Back to Contents

His eyes snapped open. He was still in the living room, but the room felt older. He turned his head, looking around from his low vantage. The space was well lit, but just barely, as if the lamps were set very low. He smelled sulfur. He smelled oil. Gaslamps? Oil lamps? He knew not; he had little experience with them. Still, it was enough to recognize what was placed around him. He found the space fully furnished. Next to him was a chaise lounge, behind which he lay. The clawed feet raised the chaise sufficiently for him to see clear through to the other side of the room, but he could only make out the lower portion of the furniture. Here was most likely a coffee table set over a rug. There was a chair and what he guessed was an ottoman placed before it. The fireplace was furnished with a set of brass tools hanging from a rack—he could, of course, see only ends of the tools hovering over the exposed red brick. On his other side was a large grandfather clock, looming over him with some menace. He took his time to sit up.

He saw the little girl once he was seated upright. She stared at him wide-eyed, though there was a measure of curiosity in her countenance. She wore a clean smock of sturdy material and was barefoot. Once again, she whispered,

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

He tilted his head, returning her gaze.

“You can see me.”

She nodded her head.

“Gloria!” A call from another room. A woman’s voice. “Gloria, honey, where are you?”

Footsteps.

“You have to leave before he sees you,” said Gloria.

“Who?” He held her gaze a moment longer and then the woman appeared, gathering Gloria up in her arms and carrying her away.

“Who were you talking to, baby?” The woman’s voice trailed off as her footsteps receded. She had not seen him.

He climbed to his feet. His sleeping bag and pillow were absent; he was unconcerned as this was a common occurrence. He stepped around the chaise and took a seat upon it, leaning forward to listen, observe.

He guessed this family was a predecessor in the house. Former occupants. There was something here he was meant to see. Or perhaps someone. Perhaps this “he” the child mentioned, whoever he was.

He made a move as if to stand, then felt a strong presence fill the room—similar to which he felt when he was awake. Fear gripped him. The light in the room dimmed, suppressed further as the presence strengthened. Footsteps rose from the hall just off the side of the room where he saw the child. With each step, the presence grew stronger, the air felt heavier, and a nauseous scent stung his nostrils.

Continued after the break

He struggled to wake, but once he had regained some semblance of autonomy in the present, he bolted upright. Sweat stung his eyes as he worked to regain his bearings. The cool air in the room brought its emptiness in sharp relief to his terror, and he slowed his breath. The presence remained, though its intensity was dampened.

Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he slipped out of the sleeping bag, stood, and walked to the kitchen where he washed his hands and splashed water over his face. He now had an idea of what he had to contend with. Or so he thought.

He wandered the empty house aimlessly for some time, pausing before doorways, brushing his fingers along the walls in some places, and spreading out on the floor in others. He wanted to get a feel for the place, map it out in his mind, in his heart; something he should have done before making his first dream walk.

The presence he felt in the dream, it rumbled throughout the house. He could feel it reaching to the very ends of each wing, like arms spread out and hands pressed against the far walls. It claimed this place, though no where else was it strongest than at its heart, in the living room, to which he returned.

His sleeping bag lay on the ground where he left it, undisturbed. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find upon returning; the presence, though damp out of the dream, felt strong enough to incur changes. He just did not know, nor could he guess, what those changes might be.

He needed to think. He needed to rest. He needed to settle in with the presence. His next dream walk would have to wait. He slid into his sleeping bag and stared at the raised ceiling, turning over in his mind the dream from which he had awoken. The girl held concern for him, warning him to get out. The woman—her mother, he guessed—seemed not to notice him, nor be aware of the approaching presence. She had picked up the little girl, Gloria, and walked away, no rush, no fear, just another night in the house. Were there others? The presence was surely a bitter patriarch. An assumption, he knew, but it seemed appropriate.

The setting was interesting. He considered the furniture and the fixtures. The house was decorated in Victorian fashion, which he found odd. The house was built no earlier than the twenties, and everything he and his wife had learned about this area suggested this community was very modern. Could he, perhaps, have experienced a prior resident’s perception of their space? An eccentrism or madness? There was no way to know for sure, especially with such little information as he had at the moment.

A low light began peeking through the blinds, indicating the eminent arrival of the sun over the horizon. It was very late to him--though for many it was very early--and he was ready to sleep. He knew not what tomorrow night might hold, but he wanted to be rested. He closed his eyes and settled into sleep, forgoing his dream practice in favor of letting his subconscious feed him whatever it desired.

Back to Contents

Back to Contents