrop of colors and sounds it borrows from the tattered threads of memory. But even this giant of the unseen mind must step aside from the colossal of time. Our true self projects the light of time against the fabric of expanding space to form our physical construct. The more space expands the more the projections fade. Entropy. Imagine a movie screen set farther and farther back until so distant the once seen image is gone. There is on occasion a flicker in the measure strong enough to push aside the subconscious and add its play to our dream experience. Time had blinked once again making me a part of events long ago.

This dream took me to a hallway bathed in a haze of yellow light from a late afternoon sun as it reflects off the glass of a set of double doors. I can hear young, muffled voices repeating sentences in a foreign language from one of several rooms. The air is humid, and even though a dream; I find it hard to breathe—a new experience in the unconscious landscape. Do we breathe in dreams? I can't remember, but the thought causes a distortion in my concentration—a notion set aside to ponder latter. Now the dream needs to unfold, and I must focus, or this world may fade.

I lean against a doorway new with its plaster and paint. A room with wooden floors and large windows, a schoolroom filled with small children dressed in white, like the walls. Brown skinned with curly hair and eyes, beautiful, if not for the fear in their expressions. Fear from the undefined person standing before them giving instruction. It was feminine, but had very little form. The lack of detail didn't surprise me and I wondered if the reason was I felt the fear, too. Is the woman a mirror of my own nature? I knew if I saw it in focus the truth would reveal that I was a part of the same tribe—colonists who came to a green and sunny land to impart their ways on the indigenous population.

The misty form of my body, no longer the shadow of the observer, had hands, and arms, a torso, and feet. I became a stylized manikin dressed in clothes that identified me as an outsider—a bringer of anxiety to the little children that sat at the small wooden tables.

The dreamscape froze as images of cruelty became known. My modern sensibilities found it hard to fathom the bigotry that plagued out of ignorance. Those who had come to help became thieves of a way of life. They stole the body and soul of an innocent way. The use of trickery with the foul language of a foreign religion wormed its insidious mechanization to steal land, water, and precious stones from the flowered and once peaceful hills. The pictures sliced their way across my awareness as I fell back against the doorframe, with only a moment to reflect.

I was running up a flight of stairs. Screams and cries of desperation followed with me. Why was I running? What had happened? My mind told me the terror came from the colonist being killed by a population that had enough of interfering usurpers from an unknown land. I wasn't a foreigner. I am a dreamer, but I still had to run for my life.

Up wooden stairs then the stairs of a hill. Ancient, made of stone, overgrown with grass, the smell of dampness, running to a curved temple that protruded out of the top. The dome shaped crescent blended with the jungle foliage. I turned to look from the small ledge at the valley of patchwork farmland hazed by the mist and heat of the bright sun. Not a hill, but the side of a mountain? I couldn't tell. So high up in so little time.

Those with me slowed in apprehension at the site of natives kneeling, pointing above the white-stoned mound. Atop the temple glowed a pink light mixed with shades of orange and yellow twisting in the air—an opaque jewel glinting to be born.

Naga or Nagda they kept repeating. What did they mean with those words to the ghostly form? What was behind the wall that covered the front of the temple? I pressed the rectangular relief in the center. It didn't move. The sound of violence rose below the stairs. The fear closed in as the chanting of the Naga word became louder. Thoughts flooded my mind—a plea for help. Someone must do the dance of the Naga. The dance will bring the Naga here. The Naga will bring peace and knowledge to the land. It will stop the violence. One of the group said I must do the dance. I, a stranger, not from a far away land, but from another time would be able to make it appear.

Darkness! Has the dream ended leaving me suspended in the black void between states of mind? I can feel the ground solid beneath my feet—the air thick and musty. I'm breathing. I still have form.

Light shone from a torch held by one of the round-faced supplicants. He pointed to a rectangular slab that stood out from a wall of stone. Another mirrored it on the ground as the pink light that was in the sky appeared above it. I'm inside the crescent temple. The domed ceiling echoed my heartbeat as unknown hands pushed me toward the undulating shape, urging me to do the dance of the Naga.

My protests didn't matter to the people gathered in the corner of this dark place. They kept repeating the words Naga or Nagda. I couldn't tell which. I have to remember both. It's important I remember because often on awakening from a dream the mind trashes the details.

One of the natives stepped forward and handed me a long and short stick to use in the dance—the long to be held in my left hand, the short in my right. I would argue with the man's desperation if it weren't for the unearthly form beckoning me. The soft, transparent light wanting the rhythm of motion cried out with the soundless wonder of its manifestation. It needed the connection of a human soul to open the door to this world. It can help. The Naga can bring peace.

I started the dance without music, instruction, or memory, because time shifted ahead and movements became a blur. I only remember as I danced the visitor took shape. Each step and turn, every motion gave it form. Like my dream self it had color, substance, and when I had finished the ability to instill fear.

I can't remember what happened to the sticks I held. I stood there in a cold sweat of a fever shaking, holding my breath, and being conscious of trying to slow my rapid heart before it exploded in my chest. The thing that hovered above the rectangular slab had to be a creature from the darkest part of the subconscious. It stood four feet high and resembled a cornucopia—twisted point of a tail widening to a circular opened mouth or an opened part of its head. Whatever the function, the circle was lined with sharp triangular teeth all away around. These teeth looked metallic and flat as they reflected the bright, pink glow shone from inside. I thought this had to be the life force, the core of energy that gave it power. The outer shell, or skin, glistened as if wet. Different shades of dark green sparkled and reminded me of rock crystals when split open displaying an array of beautiful colors. But this color seemed sickly, almost dangerous.

The outer wall of the crescent temple disappeared, and the people that huddled on the outside ledge screamed, and gasped as some fell to their knees to give praise to the coming of the Naga. Others ran down the narrow stairs of the hill to the valley below shouting witness to the supernatural happening. I stood like an idiot staring at the creature as a message filled my frightened awareness. Knowledge and peace. Like the natives of this land, and in a strange way the invaders believed this to be true. Was the Naga, or Nagda another creature from a far away place wanting to help, but in the helping steal away something of value? The more I thought on this I came to the conclusion it needed nothing from us.

I sat cross-legged on the outer ledge of the temple communing with the crystal being. I cannot say about what. I only knew that I was the only one that could. Peace did come to the land once the word got out. And all came to see the miracle. And it was the oddest thing that happened next. A man came and asked if the children could bring the Naga an offering. An immediate response from the creature hit me like a club to the head. It did not want to be worshipped. Before I could convey the message another came to take its place as I told the man the Naga would accept it as a gift.

Children ran up the stairs and gathered in the temple and began placing horizontally on the ground—cucumbers! Even in my wildest, demented mind I never would have conjured up a vegetable as an offering. Everything appeared logical, a strange logic I admit, until now. Was the dream breaking apart? Had the flicker of time lost to the subconscious? The creature didn't think so. It floated over the oblation as the circular mouth devoured the gift. The cucumbers faded into the inner light. One row and down another it ate. When it had finished the magical illumination from within went out. Darkness filled the temple and the mouth of the creature closed. I could no longer see what was taking place. The Naga had become a blur. Whatever form it had assumed would be a mystery to me. What the final transformation had become I was not allowed to see. It still spoke to me. It had folded its skin, which was transparent and streaked with blood, and gave it to me as a gift. I took it and set it on my lap and thanked the Naga.

My eyes opened to the bright sun and familiar surroundings. I was awake with the words, Naga or Nagda, stuck like a song you can't get out of your head. Freedom from the dream didn't diminish the memory, and my body felt revitalized and eager to know the meaning.

I went to the computer and looked up the word Naga. It shocked me as to what in my mind could have conjured up this creature. I may have come across this word in its meaning from some television show, even something I had read, but this was completely out of my experience. A Hindu serpent god fit close to the creature I had dreamt. But, why? Before I fell asleep, I was in a state of despair and asked if anyone was listening would they help. Did my subconscious evolve a story of desperation? Or, had the Naga heard my open prayer?

On further reading I learned of the Naga dance that is performed by the Naga people and even a place called Nagaland. Named because the natives claim to be descendants of a race from a lost continent in the Pacific Ocean—the reason why it is a serpent and the association with water. Buddhism and Hinduism speak of the Naga as a protector that take the form of a serpent associated by name. My Naga never conveyed a name. The shape of it in my dream could have resembled a snake, yet the outer shell and circular mouth didn't seem to fit. It did shed its skin and gave it as a gift. That is very serpent like.

Others claim the Naga to be a dragon. Mine was not a dragon although I never did see the final form.

The stories do talk of knowledge, now this is something my Naga did bring, knowledge and peace. How this was accomplished I couldn't say. The people just knew to stop fighting by its very presence. An act of faith in the Naga's word.

The oddest aspect of the experience acted as the final affirmation that this may have been more than a dream. The cucumber as an offering. Fruits and vegetables were common, and stories continue about how to make Naga salads, stews, drinks—the serpent coils Eastern culture, and the cucumber almost a symbol associated with the deity. Historical facts I have no remembrance or knowledge of before the dream.

The long and short sticks that I used during the dance took a while to play their part in my rational. I found a reference for the eight sided I Ching. I had forgotten this long ago practice of divination. The Book of Changes it is sometimes called, but I remembered it as a method for transcending other worlds. Concentration on a combination of the long and short horizontal lines can send an astral body into the domain of opposites. Did I use the I Ching as part of the dance to shift gravity and open the door for the Naga?

I do believe I traveled back to a time where the Naga people had gained their independence. Time does flicker sending sleeping minds to experience events of the past and future. My future may include a trip to India and search for the crescent temple on a hill where I will do the Naga dance bringing the serpent of knowledge and peace.

The Evil Genie

Dreams are a bridge from the reality of the day to the hidden secrets of the nocturnal mind. If we didn't dream we would eventually burn out, perhaps even go insane. I have always thought the mechanics of a dream dealt with the physiology of the brain. Synapses barely touching intertwined in the millions sending chemical instructions across the distance between neurotransmitters to receptors triggering a response. Eventually, the synapses grow over stimulated and stop receiving, leaving hundreds of instructions in the void waiting for the time when the synaptic receptors will reactivate. Interpretation by the mind becomes incoherent, and the result is a dream. But Sigmund argued dreams are the result of wish-fulfillment, meaning the dream is nothing more than a state of affairs wishing to be.

Lying in bed with my head resting on the soft pillows I seldom ever think about what I will dream. I just try to fall asleep and let come what may. On occasion in order to relax I practice a meditation technique by closing the eyes, breathing deeply at first and then slowly relaxing the muscles starting with the feet and moving up to the head. With enough practice, you can master muscular control of the body. It also helps to focus on keeping a single thought, allowing it to be differentiated from the cluttered voices of the mind. On this night it may have helped me to run away from an unexpected terror. A flight away from something so ancient and so old you can barely believe it exists.

I opened my eyes from my meditation to find the lucid dream. A state of dreaming where the conscious mind is cognizant of the dream, able to be a living part of a fractured set of events that the subconscious suffers us to bear.

The odd and very bizarre thing about it was that I had another body, one lying horizontally across the bed. Above my body stood a horrid creature. A portly grotesque with skin a brackish red streaked with shades of black. Clothed in a purple, tight fitting gown embroidered with gold thread the thin lips squeezed tight as baleful eyes focused on the neatly cut bony structure of my head. Holding half of my skull in its chubby right hand while the left showed a disturbing interest with the inside of my brain.

The next thing I knew I was in that body. I felt the hot, disgusting, breath on my forehead as it moved closer to peer inside the opened head. I closed my eyes in terror as I felt its fingers moving around the inside of my skull and up against the brain and bone. At first I thought it was doing some damage, starting to take pieces out, but sensed that it searched for an unknown. An idea, a thought, a physical object planted long ago by another being from the astral plane? Did this creature delight in the carnage of the subconscious pilfering shredded thoughts to sell in a distant cognitive hell? To set free a tortured soul trapped in the twisted folds of the human mind must bring a good price.

Out of sheer panic, I struggled to free myself from the paralysis of this dream body. I closed my eyes and willed to fight...anger...rage...screaming this is not allowed! The Universe has an order and structure—a set of rules even for my own dark and putrid imaginings. It had no right to be doing whatever it was doing. The devilish monster paid little attention to my efforts and struggles. Not carrying, or concerned with the greater rule, only intent on what it was doing and having the tenacity to do so. With a final effort, I broke free and found myself lying in the same position as my meditation this time my eyes wide open and staring up at the large and hideous head of the creature.

Hovering above me the red skinned face with its small grayish eyes, fat round nose, and large pointed ears reminded me of an Asian mask to ward off evil. The distinctive, evil aspect of this intruder was its frightening grin. Sharp, white teeth behind those black lips stretched from head to head like that demented cat from a long ago story. And like the cat, when the demon was done with the torment of my mind's dream, satisfied of the fear, it vanished in a red puff of smoke.

I woke up and felt my head—the distant sensation of moving brain and scraping of bone still inside my skull. I blinked and shuddered a deep breath and wondered what Sigmund would make of the terrible dream. The creature reminded of a Genie—a giver of wishes. Like a Freudian "Interpretation" of the idea gone wrong. Dreams are supposed to be the result of wishes, not a charnel house for the creatures of the Jin.

The Jin are an old race of beings made of smoke and fire. Created with the angels but having a free will and living apart from humanity, refusing it seems to give us our due. From time to time involving themselves in our affairs by attaching to some object, or in a more insidious way perhaps by using us for food. In one account the Jin fed off of bones, which grew flesh again as soon as they touched them. Was this one feeding off of my severed skull? Trying to steal it away for some dark, ritualistic feast? It didn't give me three wishes for all my troubles, or take me to some great hidden treasure of the ages. It just made sure it had the last laugh.

To wish upon a starry night:

toss a coin in a fountain to wish you might,

a flame blown out with the breath of life,

to wish for lovers in dreams a flight.

Dreams and wishes they all take flight,

when preying on a starry night.

Feeding on old earth and bones,

the Jin with wishes of their own.

The Fiendish Flower

I'm not sure what holiday it was when my family drove the two-hour journey to my grandparent's house. It was a new experience each time, depending on the season. This time it was summer. A city boy I was all concrete, stone, and steel. Electric busses powered by aerial wires surrounded by cars of smoke with the horizon blocked by tall buildings. Not so bad, I liked that too, but it was a thrill to watch the countryside buzz pass the window, trees entangled together to form thick, dense woods which opened to fields of grass and ominous weeds, some looking downright alien. Farm houses, with elaborate barns bigger than any house in the city, seemed lost in the middle of the wide spaces of flat land. Fields of corn stretched from farm to farm, and I wondered which I liked best: the tall stocks that you can get lost in or the winter wheat that blew with the breeze, tall and the greenest green in the cold of the autumn. But it wasn't time for the planting of wheat until the corn harvest, so corn it was to imagine fun in a maze of maize. Ha ha!

One house stood out among the rural expanse. It wasn't a house at all, but a mansion. Old, dark stones weathered and large fit to form best described as a Victorian. The rounded edges with tall caps and thin, lead glass windows with ornate, decorative trim fit the architectural dream. That was the dominant style for the early times when houses of these types were built. Tudor was the other, but those grew more to the south, as we were going east, yes Victorian it must be. It appeared out of an area thick with forest, and could almost be missed if not for the cliff it sat upon. The cliff, carved by nature, exposed the sandstone colored soil underneath with roots from trees that stuck out from the ground into the air. Some trees had fallen to die at the bottom of the cliff, gray and weathered streaked black accompanied by thick stocks of cattails grown out of stagnant water. I loved it. My sisters and I knew the sinister scene would be upon us having passed on subsequent trips, and we all looked up at the creepy place wondering what or who was inside. My mother said it was a home for the mentally disturbed. I couldn't imagine the mansion right out of a horror movie would be conducive to anyone's better state of mind. I thought more to the aged eccentric gathering body parts from the local cemetery to experiment with, or a couple of love-struck vampires preying on the farmers that lived alone, in the dark, miles from any help.

Time passed—increments of agony as boredom set in. Even the rural fascination faded after an hour, but fate would bring us off the freeway, down more country roads, and into the small town square of Jefferson. A gazebo sat on a flat and plain-featured flat of grass with storefronts of red brick with angled parking spaces in front of each shop. We continued to travel into the town, down, side streets where large trees with wide trunks filled the space between the curb and sidewalk in front of houses all in a row.

Bungalows they call them. With huge porches. Some enclosed to add the extra room for plants and decorative, outdoor furniture.

We'd arrived! My aunt and uncle were the youngest of my grandparent's children. They were a delight to see and always seemed to be up to some kind of fun. Settling in my aunt asked my sister and I if we wanted to go for a walk and we jumped at the idea after the long ride.

The neighborhood was that kind of street. Built to be walked. Sidewalks on both sides old and cracked, colored gray with a smooth polished finish—a squeak of the shoe or a slight trip of the foot from a tufted mound of grass, all part of the fun. The hot summer wind caught sounds of laughter from talk of undisciplined behavior we found to have in common, a distraction until the end of the street where a stone arched, fenceless cemetery stood across the road. My aunt continued the venture. I wasn't afraid or apprehensive, but curious. The cemetery was old with beautiful headstones and statues. Unlike moderns were all you get are flat granite that sinks into the ground and themselves get buried. Flowers, plastic and real decorated in front of the death markers, colorful sentiments against the green grass left by loved ones as a testament to dutiful visits and some, truly out of loss. My aunt picked a single flower from a group before a stately grave and gave it to me. At the time I thought only of the nice gesture, but when I took it a voice in my worried mind whispered as if to say, "This isn't yours!"

On the way home the impression began to take root. I became uncomfortable with having it in my possession. After all it wasn't really mine. Stolen from a cemetery. And, wasn't my grandparent's house haunted. I remember them talking. What if the flower was haunted, too? The hot sun made me sweat as I listened to the conversation on the way back to the house. Silent was I. My hand cold, clammy, chilled as I twirled the stem around watching the petals spin. But I couldn't let go. I lagged behind and plotted to drop it in the shadowed recess of a row of bushes. My aunt, the happy gifter, wouldn't mind. Just a flower I lost to a terrible tragedy along the way. A viscous bird or squirrel startled me and the flower fell to the ground—stomped, flattened, I know not where. I'd think of something. But the flower wouldn't let me. It was waiting. It would scream if I had uttered an untruth. Liar! Liar! I sighed a little ashamed of the wild imaginings. Could an object be possessed even one as pretty and colorful as a sunny flower? The squishing of the stem between my fingers said yes. Now it was dead like a corpse waiting to smell. I can't through it down. It had to be buried.

Back at the house, I placed the flower on the cupboard in the dining room where all the other plants took residence. Forget the crazy thoughts. I am safe—released from ownership. Here it can stay. I sat listening to adult conversation as my attention, helpless and eventual, gravitated towards the flower. I'm not sure what kind of flower it was. I glared at it. An acrid, sickly yellow with a putrid green stem, and sharpened edges waiting to slice open the flesh of the perpetrator that picked it. That being my aunt, but I was the one it wanted. The flower stared at me with its malevolent color. Following me wherever I sat in the room. Its silence shouting at me with the words, "You took me! Picked me from my sacred place! And now I lay here withering in the bright sun. Dying because of you!" The fear was overwhelming. I tried to ignore the accuser busying myself with comic books and magazines, but my gaze wandered back to the flower. Sulking, fluttering its ominous petals as if getting ready to fly, using the breeze that blew in from the window, sailing, spinning, the petals ready to drill a large hole into my shocked face.

I was glad we were leaving and didn't mind the long ride home. I wanted to put as much distance between me, and the terrible flower, as I could. Everybody was goodbyes and tears as my father started the car, and we were just about to leave when my aunt came to the window and said, "Here, wait, you forget your flower." My eyes widened! Fear sliced through my soul! What was this? What was I to do? I couldn't say I didn't want it. And, I didn't. And, if I didn't take it one of my sisters probably would. Then I never would be rid of the wretched thing. I reached out reluctant and took its cold, fleshy stem in my hand. I sat staring at it thinking that by its mere touch I was cursed. Cursed to die. The petals laughed against my fingers—a demented kiss—a quiver from the possessed blossom.

I held onto it afraid to move and looked out the window, my mind a torment of determined action as to what to do. As we drove past the sacred spot of the terrible deed, the bright sun sent streams of light through the trees to render twisted shadows on the granite stones. Then the answer came. That was it! I threw the flower out the window. It landed on the hot sidewalk. There! It was over. It could no longer torment me. I gave it back. It could rot and burn into vile goo on the pavement.

The car turned the corner, and I sighed with relief. How silly I had been as I smiled a sly smile. What an imagination. I looked up at the blue, summer sky, felt the warm air, laid back and fell asleep unaware that a single, innocent, yellow petal had fallen next to my shoe.

The Egyptian God

I have it on good authority that philosophers were extremely myopic in their viewpoint, stuck in their own time, the latter half of the twentieth century blatantly saying: "It's just not true!" This leads us once again into the world of physics, into the world of science, not philosophy, in particular, that troublesome study of atomic particles which refuse to adhere to normal mechanical laws. Quantum entangled pairs when separated have a correlation between the two when measured even though vast distances are between them. How does this happen? How do they know what the other is doing? The human mind exists in this strange world opening itself to experience events that go far beyond any rational explanation. I believe that dreams can take us anywhere and at any point in time—two minds in different times, connected by the dream.

I awoke in such a dream and stared out through a doorway into a very bright, blue sky. A dry, hot breeze filled the small room in which I stood. I couldn't move. Frozen. As if I were inside of something inert and solid. Sand piled in the corners accompanied by baskets and ropes strewn across the white stone floor. How strange a dream that allowed me trapped with objects with no point of reference from my waking reality. Dreams usually convey constructs of familiarity. How alien and far removed is this little room of sand and white stone.

A shadow crossed the balcony from the outside doorway and in walked a young woman. She carried a basket of what appeared to be fruit and proceeded to set it at my feet. She had long, black hair that framed a light-brown face. Her magical eyes set deep and brown outlined in turquoise and black made my desire want to see more into her soul. I couldn't help but notice the white thin garment she wore. It tightly draped her body revealing her round breasts and clinging to her hips, gathered at a dark center before flowing down to bare feet where toes wore golden rings. What was my unconscious mind up to? Why awaken me in a dream and hold me still before this beauty. I should speak. I should ask her name.

By some magical process or willful desire the motionless form I inhabited allowed me to move. The young woman staggered back with shock and fear on her face. In fact, she seemed downright frightened. I spoke to reassure her, but that frightened her even more. She screamed and ran out of the room leaving me perplexed as to why my mind had invented this delight and then let it run away. I knew I wasn't a handsome man and maybe not the most romantic, but after all, it was my dream, so what was going on?

The eagerness to explain along with my curious nature the force that bound, set me free. Outside of the room, I found myself on a walkway that wrapped around a rectangular building. The landscape outside opened to a wide expanse of white sand leading to the edge of a large, blue sea. I forgot about the girl amazed at what my mind had invented. The horizon stretched far into the distance and it struck me as odd that in all my dreams, lucid or otherwise, I never experienced a dreamscape as expansive. Dreams always seem to be confined to a small, inner space. This wonder of place stretched far from a dream. Even the air smelled of salt from the distant shore. I ran my hand along the coarse stone of the walkway as the shadow of the building cooled the ground for my bare feet. Such vivid sensations! I wanted to jump over the ledge and run in this beautiful and tantalizing world.

I walked to the corner where the building ended and in disbelief, I confronted the sight of an enormous white pyramid. I shook my head and breathed in the dry air of the desert stunned at the fantastic sight of this ancient of all wonders. The bright rays from the sun god Ra glistened against the glaze of stone. Undeniably I had traveled to ancient Egypt. My heart raced and my stomach quivered from excitement. I could not see beyond the horizon of the desert and did not see the girl or hear any other noise of person or beast.

Silence accompanied by a harsh wind and in a flash I transported to a darkened room this time facing two large, slabs that stopped short of the ceiling. They were covered with hieroglyphics and there was enough space to walk around. I recognized this as the chamber of a Pharaoh's tomb, and like the pyramid, I had a waking reference. Puzzled at the ambient light I searched for windows, but their absence revealed the twilight haze came from the very stones. The atmosphere was thick with heat and I could feel the dryness scorching my nostrils and throat. I took in the wonder of all the colors and hoped my mind conveyed a hidden talent for deciphering the imoji of the time. I've toyed with the idea ancient artists had seen something like a cell phone and the idea of hieroglyphics originated from an observed technology.

The air in the room swirled around charged with an unseen force or energy. The wall in front of me slid apart to a bright light as multiple silhouettes stood against the intensity. People, ancient people from a past so distant the closest reference to race I can use is Mayan.

Their faces held an intense gaze wanting to communicate a message of the utmost importance. I had enough experience with other beings in my dreams to know that a message given may warn or educate and I had better concentrate so as not to lose its meaning. It is also known in these realms I have a tendency towards sarcasm being too easy going a manner in matters of important communication to take any of it seriously.

One of the immortals stepped forward and stared deep into my eyes with purpose and determination. His face long and his skin the type that had seen too many days in the sun, radiated with wisdom and knowledge of this world and worlds beyond. He didn't speak but conveyed a mental impression that the people in the room were the architects and builders of the great pyramids and the secrets of this timeless building are written on these walls buried in a single chamber under one of the corners of this fantastic structure. He tried to tell me more, but my mind was unable to understand the language. The excitement started to affect the structure of the dream. My willpower shattered under the weight of trying to focus on a language I didn't know. I expressed with the last ounce of sincerity I understood before the dream world broke. I'd lost the struggle and faded into the morning sun of another day.

I was a god. That's how it started out. I woke up inside a statue of a god. Unable to move, trapped in a room for statues of stone and marble—the patient god waiting for a passerby or a meaningless offering. The young woman brought offerings, but when I spoke, she ran in terror. Did I exist in the ancient Egyptian world as an artifact of worship and like quantum particles my modern self, connected? If I came into this life as stone how many times did I have to reincarnate to be flesh and blood? My ego or evil subconscious would make me a god. Its eccentric way to set the stage so I can play a part I'd desire before I met with the megalithic builders so they could deliver their message.

For decades researchers searched for chambers around the pyramid and using current technology they say that some exist below the surface of the sand. Do these secretive chambers hold the key to the builders? The dream says it is so. Others believe aliens helped to build the pyramids as a machine made to generate ethereal or electrical power. Whatever the purpose I agree the world's ancient monuments are messages from the past. Built to wait out the winds of time until we discover their meaning. I am sure that we are meant to discover it as the specters that exist in the land of dreams are determined to help us to try.

The Blood Demon

Given the interest in the vampire culture of the day, I wondered if such creatures exist. If vampire bats exist why not some human hybrid with the same hunger for blood? Science talks about a multiverse and overlapping realities that enter our world through some quantum quirk, and there is a thought that bigfoot is the result of this otherworldly crossover, why not vampires? Or, a creature more spiritual; truly evil. One that can transcend the void, and to our ignorance carry out its lustful desires and self-serving agenda.

My mind wrestles with unresolved intrusions and seeks to resolve unknowns such as vampiric truths. The inner psyche being the adventurer more than I, took me on such a journey to discover the answer to this particular puzzle I could not rationalize. A journey by way of a dream. I can't say about multiverses, but I do believe in other realms. Realms of light and darkness. Realms of the imagination. Realms of glory! Dreams are powerful gateways, and our expanded perception during sleep presents the safest vehicle to venture into the quantum landscape.

I stood in a large, white, rectangular doorway. Black space crept behind, an infinite void in which I should not fall. The ground ahead was gray with no tangible texture. A brush-stroked sky streaked with red and white bands curved back to a blurred horizon. A lake quivered from the nondescript shoreline with a motility of white shapes. Unusual for water even in a dream, but a closer look at the small, black specs mixed in the pallid waves revealed eyes staring back with a gaze of paralyzed hunger. The bodies devoid of the color of life rolled down while others rose up from beneath with an undulated terror. I took a step back afraid I might sink into the sea of bloodless souls. Would fate condemn me to become a part of the white ocean? Is the dream a cognitive revelation of my future? A lurid thought presented by my superego to cover up what my subconscious is trying to resolve? The subconscious and superego in constant battle. But is this a dream?

There is another part of the mind. A psychic part. A group of cells with fibers so small they dig down into the molecular world opening the doorway for one's thoughts, or better, one's soul, to travel the quantum dimensions. I knew I was taken by the dream reality through the doorway and brought to this absinthium domain.

I tried to grasp the why when a rumble from above released a haze that drifted down through the humid air. I breathed in the moisture and licked my lips to a familiar, bitter taste. The metallic flavor scratched my throat and turned my stomach as I covered my face to shun the happening. Hands covered in sticky wetness as the strange rain gained a larger density, and the sound of whispers drew my attention to the ashen landscape. Thousands of distinct gasps or clicks, like a dog lapping water from a bowl, increased to a gradual crescendo in response to the mizzle. And to a wonder from the freakish mire little pink fish splashed up and down, but not fish—tongues from the interlocked corpses as they reached to lick the droplets of blood that showered down from the red clotted sky.

A hot wind carried the red rain stinging my eyes and prickling my face. Blood for the damned feeding before me now, a tortured feast as they struggled against one another, white bodies a bright ruby slick—mouths dark as if burnt black. The sickness left my stomach, and euphoria invaded my mind from the crimson drops, possessing me with a revitalized energy. The longing to consume the redness made me shudder, and resist, falling to my knees my hands wiping the wetness off my face, the heart pounding in my ears wanting to be fed, to consume the bloody feast. Then, I felt it. The tug on that heart. I looked up. An island appeared in the midst of the human sea, and on the edge of the island, a large and powerful mass took form. A creature. Green and black skinned—shinny leather. Its face was human, primitive. Like those pictures, you see of cavemen. Large brow. Deep set eyes. Black eyes. Always black eyes. These a glimmer off glass from tubes of old blood. As in all dreams, you feel, and the feeling from this thing was one of hunger—a pitiless hunger devoid of consequence, single-minded in action, like gorging on a rare steak down to the gnawing of the bone.

Curious I had not noticed the island and the devil form on entering this realm. Overtaken by the excitement and fear my senses could only process one strange event at a time. But was I in control of my cognitive self in this sleeping prism? When does the dream become the reality that fools us into believing the dream is real? When it drops us off into the world of terrors or delight then wakes us into the more hellish reality of our waking world? None of this seemed a mechanization to resolve unresolved issues of the day. This was another world. A hell world where damned souls live out an eternity of service for a demented matrix bored with the complexity of flowers and Impressionistic sunsets. This was not a single mind, my mind, this had many minds with thoughts reaching out with a blood-lust hunger, and in the distance a monster with eyes set and focused on the one thing that was different from all this creation; me!

A wave of the demon's awareness studied my person with an intensity of curious wonder. Drenched with the blood-rain I sniffed the water up my nose swallowing the bitter fear as my heart beat faster to the excitement. The creature-form began to change into a more slender, muscular shape. The leathery skin became tanned and shone red as water slid down the elegant body. The face was no longer primitive but more like mine, the eyes still black while the features became angled and symmetrically sensual. My skin chilled and tingled with arousal as I tried to blink away its gaze. The monster moved forward sliding its feet, but stopped as a wail from the sea of blood-drinkers erupted. The creature's now human-like hands still resembled claws as its arms spread wide as if to command. Hissing from the white conflagration of the damned warned upward to the motion, but the sound was no match, for ripped from the screaming souls the gorged blood found its way in torrents of rushing streams to be absorbed by the beast—its head held back savoring every drop. The mire turned into a white haze of silent swirls of energy against my shaking body pushing me back to the lifeless shoreline.

I was still curious and desired to know more of the monster. As it fed on the rain taken from the damned, I willed myself, drawn by an invisible hand to stand behind the creature; its attention excited by the transfer caused the monstrous head to turn towards where I stood. I knew it wondered how I arrived on the lone island. What power had I of will to move freely where it could not? I needed more of the desire, more of the blood, my heart craved it, and pleaded for the sensuality it offered. What was the secret mystery held in such a being? Why are secrets hidden from the mundane tragedy of a waking world? Where was I, and could I get lost in this narcotic haze of desire?

Movement! I flew back to the shore, before the gateway where there stood a woman with very long, blonde hair and at least twelve feet tall. Unlike the other blonde haired beings that I've seen in my encounters, she wasn't thin, but looked more like an Amazon. She wore a white gown that fell in layers covering her feet. Around her neck was a wide sash with gold writing that flowed around her massive frame. I couldn't make out the symbols, yet I knew they defined who she was. She looked at me not with judgment, but with a curiosity—why would you want to be here? In an instant, we switched places. I was at the gateway, and she was standing across from the island raising her hands and invoking unknown words that infuriated the demon. She was its guardian—an angel, witch, or defender of the realm of dreams? I marveled at the scene in all its detail. The island creature wailed loud as it faded into nothing. Dissolved by her spell—unlikely—put back to sleep never to awake only when summoned. Did I summon it with my desire, my invasion into this space? Time passed slowly as I watched the warm winds blow through the guardian's golden hair—the thin, white gown a sensuous, fluid wrap for the rounded body. I was feeling drained as if this place was taking my will to live. The blood desire relented as I stood in the middle of the gateway, looked up, and was transported back into a waking state. I felt tired and listless, full of sadness and despair, the dream starting to fade except for the two entities that stayed real—not a fiction of a dream. The place was real, just as solid as the bed I slept in. Taken beyond to a world of wonder—even if a nightmare.

Those given to psychological analysis might say the women represented my mother and the demon my father, throwing in some sexual connotation. If only I could live in my own dreamy, narcotic world of sexual angst. Dreams are the secret drug of the subconscious mind, waiting to buy from the pusher of our waking experience.

I think of the demon and the white, bloodless inhabitants of the underworld and wonder what would happen if they were set free. Could I set them free? Am I capable of releasing a malevolent assault on an already darkened world? Somehow these creatures from a nightmare can get into your mind and haunt you with the memory of tasteful desires where power becomes seductive. It is a temptation to our human nature, and in this case, a painful longing for a rain of blood.

Grandpa's Ghost

The two-hour ride to my grandparent's house happened on holiday's, special occasions and usually presented a happy affair. This autumn's drive took our family to a funeral—my grandfather's funeral. My father's father suffered from heart failure and after a year of care, he'd finally be laid to rest. The ordeal of a funeral at the age of eight sparked my curiosity. I knew there were coffins involved and a cemetery, and people cried. The type of loss to make grown-ups cry never entered my emotional life. There was sadness over everyday matters like not going out to play or some other angst of childhood, but not when it came to death. I never knew my grandfather, and memories I did have were of a tall, silent man given to inner reflection and simple ways. Death remained distant until his passing. Death took on the mortal guise of my grandfather—a stoic and elusive concept.

Both my grandparents had farms in Jefferson, Ohio. This was farm country. Houses sat on acres of land where people raised cows, chickens and grew lots of vegetables. I was a city boy, so this was an exciting and novel experience for me. The city didn't have cows or chickens, only stray dogs and cats and a variety of very large insects. I remember getting excited when the car passed a farm with plenty of cows. The placid herds stood in the grassy fields oblivious to the world until our car drove past, lifting their heads to the minor disturbance. My parents teased the brown ones gave chocolate milk. My father would point out the black, and ones with white spots, were the same he grew up with. Milk cows. My now deceased grandfather raised his family on selling milk from his cows. How difficult to manage these large beasts and understanding the life of a farmer helped me visual the character of my grandfather.

The gray sky matched the somber mood as I'd turned my attention to the barns weathered with age and marveled at the red or white and wondered the amount of paint it took to cover the enormous buildings. Silos were the greatest mystery. What did they contain and what harvest could fill the towering giants? My father said the farmers filled it with feed corn for the animals. That explained the enormous acres of corn that stretched for miles along the road.

We arrived at the farm owned by my mother's parents. The decision to stay overnight allowed for a visit and took the burden off of my father's mother. My four mischievous sisters made a handful with I the only well behaved, of the five.

My grandparents loved to see us kids. Greeting us outside the door and asking how we were doing commenting how some of us had grown and how pretty my sisters looked. Grandmother and my mother both had smiles for each other and chatted away at the same time asking and answering questions simultaneously. My grandfather would rub the top of my head back and forth commenting on how he used to have red hair just like mine smiling perhaps at the memories of youthful days. With suitcases in hand we made our way inside into the kitchen were my grandmother would have a virtually feast of food. I couldn't remember when she didn't. Pork chops, chicken, sausage, ribs were complemented by mounds of mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, always with bacon, corn, biscuits, breads and jars of pickled beets, eggs and a variety of different types of pickles. Despite the delicious feast one item stood out terrifying in its simplicity. Pickled pig's feet. There they sat on the table defying the appetite. The fare on display was chopped up, cooked, and disguised with no association to the original creature. But, the foot of a pig, whole and with the skin attached, reminded of a once alive animal that walked on that very appendage, now it floats in a jar like some strange enigma at a freak show. Did I mention the four-toed hoof?

The other enigma was Patsy. My grandmother had a fondness for black and white chihuahuas. I can't remember a time when she didn't have one. If one died, she would get another and name it Patsy. I'm not sure which one this was, but I knew one met its fate at the hands of the neighbor's German shepherd. It didn't matter; there would be another Patsy. Black and white with the temperament of the deceased.

It lived in a small box in the bathroom at least when we were visiting. I think to keep it from getting hurt from us kids, but it didn't seem to be the most friendly of animals and I was always afraid it would bite me. This made it extremely difficult when you had to go. I'd manage to sneak past and quickly shut the door as I rushed to the toilet. The tiny mutt's eyes bulged, puzzled as to why I had invaded its space. Occasionally, and I think just for fun, the mongrel barked until the voice of my grandmother quieted the savage pooch.

The day grew short as the sun began its slow crawl to evening. My older sister and I decided to walk around the farm with its many odd buildings colored with age but sturdy enough to be used for one purpose or another. I liked the chicken coupe. Inside, rows of square wooden nests held plastic eggs to encourage the chickens. And next to the small building stood the tree stump, withered from rain and snow that may wash away the stains of its brutality, but not the purpose. The white hens pecked around its base unaware of the fate it presented for on top the wooden block a bird would lose its head. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. My sister teased that Grandpa was going to give me the ax to chop off the head of the chicken. Make me the executioner. She said the headless body would run around flapping its wings while blood squirted from the neck. Then I'd be made to take the dead body and pluck out every feather. A hen pecked the dirt around my shoe and cocked its head and looked up at me with its little black eye unaware of its fate at the hands of a hungry boy.

There were other birds living in the many birdhouses my grandparents placed around the farm. The white boxes sat atop long poles and had three levels of dark holes for a type of bird I wasn't familiar with. My sister named them dark, purple martins and my grandmother loved the birds. She hated when sparrows tried to take over the nests and had my grandfather use his shotgun to scare them away. Needless to say it probably scared the hell out of the martins, too.

At the edge of this rural paradise stood the woods. Trees crowded together so tightly they formed dark openings beckoning a young mind to come and see what mysteries hid deep inside. We had to cross a wide field full of grass that had grown to seed, strewn with prickly bushes. The sun hung above the forest as twilight approached and the night clouds gathered on the horizon. A chill filled the air and in the distance a figure of a man stood motionless, arms at his sides. I thought it was my grandfather bringing the cows in for the night, but the figure disappeared as I blinked. The chill gone, the twilight deeper I decided the neighbor from next door stopped to see the new arrivals.

Walking with difficulty through the grass and the odd sunken holes we made it half way across the field when a flock of martins gathered above our heads. At first I didn't pay much attention until several birds swooped down in front of us. More birds began dive-bombing as we took a step back not sure that we should go any further. The swooping continued when my sister suggested that maybe this wasn't such a good idea. The assault continued as we quickened our pace when the little bombers started flying too close to our heads. Waving our arms and running back we started to laugh and joke at the thought of people finding are dead bodies, eyes pecked out by these pesky creatures.

Entering the house our senses were met by leftover food, cigarette smoke and laughter. Grandma was wrapping up the food, leftovers for the next day when we told her about the attack of the martins. She assured us her precious birds would never attack and they were feeding, but never on us. She said martins ate insects. Walking through the field must have stirred up the little critters which gave the birds easy pickings.

Getting out sheets, blankets and pillows we settled down for the night and laid them on the living room floor. I journeyed once more to the bathroom, and Patsy greeted me with a wagging tail. The display of affection I cautioned as a ruse to draw my hand towards her head in an attempt to bite off all my fingers. Still hesitant to pet her I shut off the light. Finding my way to my side of the floor I settled snug against the pillow closed my eyes and thought about tomorrow and the funeral. Pondered the dead. The headless chickens with red wings beating in a final dance. The pickled pigs feet and imagined if the body of my grandfather's skin resembled the dull pink in the murky jar. And the strange man among the tree shadows alone and gone in a blink of an eye. The unknown experience tortures the mind, but tomorrow will bring my young self closer to death.

The car window covered with droplets of water formed by the rain reflected my tired mood. Uncertain about the day's events my thoughts filtered through a haze of anxiety I had to wipe away like the mist on the glass. The funeral home in the center of town resembled an ordinary house. Clean, white wood with black shutters and rounded columns did give the simplicity a more stately character, but the decorative nature of the building didn't mask the reason for its purpose—a place to grieve for the departed. The self-centered attitude of my own needs left when I entered. Quiet, pristine with the furniture staged as for a play, there crept a jumbled eeriness within the placement. I found a hard chair and sat as if to cling for salvation. To do penance and be saved from a continuation of mourning, but as I glanced across the hall I saw a little girl lying in a coffin. My first dead body! Even at a distance her face shown clear and I wondered if fate arranged for the chair and my desire to sit. Instead of an old man the beauty of a child a more gentle introduction to the gruesome affair. Half the lid opened to silk, and a white gown matched the padding of the casket. Arrangements of pink and white flowers cascaded alongside and whispers said she died in an auto accident renewing the cautions my parents taught when crossing a busy street. Strange how another's tragedy rekindled thoughts of myself. I did care for the loss of the girl, but I didn't know her and it seemed the grief presented as a warning.

My grandmother was a short, stout woman with gray hair and a friendly disposition. I'd get a big hug with kisses on the cheek and remarks on how tall I had grown. She was a remarkable woman having raised twelve children on a farm. The years together with her husband now ended, but she had tremendous faith and many sons and daughters to keep her company.

The brothers and sisters sat in the front rows while the priest or preacher, I didn't know which, started his sermon. I glimpsed my grandfather in his coffin the lid half open just like the little girls. When the sermon ended we passed by to give our last respects. I didn't know what last respects meant. I supposed a prayer. A last goodbye to a corpse who couldn't see or hear? It didn't matter I had little intention of standing in a line. I was too young. My impressionable mind already damaged by the terrible experience and adults had better sensibilities, but there I stood, in the line of sighs. Helpless.

Anxious from the funeral on the way back to my grandparent's farm the headlights lit the country roads providing security for any attempt to see beyond led only to an abyss were even the skyline refused a glimmer of light. I slept, as the other day on the far end towards the large window were my grandmother displayed a jungle of different types of houseplants. The window glowed to fill the dark room. I wasn't alone with my siblings covered on the floor, but as in the car after the day of lifeless bodies, six-foot holes, and cheerless flowers the night provided fodder for the imagination.

I woke to the cry of my baby sister. The ritual occurred since she joined the family and I learned to block out the sound. I dozed off and opened my eyes unaware hours passed. In the corner of the room behind a large red rocker stood a shadow of a tall man— an odd shadow, different in nature than the chairs or leaves from the window. It had substance and gave no variation within the silhouette; the blackness, solid in character, resembled that of a man. A person stood in the corner and I imagined it must be my father. But why stand in the corner, watching? Watching me! Memory flashed back to early yesterday evening when the neighbor stared from the murkiness of the woods. The same apprehension and uneasiness grabbed the remembered fear and slammed it into my awareness. This is not the neighbor or my father. The darkness is something else. A spirit, a specter, not of fantasy or a leftover whim of sleep, but a vision, solid, real, a tangible artifact from the dead. A ghost!

Featureless, devoid of eyes, nose or mouth, an obsidian wraith from the nether world comes to visit a defenseless boy. Terror raged in my throat and lungs demanding release in a yell or scream, but the unknown had a seductive quality, a curiosity, and an unnatural desire to be observed. It wanted to consume awareness of mind and perhaps draw its victim into the unfathomable void where there are no horizons of twilight to show a glimmer of hope. It has come to feed on the innocence of my very soul. But, I was not alone on the floor. What of my sisters? My family? Did they see this phantom or is it only I? How can I escape the pitiless glare? Alone at the end of the room I sensed all were asleep. I needed a strategy to share in the ethereal visit. If I yelled the ghost may disappear and what evidence remained except that of a frightened imagination from shadows in a dark room. Someone needed to see and experience my terror. I covered my head with the blanket. The ghost may think this normal, that I had awakened and fell back to sleep unaware it stood behind the red rocking chair. A glass of water! That's it! I'll ask for a drink of water—a normal enough request from a little boy in the middle of the night.

I called for my father and counted on the fact he'd respond considering I slept at the far end of the room and would be unable to find a glass in a strange house or reach the handle of the faucet. Still hiding under the blankets I felt guilty at putting my father at risk with a ghost standing placidly in the corner. A part of me wanted him to see the uninvited spook, to witness the singular hallucination and confirm the haunting.

I uncovered my head peeking through the slits of my eyes as my father stooped down to hand me the glass. I took it and as I drank glanced over his shoulder at the corner. The shadow had disappeared. I was relieved. I said nothing of the vision. I slid under the blanket glad the shadow had gone. Glad that someone no longer slept and if the thing appeared I'd find the courage to scream.

The next day I didn't say anything about what I saw until my mother asked if anyone had heard strange noises during the night commenting on how the baby kept waking. I then told my story. Silence fell as my parents and grandparents listened to what I had to say. My grandmother remarked that she heard the sound of pins dropping on the nightstand next to her bed and my mother commented on the ride home from the funeral she felt a coldness sitting next to her. This wasn't an unusual thing for my family. Ghost stories and supernatural experiences as my grandfather always spoke of the time when a witch turned a man into a horse riding him to near death when he had irritated her in some way. They had come to the conclusion that it was my grandfather coming to pay his last visit saying spirits would remain three days on earth before traveling to the other side. This explanation wasn't the end of the story and three days not enough for the spectral visitor. It continued every year upon my grandfather's death. The tall figure of a man I had seen standing in the hall of our house. Screams from the living room woke everyone as the ghost disappeared. Where the screams originated confounded all—the reason to ghastly to comprehend. Another explanation for the phantom that presents itself is it wasn't my grandfather, but upon his death whatever spirit he entertained now looked for a new attachment along family lines. After years of trouble the ghost stopped its yearly visits. Or, did it. On writing this story while taking care of my mother who had become bedridden. She interrupted me in the writing to ask about the person that stood in the doorway of her room. I assured her we were quite alone.

The Animist

Animism is from the Latin meaning soul or life. It refers to the belief that spiritual beings exist around us. Anthropologists attribute this to a time of ancestor worship. Did our ancestors see ghosts or spirits of dead loved ones? Did the ancestors create rituals summoning these distant relatives whereby the living asked for guidance in times of trouble? The ancient history also embraced the animistic defined as spirits that inhabit the elements of the earth and could be called upon to render service. I believe our nature continues after death. I think we leave the painful part of ourselves behind not to take it with us. Allowing the corrupt shadow to fade with time. If we die not in our right mind do we wander scarring the hell out of those we encounter until an angel comes to save us from the disconnected ether? Are the spirits of the dead a part of the collective unconscious of humanity? If we embrace this notion like our ancestors can the dead help cure the ills of the living?

Animists creep through time and space and never rest until they bother the living.

I enjoy traveling the night road from work. I enjoy the fatalistic music I listen to as my car moves along the lonely space. Surrounded by temptation there's a compulsion for the soul to rest in the shadowy mindset. Midnight brings me to my destination, but there are times I want to continue the journey. Sleep during the day and travel by the solitary light of stars or a winter's moon—endless possibilities for the unknown adventure meeting strangers in a distant place and who has the greatest to fear? I laugh at these delusional thoughts until I reach the cemetery across from the apartment complex. Tombstones bathed in yellow haze, lonely and cold, or the building where I live, both rise from solid ground, but the death stones foretell my final journey into the wretched, entropic void called death. I am glad to have a choice for the bland stone of the living.

Cozy and nestled in my Queen Anne chair I sip on sweet whiskey while the night settles to a windless calm. The dampness creeps in through the windows where I watch as light from the parking lot create peculiar forms on the cars and trees. The shimmer of the leaves look silver instead of green and I wonder if these unnatural colors placed on a canvas can reflect the stark, artificial, and lugubrious nature of the landscape. Pondering this future melee I jumped at the sight of a silhouette with evil, green eyes; the outline of its body I failed to catch because of the darkness.

This small, feline imbecile, the terror of many a story, lives real in my waking nightmare. The apartment's window is level with the ground and I often joke of being half buried, but many a time while enjoying a movie or a song this neighborhood prowler visits as a peeping Tom. One night there came a knock on my door and on opening I was greeted by a policeman holding the mischievous imp in his arms. A concerned tenant had let the cat into the building and it was scratching at the doors. My door in particular. He asked me if it were my cat. I explained that the cat belonged to someone in the next building and that it often wandered around the complex. I told him not to bother with it and set it back outside where the menace would find its way home. I knew not to be taken in by this cat's devious attempt at attachment. A demon or spectral presence could hide in the little beauty seducing me as my familiar while it eats my soul. I need no familiars, and help from the spirit world is unpredictable at best. I stared back and toasted the creature. It had its joke and I wouldn't let it in so with a look of dismissal the bully smugly walked away. Did I mention it wore the color black?

Tired, not finding anything to watch on a thousand channels, I fell into the curious state of mind between reality and dreamtime. An awakening of the subconscious, my other self, the evil self that creates fantastic worlds of terrors, nightmares, or seductive lies only to kick you out so you can suffer the loss. As the phantom crawled to embrace my will I heard a rustling of paper from the kitchen. I opened my eyes and listened, uncertain of the noise. A thought of a prowler or the black cat filled my mind, but such a break-in was impossible with the strong locks on the door. A rat or mouse! Insidious creatures in search of food another possibility until the sound of a slow tearing of a single sheet. My heart beat fast and the fear boiled in the pit of my stomach while my senses relived what I'd heard to find a logical reason—then the sound stopped replaced by laughter and loud voices as if several people were having a party right in the middle of my own apartment. I sat up, wide-eyed; fully awake on the edge of my bed ready to scream when the ruckus ended leaving an icy silence.

My head edged around the corner of the bedroom door and looked into the living room. The furniture lit by yellow light from outside stood still against their shadows. No cats, or rats, or billowing guests, only a sigh of relief as I glanced into the pitch-blackness of the kitchen waiting for some unseen secret. I turned on the small lamp and sat in my Queen Anne chair and listened. Rubbing my forehead I struggle to understand the chilling experience—a figment of mind or a visit from beyond, the barrier between sanity and madness cracks, as the night grows old.

Carl, my analyst and I were sitting on a white bench in a white place. The old wizened, bearded face squinted his eyes at me while I took a drag off my cigarette.

"Well?" I asked. "What do you make of my experience?"

"You are not mentally ill, are you?"

"I can never subscribe to that analyses. The noises were real and then gone, a ghost or fiction of my senses, like a dream.

"We all have the waking dream," he said feeding the white pigeons. "I agree, yes, the waking dream."

"Fear makes that a comfort, but not the truth, not the reality of the experience."

"Then be comfortable with the dead," he said as the white-world vanished.

A flicker of imagination as my attention was drawn to a small object on the coffee table that moved on its own. I shook my head as if to convince myself the unnatural motion had been a trick of the eye. My hands gripped the arms of the chair with fear. The small room became a plaything for some unseen force. A monstrous trickster determined on settling a bet with its companions. How long before I run in terror while they laugh, but the devils did not consider my abilities as a necromancer, conjuror of spirits, and no stranger to the weird and macabre. To embrace this ability brings dangers of sickness and possession and I so desperately want to live in the light of the earth, not the gray, bleak world of the dead. Can one ignore the abilities that damn us to a certain fate? The ghouls prowl the cemeteries for buried flesh, but the soul that wanders seeks those who are gifted to see and command.

Despite better judgment, I reached inward in the hopes my other self, that evil self of the subconscious; the buried darkness of my own torment would find answers to the bothersome phantom that invaded its dreamtime.

Images flashed of an elderly lady. Gray hair, white dress, lost, were the impressions perceived. I thought of my grandmother who was sick at the time. Did she wander in her dreams? When a person is near death spirits of the deceased family will gather. Had departed Uncles and Aunts decided to gather and await a new arrival into their dismal world of the dead? I dismissed this, as the presence grew stronger, attacking the senses, attacking my mind! The sickly perfume of another's life surrounded my open consciousness, but with the determination for self-preservation, the evil self, pushed it away. The room felt empty, devoid of spirit or devil. Had we succeeded?

I walked to the door and with some apprehension looked out the small hole into the hallway afraid that some old, skeleton of a face stared back. She had gone. I turned and stood there relieved when I felt a force go right through me. It took my breath away as my life drained to the point of collapse. She'd come back!

With this final attack, my anger grew. I had enough and wasn't going to play host to a grotesque from the spirit world. There are many ways to deal with unwanted ghosts, but holy water is my method of choice. I keep a bottle for such occasions and started to bless the apartment. The minute I threw the first drop I heard the closet door in the hallway slammed shut. It was over. To hear a door shut is a sign the demons have gone.

I sat up in bed with all the lights on with sleep a luxury for those who do not suffer the dead. A newly buried body in residence at the cemetery across from the apartments wandered the empty halls in search of answers as to its fate in the unknown realm. I wasn't any help, more snobbish than afraid, and said a prayer for angels to guide her into the light or wherever we go when we die.

Settling back down to sleep, pulling the covers close to my chin I was hoping that Carl was watching. Being a ghost of the otherworld you'd think he'd come back to explain it all seeing he spent most of his life trying to figure it out. An image manifested as if planted inside my brain of a man standing alone in the dark of my kitchen taking notes about my mental state rustling papers as he analyzed my demented story.

The Laundromat

While playing on the kitchen floor I looked up at the giant washing machine. White with blue stripes it was a marvel of engineering. A wide round bottom set on three large wheels with double rollers on the top whereby at the press of a button you could wring clothes dry. It was like some retro styled robot from cartoons I watched on television. Putting the wet clothes in a basket my mother would take them outside and hang them up to dry. This was only in the spring and summer and during the dark months of fall and winter we would take the two-mile journey to the laundromat. I liked going to the laundromat because of the machines. As a little boy I was interested in all things mechanical and wouldn't miss the chance of putting money into a machine and watch it magically start up wondering how it worked. So the family piled into the station wagon with baskets of dirty clothes and off we went.

The Laundromat sat on a corner next to a funeral parlor and a donut shop. The smell of fresh donuts filled the late autumn air and my mother said if we behaved she'd buy us each a donut of our choice. Considering the new playground we were about to enter my sisters and I exchanged a delicate, unspoken truce and a point of extortion when one of us accidently misbehaved. We also knew from past experience that our parent's used bribery thinking it was to their advantage. But, who gets to eat and not pay for the donuts?

The front windows of the laundromat provided a view of a trailer park across the street. The long, metal houses provided my imagination with thoughts of travel with your home attached to a car. That meant you can live anywhere and I wondered why these people lived in a stark parking lot across the street from a funeral parlor, donut shop, and a laundromat. Factories and tiny plaza's lined the street, and the concrete and lack of any natural surroundings made the neighborhood less appealing. The funeral parlor planted shrubs and grass with a few scattered mums in bloom for the season which provided the only landscape. If I had a trailer I'd want a view of the mountains or the ocean even plopped in the middle of a forest seemed preferable.

My mother yelled at me to get away from the window and I walked towards several rows of colored plastic seats connected together with the occasional laminated table on which were piled magazines, empty coffee cups and the odd soda can, (pop can as we call it up north), waiting to be disposed of by some generous person who got tired of looking at them. The row of washers lined against one side of the wall and large dryers on the other. The ominous dark window of the dryer's giant eye watched as the glass reflected stark, fluorescent light. The entire atmosphere of the laundromat depressed and arrested any effort at cheerfulness. A lifeless void created by man and machine for the silent lavation of dirty cloths. The only excitement in the dismal place occurred when my mother gave me coins to start the washer. The reason for my journey had arrived as I stood on the concrete ledge and put money in the machine. I pushed the coin slot and smiled as the water came gushing out. Filled with soap and clothes I watched as the agitator swished back and forth and held back the desire to place my hand in the water.

Time passed with no donuts as the laundromat emptied. I sat swinging my legs as a bored gesture and watched my mother fold the last of the clothes. The front windows became a mirror image due to the darkness of the outside and I began to make faces when something caught my attention. I thought it was a piece of clothing left bundled above the machine. Standing on the concrete ledge I pulled myself up and stretched my head to see better, and there it was, a human hand. I didn't know what to do. The shock and disbelief made me question the reality. My fingers slipped off the white steel and I lost my footing. I climbed back up and with a deep breath I confronted the dismembered limb. Fingers pointed at my face with frightening intent, movable fingers, to reach out and grab around the throat or dig deep into my soul by gouging out my eyes with the fleshy tips. Why didn't I scream? Shout to my sisters if not in terror, but to terrorize them. I couldn't scream. My attention was fixed on the hand. My body paralyzed with a morbid curiosity.

It was a man's hand with black hair sticking out from the knuckles getting thicker as it reached the reddish outline of the wrist. The tanned skin had a gray cast and a bluish tone outlined the nails. I studied my own hand alive with color soft and flexible unlike the thing that laid thick and heavy on the white tile.

Did the still expression wait for a spark of instruction? Did it wait for my will to bring it back to life—coins in a slot to animate the severed hand into a machine like action? It should move, even dead the nature of a hand is to move.

I slipped again as the back of my legs hit the row of chairs. I raised my head for a glimpse of the dark outline of the fleshy stub, but only the tips of the fingers stared back.

How did it get here? Was it from the funeral parlor next door, or worse a leftover of someone's laundry? The thought of a murderer who dismembers its victims washing the bloody sheets of the horrific act in the same washer made me sit and clench my fists in fear. My clothes could be tainted, unclean with the spirits of the restless dead and the sterile atmosphere of the laundromat harsh with an industrialized air a perfect repository for a piece of severed flesh.

At the other end of the laundry my mother was taking baskets out to the car. I ran to relate what I saw—my two sisters probably wondering what I was up to. She looked to where I had pointed and said she didn't see anything and she was tired and it was getting late and it probably was a joke with a fake hand someone was trying to play on unsuspecting patrons since it was close to Halloween. I thought about that for a moment and tried to picture what a fake hand would look like. Not having a lot of experience with faked or severed hands how could I be sure?

We piled into the cold car and an extra shiver went through me as I sat there in deep thought. My mind tried to process the grisly experience. My mother bought a box of donuts which my sisters grabbed opening it to the delights inside. Not feeling hungry they set it on the seat next to me. It was white with red writing and I thought about the hand—the red wrist and protruding bones heavy on the waxen tile above the machine. What if the hand was in the box when I opened it? A tanned, gray decaying appendage instead of soft white covered donuts. With enough nerve I lifted the lid and to my delight there were glazed, jelly, and chocolate covered wonders.

The Vampire Dream

She ran through the corridors of the decayed building with the hope that his daily quest for blood would keep him occupied long enough until she could find the machine. It had to be hidden among the other atrocities of torture that filled the pit. She stopped breathless and tried to focus, but terror and the certainty of hideous reprisals when she destroyed the hellish device clouded her mind. The thought of being impaled on the board of spikes until she bleeds out while he brought in another unfortunate soul, making her watch as he crushed its head in the vile mechanism, gripped her stomach. She had to do it! Find it! Destroy it! Even if it meant days of hunger in the sunroom while he let her gradually burn. Keep running, she thought and if the device were not in the pit, then she'd use the scent of death to seek it out.

I was surprised to find Caden, an old friend, wandering in my dream. A place of grassy fields and arched buildings he greeted me and acknowledged remembrance with a grand smile and wave of his hand. A nondescript scene, typical of any dream the landscape faded from a stark vision to a blurred jumble, a checkerboard of dismembered experiences hard to grab and bring into coherent focus. The sight of Caden helped me to leave the first dream of a future sojourn into space to this new reality. I wondered if he had entered my dream or a phantom of the subconscious conjured him from old desires.

We engaged in conversation without words, a mental aberration typical of a dream, but the more we reminisced about the past, the more words had sound. The features of his face took on movement, and the garbled nature became solid and real. Caden didn't look like the Caden I knew, but a thinner young man with curly, black hair. He wore a black, trench coat and the demeanor of the old friend vanished. Who was this person and how did he invade my dream with such articulate flair?

He continued the conversation, excited as he walked the field of yellow grass, happy that the sky was bright and that this was the day he had longed for. The day he became a Vampire. My heart sunk into a savage of despair, the evil darkness of the subconscious had been playing me a fool as it prepared to turn the innocence of a distant memory and wrap it around some diabolical misery. Should I play along or force myself awake? Did I have a choice, for I don't believe I had control. Frozen and unable to move on occasion I'd scream with a final effort to pull myself out of the crepuscule of mind to the daylight of reason. In this instance the scenario trapped the curious nature of my inner inclination and I had to know why and how Caden would want to become a vampire.

A mannered discussion on the subject the author defiled by changing the scene. It required no debate only the adoration of its own magnificence and had placed me some distance from an aged and sturdy oak tree. A figure stood by the tree; shadows cast from leaves defined the ghost as a stout man with an air of strength and determination in his stance. He wore khaki coveralls discolored with brownish and black stains buttoned to the neck, but the peculiar if not queer feature of his dress were the painted over goggles fixed tight to the eyes with a band that wrapped around a bald head. Caden seemed delighted at the sight of the stranger and I sensed this remarkable apparition the means of the transformation into a creature eternally damned until from the corner of my eye gleamed a sparkle of white. It stood vertical on the yellow, straw-like grass and resembled a small refrigerator. The white rectangular box showed signs of age with rust and chips that revealed the dark underbody. To the right side fitted a metal lever with a wooden handle, better to grip when pushing down. I wondered why such a contraption would need a lever when I caught site of the mechanism inside it was attached. From two flat panels of gray metal protruded several rows of sharp spikes. They glistened from the sun which had little effect in changing their intended nature for the steel was crusted with reddish-brown debris. This fearful apparatus had been deliberately constructed to be a means of torture.

Screams woke me out of my observation and I turned to see Caden being dragged by the hair and neck towards the vile mechanism. The shock of this brutality revealed the deceitful nature of the workman and that whatever subterfuge perpetrated upon my unknown friend the deception angered in the young man's struggles. My shouts and attempts to move were stifled by the peculiar physics of the dream world. I now had become an observer—an impotent specter incapable of sound or movement. Helpless, I watched as the battle continued and the desire to leave, to awake to the real world, left my rational, as an unnatural attraction to the violence fed an inner hunger. The coat torn from the body and the flailing arms grasping with useless attempts at release now fell to the yellow grass the texture of which tore and bloodied the exposed flesh. Hands gripped as fingers dug into the ground to slow the advance towards the hideous fate, but when the weight of the body halted, the madman jerked harder at the hair and throat and I wondered if the gasps from the terrified victim would be his last.

She tied the thick rope around a metal beam that held up the roof of the foundry. The abandoned structure adapted as a prison and fit well the intended purpose. This section covered the bright sun of the day while the rest had caved in or were collapsed by the madman to keep his victims from escaping while he donned his protective clothing to lure the daily meal. The pit he had dug deeper and placed rusted iron for walls and in this made chamber, sat the devices of torture.

She tossed the rope over the edge of the sharp metal hoping it would not cut deep into the twisted fiber leaving her trapped. At one point the consideration to jump crossed her mind, but the pit was too deep and in her weakened state, which the madman kept all his victims, her body may not heal in time for escape. The rope itself shortened from the bottom of its destination and the leap to the ground a shorter distance. A quick escape to the top was also necessary in case the evil device resided somewhere else in the foundry.

"You will never find it, Mercy, my evil twin. He has many a year to your young mind; he is too clever, you'll find out." said an echoed voice close behind.

She searched the area as her vampire eyes found the two green orbs from were the voice came. The Hag! Always watching. Spying on every attempt at escape. The old woman who called her Mercy, as if that was my name, well I call her Hag. She never shows her true self, always hiding in the dark, always tormenting with vile language every failure and suffering. Mercy avoided a useless debate with the wicked crone and continued her decent into the torture pit.

Confronted by the slab of spikes where last she laid when refusal of some errant command made her captor angry, the bridge of sanity started to collapse. She ran her delicate fingers along the metal thorns and scraped with her nails at the dried blood, her blood, losing hope and the purpose of her mission—to find and destroy the machine. There were so many fiendish devices the vampire invented; like the chair fitted with coiled burners from old stoves that seared into the flesh as they glowed orange with hate. He made her watch as he burned an old man who he thought was worthy to be a vampire if he could withstand the agony. He goaded him with promises that the wounds would heal and made assurances such torture is necessary if you are to inflict pain and death on the innocent. The serial killer, madman when made a vampire found the perfect instrument for torment was a like creature. If caught and made to die a flesh and blood person can only die once. Now they can never die and in his self-made nightmare suffer in the true eternal sense. She wondered if he imagined himself to be the devil—the great deceiver, never mind a mere or minor demon. He the master of invented means to satisfy a blood thirst commanded by King's to elicit truths, false or not; no doubt a reincarnation of a damned soul from the Middle Ages or centuries past finding the secret to eternal life fed by the gore from others. The rack and iron maiden was no match for the mechanical cruelties of his sick mind. The final death of his immolations was the silver spike attached to a clockwork, when set, would slowly drive into the vampire heart. Into the blue spark that buried deep in the beating flesh. Timed for eleven minutes the gears advanced a half of an inch until the silver spike connected with the evil spark and exploded the heart, killing the host that bore the malicious parasite. Hawthorne, the wood from a magical tree, the first choice did not delight in the type of fire that silver ignited. The fire that ended the old man.

"That is your fate if you destroy the machine," cried the Hag as Mercy jumped back to reality. "You must know by now he has wounded your mind and the device you seek is no longer in the building. Your search is hopeless. He will build another while you suffer on the rack, watching."

Mercy knew the Hag was right and it was out of necessity to save the little sanity and leave the charnel dungeon. The madman had destroyed her will. The only way to get to the machine is when he is here. Then she would have a chance. The one chance to stop the madness, destroy the machine and the infernal canister of blood it contained.

Caden chocked away any attempt at escape. The madman had Caden's head between the iron plates and was ready to push down on the lever, but stopped short of the full force to cause damage. The painted goggles paled the brightness of day and it was then I noticed the mask of rubber that protected the creatures face. I thought him bald from a distance while in the brutality of dragging the body in such a horrid fashion I failed to notice the lack of features. Now up close the nausea filled my chest as the terror of the mask tied at the neck with a thick rope revealed a man without a true face. A mockery of nature was the slickness of rubber and neither eyes, nor nose, became apparent until the thing spoke and the movement behind the pretense made it no less ghastly.

He tapped a canister filled with red liquid with a needle attached to a thin, rubber hose. The raspy voice, deep in timbre, grunted as it tapped again against the glass.

"Do you know what this sound is?" asked the madman.

My dream friend started to gurgle a reply when the creature pushed down on the lever causing the dreaded spikes to further touch the head never meaning for Caden to answer.

"It contains the elixir of life, the blood from ages past, concocted by an alchemist who on a stormy night in a deserted inn bragged about his ability to bestow eternal life. A pact with a demon he had cheated out of his soul wherein the hellish creature promised if he mixed the devilish brew, the demon would possess it exacting a terrible price. When the man left the inn near the early morning I captured him, and tied him over a fire, promising to release him if I had the formula. Do you believe the words I say," yelled the creature as a shadow cast were the mouth sucked in air

Caden stayed silent, but the master pushed on the lever a little more until the poor victim grunted a muffled cry.

"The demon had been correct. I tied and sacked the alchemist and found a secluded place where I gathered the ingredients and mixed them together the final the blood of a human. I used the alchemist's and as it blended with the secret components, it sparkled blue. Instruction did not allow for one to drink the evil concoction, but to impart it within the blood-flow of the host. I cut a hole to the alchemist's heart and poured the viscous, fluid into the wound. You should have heard him scream. Do you like to hear people scream, Caden? Would you make a good vampire? The machine your head is stuck in is a test. You see, I give you the needle and while I start to crush your skull, you shove it into your neck. The blood will mix with yours and it will heal the holes in you pretty face. The right to be a vampire means you must inflict pain in order to live, but if you cannot inflict pain upon yourself what right do you have to inflict it on others? It's a test. The alchemist died for it is only the will of the transformed blood; the possessed corpuscles created by the curse from the demon that makes the creature. The demon killed the cheater of souls and found me worthy to infuse the blood through a self-inflicted wound. If you cannot endure the pain than you are good at least to make more of the blood."

I no longer wanted to experience the sadistic abuse or be a participant in my own dream, and I began to wonder if this malicious drama the result of a possession by some evil spirit that invaded my mind. This often happens by direct contact, the demon making its presence known, but on occasion the deception to prey on the sensibilities of emotion the dreamscape fashions into a nightmare dictated by the malevolent invader.

Thrown to the ground I faced away from the scene. The madman continued his insane dialogue of torment. He explained that he needed to drain the blood and he'd insert another needle into Caden's arm. If not near death the potion could become diluted and not saturate all the tissues, leading to conversion failure.

In front of me sat an empty glass container on a wooden table. As it filled with Caden's blood I understood why the dream placed me in this prone position. Caden grabbed onto me and squeezed tightly as a child would when frightened. His legs began to thrash back and forth struggling to escape the hideous fate. The madmen screamed at him, shouted with horrible profanities to jam the needle in the neck to prove he was worthy of the possession of demonic immortality. Caden failed as his body weakened and the madman took the needle and stabbed it in the poor man's throat.

Released from my vision I stood over Caden's body. The landscape of yellow grass moved as a slight breeze passed. So did the leaves of the oak tree and the hideous form of the man in coveralls shimmered—the shadows cast to define his form. He waited far away from us, far away from the machine. Caden's hair remained long and curly and the face showed no sign of trauma from the spikes. He opened his eyes which colored a beautiful gray, almost white. He smiled and stood up and began to jump around happy as if nothing horrible had occurred. Stunned, and glad to see him alive I guessed his dream of being a vampire came true. That he experienced sensations alien to the human condition. His desires in my fantasy complete I went to ask, to speak out, but my voice still frozen watched in horror as his skin ignited into flames. The clothing caught fire and burned away as the smell of roasting flesh sickened my stomach. Caden ran in circles screaming, clutching the air until the charred body fell to the ground while the madman laughed in the distance. The last I saw of the imagined friend the vampire rolled the blackened corpse into a dark bag. A body bag which he zipped tight, so the body burned no more.

Mercy sat in the cramped room next to the cruel machine. She thought the destruction necessary for her own peace of mind. A tiny victory to keep what sanity she had left. Now sitting alone in the dark with the vile contraption she decided only the madman's death would stop the terror. She listened to the wails and cries in the distance from the madman's newest victim. If only she could find a way to end herself, but the temptation of continued immortality, even if it meant the possession and torture from the fiend, weighed on her reason. He did give her this chance. He placed her in a special closet and challenged her to break the container filled with blood. To let it spill on the floor, lose its black magic. If she did this, he would tie her to the clockwork and let the metal stake ignite the blue spark. The room had fifteen feet to the top fitted with a fan that turned during the day allowing the right measure of light to torment the flesh. Vampire flesh. Not a full blast of sun, but variable flashes. The only way she can survive the days ahead is to feast on the only food available—the blood in the container. When finished, he would release her without further punishment. Mercy caressed the glass filled with blood as tiny sparkles of blue light responded as they moved towards her cold hand.

Caden I failed to help, and the same with the young woman. I am the phantom in their reality. The hidden ghost that observes, but not dispassionate, not without compassion. The dream, if a reflection of our anxieties, creates nightmarish plays, but then who are the actors? What part of my superego is Caden, the young, carefree man willing to sell his soul for adventure? Am I Mercy, with the desire to correct wrongs in the real world, but falls short because of self-doubt and the lack of self-esteem? Who is left, but the madman—the fiendish inventor of torturous devices? I'd argue he is determination and strength sent to push my weaker self forward to achieve. The subconscious twists the actors into ghoulish metaphors of character. Contemplation helps to cleanse the fears of a demented mind. It is only a nightmare; scream the rational in the middle of the night where shadows of the ordinary creep along painted walls. But, the workman that ravages the human soul waits in the convoluted matter of the brain. Waits for the night. Waits for the deepest sleep.

The Banshee

Gerard waited for dusk before he traveled the long road to Versailles. He knew robbers practiced their trade in the daylight when the aristocrats flaunted with foolish pride the riches they gained by heredity. Dusk, the time between the opposites of light and dark, the time of transitions when the human mind silenced its troubled aspect and labored towards sleep. Even the thief drinks before the night. Gerard regarded the path safe during the twilight. But, there is another magic that occurs between the line of the sun and moon, the softening of the fabric that guards the mundane world from the madness of realities so hideous even the darkness of the human psyche runs in terror.

The regal coach hidden by tall grass and low branches glowed even in the dimness of the setting sun. Gerard approached with caution not wanting to get shot as a robber. The decorative trim and well-crafted ornaments meant this a royal conveyance. One that had broken down and left at the side of the road for future rescue. The absence of horses confirmed this assessment and the lack of personage to guard; Gerard didn't hesitate to check the carriage for leftover or forgotten items. The excitement to explore the inside hastened his steps until he heard a muffled groan. The cry continued as Gerard peered in the window to discover a beautiful and well-dressed woman—a member of the Court no doubt. A victim of robbers who may have stolen both jewel and horse leaving the poor woman, alive, but injured. He could be the hero of this tragedy. A wealthy hero when he carries her back to Versailles and relates how he alone fended off the miscreants.

The inside walls lined with tufted fabric and cushioned seats failed to hide the air of sickness. The approaching night warmed better than the inside of the coach. Chilled, the minute Gerard stepped inside, his skin crawled and body shivered perhaps due to the circumstance, but the lady in distress exuded a calm demeanor which made the atmosphere more inviting. Gerard noticed the softness of skin to the round face, the neckline, pink with desire as it hid beneath the delicate lace of her gown. The seductive lips, almost white, slightly parted begging to speak as the faintest of sound filled his ears.

She didn't appear harmed, yet the voluminous dress can hide broken bones and deadly bruises. How can he tell, but ask? She answered with a sigh that concealed music beneath as he drew near to listen. He asked again if she were harmed and her name, but she stared with pale, blue eyes, the color blue of an afternoon sky, then green the brightest color of summer leaves, and the orange of autumn, the color's kept changing to brown, and gray, and violet until they became a hypnotic swirl, a mesmerizing rainbow that drew Gerard deeper into a state of drowsiness. His limbs weakened as the enchantment intensified. He witnessed the delicate mouth open and experienced a pull upon his soul. A white mist flowed from his body into the dark opening as the eyes continued to hold him helpless.

The unholy interlude was interrupted by the caw of a crow. It landed on the carriage and made enough noise to awaken Gerard back to reality. The eyes of the woman turned a shiny black as the crow continued its assault. Her delicate song turned into a horrible screech to drown out the animal's noise as her hand reached up and grabbed Gerard's face. The appearance of the young courtesan began to take on the signs of age. Shocked and befuddled under the spell Gerard tried to pull away, but the delicate fingers turned into savage claws that dug into his skin. Her face continued wrinkled and scarred as the golden color of her hair fell as white strands on a blackened neckline. Her tongue covered with oozing pustules reached out towards his lips. Gerard screamed as the crow screamed and he managed to break away as he fell backward out of the carriage door. The woman followed ready to pounce when with his last ounce of strength Gerard stood up and ran.

The train out of Paris to Versailles was an exciting twofold journey—one to see Versailles and the other to meet up with an old friend from school. Paris with all its history and art and those that have passed through it, made this vacation an experience of mystery and wonder.

The train station opened onto the Avenue de Paris where groups of people walked their way to the palace of Versailles. Eric stood on the sidewalk, dark-haired, wearing jeans with a jean jacket, two cameras around his neck, and a large camera bag next to him on the ground. Eric and I went to art school together in the states and he being the only person that I knew that traveled made his way to France to visit his cousins. We decided to meet at Versailles and then return to the city where we'd spend the rest of the week. A couple years had passed since graduation and neither of us could talk fast enough while we made our way to the iron gate of the Sun King.

The Palace of Versailles was an architectural jewel up against the blue sky. I didn't know where to look first. We walked through room after room occasionally stopping to listen to a tour guide pointing out some extraordinary feature or telling some unique story. The climax was the Hall of Mirrors. Chandeliers hung from painted ceilings ready to illuminate the long mirrored walls and gilded bronze capitals when lit and I imagined Counts, Barons, and women in long gowns and tall wigs waiting for a Louis to arrive in regal robes. The gardens amazed with a geometric precision of color complimented by statues and mythical fountains. We watched Apollo rise up from the water pulled by four large horses while streams of jets accompanied the grandeur. A tribute to the sun god or a classical Christ adopted by the King to establish his sovereignty.

We made our way down the Grand Canal to the Petite Trianon a good example of Neoclassical charm and nestled in the woods beyond, the Queens Hamlet, a country styled cottage with a tall tower, that sits on the edge of a murky lake—a fairytale land for a Queen who desired a rustic hideaway.

Eric decided to track back to the Trianon to take more pictures, and we'd meet by the Rock Pavilion. This gave me extra time to explore the Temple of Love, an ornate carousel of columns topped by a rounded roof. A folly of marble cradled among the trees with the main attraction a statue of Cupid. I started along the path to the Pavilion through the thick wood and underbrush. Uncertain of the location I followed other tourists listening to their voices as I enjoyed the warm afternoon sun. I marveled at the intensity of colors of the woodland—greens and yellows, umbers and violets, swayed in the summer breeze waiting for some artist to paint them. Absorbed in the excitement of the day I noticed my path grow wider. The sound of my companions disappeared. The wind no longer carried the noise and as I rounded a corner of a thicket I stumbled onto an enormous road. A dirt road where tufts of grass grew between the tracks. Enormous trees, twisted with old bark and age with leaves that formed a giant canopy of green blocked out the blue of the sky. The timber lined both sides of the road and no matter which way I looked they bordered to infinity. How did I take a wrong turn and end up on a back road? It must go to Versailles or into the village. Eric will worry if I'm not at the Pavilion. I'll retrace my steps and start new when I get to the Temple of Love. But, fate pointed an alternate direction for as my foot moved to take another step I found myself in the middle of the abandoned highway far from the edge of the forest. How I traveled in an instant confounded if not amused me, but as I steadied my thoughts for an explanation, the atmosphere of the place dimmed not only from the lack of light, but the absence of sound. Silence was now my companion as I started to walk towards the edge of the wood. I managed a few steps in the right direction when again I faced the unending road. Baffled, I sensed a movement at my back—a force that began to push me forward. I turned to see the shape of a man running, but before I could move out of the way he crashed into me the power spinning me almost off my feet.

I ran as a tremendous fear tightened my chest with such fierceness I thought it would burst. Behind a monstrous evil chased with determination and resolve to rip out my soul. The silence broke with the collision and a high-pitched wail rebounded off the trees and ground. The name Gerard born out of the harsh sound confounded my senses and I screamed I was not Gerard, but Lucas! A terrified revelation entered as a vision of a young man in the grip of a devilish ghoul in the guise of a beautiful woman, chased him down this empty road. The sight of black, blood-lined eyes, and foul breath now became a part of my memory. I had become Gerard. The persona of the man blended with mine. His clothes, hair, and very manner penetrated my being. He ran. He'd run until the heart gave, a better fate than what the banshee offered. The darkness closed around as the last red sliver of sun disappeared behind purple clouds. There was no end to the accursed road. The edge of reality faded with the light and the only salvation was death.

I thought of Eric still waiting somewhere in future time for I knew I had stumbled into the past—a journey taken by a wrong turn into the soul of another man. The banshee screeched louder as the wind slammed against our backs. She drew closer and the sharpness of her talons started to burn our skin. We ran the eternal dark until another sound interrupted—that of a crow. It sat flapping its wings from a high limb silhouetted against a lighted mist, cawing loud against the blood-curdling wail of the old woman. Both Gerard and I knew we had to run towards the crow, towards the edge of the wood no matter how hopeless such an act. It dawned on us that the branches and prickly shrubs might tear at the banshee; tear at us as well, but the cawing of the crow convinced Gerard and we headed for the mist.

A bright light blinded my eyes as the sharp thicket rushed past. The wood scratched my skin and the uneven earth made me stumble. An unseen force pushed against my forward motion as fear reminded me to move on, away from the danger. The crow and the wail of the banshee grew louder as they competed for dominance until in an ear-splitting crescendo the drama stopped and I stood at the edge of the Rock Pavilion.

The day, bright and calm with the blue sky and summer breeze, shocked me back to reality. People busy with talk and laughter continued to calm my fear when the memory came back and I turned to find the banshee gone. The twilight, the crow, the gut-wrenching screams no longer followed. I breathed heavily and thought on what happened. Did I travel through time or fall into a past life? What became of Gerard? Did the poor man escape or did the monster feed on his body letting the soul reincarnate into a future person named Lucas? The hideous nature of the woman hadn't faded. The adventurous spirit of Gerard lingered as clarity allowed a vision of a royal coach and seductive courtesan. I hoped Gerard escaped. I hoped Gerard had a long and happy life. But, there was Eric in the distance, a smile of recognition on his face and as I walked towards him I stopped for on the head of a statue of the goddess Nyx sat silent, a black crow.

THE END
