Dream #___, male
May. 11th, 2004 12:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thedarksiren2He had told us to sit and wait for him in one of the dusty old rooms. Little Billy and I sat patiently, a bit frightened but more anxious than anything. We wanted to see ghosts, and we would see them today.
I heard a loud scream, and Billy jumped up to see what was going on. I grabbed his shirt from behind and told him to sit tightly because the man said he would come back for us.
At one point, I looked around the room. Old chairs covered in white sheets turned yellow from time and decay. I sneezed when the dust made its presence better known, and little Billy blessed me as only a six year old can.I looked to the right of the couch we sat on, which often turned into a box or a milk crate, depending on the perspective-view of the dream. I thought I saw something move on the large chair over there, but I didn't want to know just then, and focused on the small ray of light that shone just at the foot of the chair, followed it up to the window, shadowed by cobwebs and more sandy-dust.
The man with the mustache walked by our door very intently, passed us by, his lips pursed and his brows determined. I lifted my hand to wave at him, opened my mouth to say something, but I inhaled dust and began coughing.
I heard echoes of my coughs down the hallway. The echoes turned to mocking, as a dozen other coughs imitated mine. Billy's eyes got huge, and he grabbed my left arm tightly. I tried to stop coughing, but instead my eyes began to water, and everything was turning into a blurry sandy haze. I was frightened, and became more anxious as things became less clear.
My heart raced, and we both stood up. The coughing cacophony became roaring laughter, and as we approached the door, we heard more screams. I didn't care, I went through the doorway into the hallway, and saw the man with the mustache down the hall on the left with a small pick-axe. He suddenly seemed to be from the 1930's, dressed in an off-black, almost brown suit, his hair slicked back and his mustache turned to handlebars. He looked at me, his body facing a doorway and his head turned left, and he smiled a most sickly smile that gave me chills. I pushed Billy back into the room, told him to "go go go," pushing him quickly back to the couch.
I looked behind me at the window again. It was high, high like in a warehouse, and I suddenly wished the mattress would appear, make me safe again. I wished little Billy wasn't around, and that he was safe somewhere else. I noticed my clothing at this point...a drab, off-white lacy gown, very lovely and proper for a girl of this time frame. I felt like I was in a bad western movie, and ran my fingers across the lace, much of it crumbling to the ground as I did so. I stepped backward, and a hand reached out from the chair I had ignored before, a woman telling us, "It was him."
I screamed and jumped forward, my dress ripping in the woman's hands. She sat up, a white sheet suddenly stained with blood, fell to the floor below her. She had a split through her face, a bloody and gored cavern that showed me her old, dying brain. She hissed and gurgled, and Billy didn't know whether to be amazed or horrified.
The man with the mustache came in, and growled loudly as he moved forward to slam his axe into her face. I grabbed Billy, tried to cover his eyes but we both still watched, our faces pained and scared, but unable to look away.
When the man was done, there was a pool of blood on the floor heading toward our feet. I picked Billy up and we climbed onto the couch. The man with the mustache said, "I've done had enough of this place," a long drawl making his words sound comforting, despite his obvious excitement. I pulled Billy closer as the man with the mustache looked up at us with brown, angry eyes.
He squinted for a moment and asked, "Now, what're y'all doin' up there?" He walked toward us and we jumped, which took him by surprise. He didn't understand why we didn't trust him, and began laughing at us "Silly kids." He held out his hand, reassuring us that everything was OK. Just then, the remains of the woman who he'd gored grabbed his leg, and he became an angry mess again, turned away and just kicked her and bashed her skull with his boots.
I was hysterical now, crying and scared. Billy seemed numb, and before we could look away, I heard my mother's voice, laughing.
"Mom!?"
She came around the corner carrying a glass of Pepsi in one hand and a cigarette in the other, smiling from ear to ear. My father was smoking too, laughing with her. "This place is damn fun," she said. She then proceeded to tell us about the hauntings they'd encountered, having stayed overnight. The bed had lifted with them in it, spun and they laughed and thought it was the most fabulous thing ever. Billy and I just stood there, staring. My dad held out his hand, seemed to step right into the man with the mustache. But he began to disappear, and we walked out of the room, the light trailing behind us.
When we opened the front door, there was a carnival going on of some sort. Little Billy became a much older boy, whose name changed but I could not understand. He was mentally retarded now, a tall, thin, well-behaved young man who carried a balloon and wore suspenders because they kept him "together."
We walked across a yellow-grained field, the older boy switching from holding my hand to holding my mother's hand. We were a happy family, the field glowing gold around us as we headed for the tent across the way.
Inside the field, there was a game beginning, and the boy wanted to play, tugging on my father's shirt. He laughed and helped him to put together his string.
It was a strange game, nothing I had ever seen before. You tied a string to a cow in one of the four corners of the tent, and carried the other end tightly, keeping it taut in the air. Another player would do the same, only in the opposite direction. The contestants would jump around, always facing each other, their strings crossing and rubbing against one another. My boy was doing well until the mustache man appeared again, bringing his son to play.
My boy lost over and over again, his string snapping and landing him on his bottom several times. The mustache man smirked triumphantly, and garbled insults about my boy's state to neighbors. I walked up to him, merely seventeen or so, and poked him in the arm several times to get his attention while my dad helped the boy with his string.
"D'ya know why they are retarded, mister?" I asked him angrily.
He raised his eyebrows and looked down at me. "No, angel, please tell me why."
I spat in his left eyeball, is face a contorted, insulted mess. "Because people like YOU cain't seem to get it outta yer thick skulls that THEY AIN'T KIDS NO MORE!" I kicked dirt onto his shiny shoes, and yelled something about how they couldn't be normal if treated 'em like "they was retards!" and stormed away, feeling a bit like the tomboy character in Fried Green Tomatoes. Her name felt like Budgy in the dream, or maybe Idgy...I don't know.
I stormed into the string-ring, and picked up the line the mustache-man's son had been using. There was a thick black string wrapped around it. He was cheating, as everyone else had been using thinner string, colorful and equal. I ran to my dad with it and showed him. He said, "All right, honey, we'll check it out."
We walked over to the judge table, and mustache man's wife sat there. I had a fear in my gut that she was sneaky too, but when we showed her, she tried matching the string up to the ones in her sewing kit and said, "well, I'll be. They sure were cheatin'. I guess I'll hafta disqualify my kin!"
Just then, the boy tugged on my shirt. He kept trying to tell me something, but he couldn't talk. Instead his lips kept saying, "meuh! Meuh!" I tried to see what he wanted to say, but I just couldn't get it. Eventually, he let go of me and ran out into the field. My eyes followed him as he ran, his body changing back into a little boy's, only still not the Billy-boy, and he pointed back toward the farm that used to be a haunted gore-house.
I noticed the gray in the sky, and the swirl...I said to myself under my breath "Tornado..." just as he screamed it for the world to hear.
There was mass chaos beneath the tent, people running to find somewhere, anywhere to hide from the beastly winds. I grabbed my mom and dad grabbed the boy. We knew there was a cellar at the farm, but it was haunted, and the tornado would be there before we would. So we ran east, past trailers and other tents, soldiers cooking rabbits over open-fires. My mom tried so hard to keep her drink from sloshing as she ran, but it did anyway and she grumbled, "Pisswhiskers!"
People hid under their trailers, but we kept running, past an old log cabin and barn, warping and caving in as we passed it by. I could smell a cigar somewhere, and gagged.
We turned a corner in the woods, and rocks tripped my mother so she fell face-first to the ground, crying. Strangely, this created a domino-effect, and we all fell to our faces. I rolled over and told my mom everything was OK, noticing that there was a lake just below our path whose tide was rising. I reached out with my right hand to touch the water, and then looked back upward to my mom, who was now sitting upright and dusting the dirt off her blouse, still holding that glass of Pepsi up.
She cried, "I can't do this anymore. I'm too tired. Just let the wind carry me away to my grave!"
I shook my head and tried to reason with her. Then I felt him coming.
I looked out over the lake, and a zombie-like creature with one bulging eyeball and a dying gray pallor rose from the water slowly. He eventually stood on the water, green drool falling from his mouth where teeth once had been. I tugged on my mother, "Ma, we HAVE to go!" She nodded and agreed through tears, but as we tried to stand, my father lay still on the ground behind me, not dead but not necessarily alive either. I tried to talk to the little boy who was behind my father now, laying on his belly and playing with dirt and rocks. I told him we had to go, called him Billy, but then Tommy, both my brothers' names IRL, but not him. I couldn't find his name, yet tried to motivate him, desperately. He looked up at me, then over at the water-zombie, and then at my father's foot. He tugged on my dad's shoes, tickling his toes. Dad opened his eyes, as if to jump-start a robot or something, and began sitting up. I turned back toward my mother who sat stricken with fear as the monster stood over us, seven feet tall, a face like![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
scottradke's marionettes, only covered in green goo and black blood.
The little boy said, "Mom!"
I turned quickly to see him, to know him, and woke up.
I heard a loud scream, and Billy jumped up to see what was going on. I grabbed his shirt from behind and told him to sit tightly because the man said he would come back for us.
At one point, I looked around the room. Old chairs covered in white sheets turned yellow from time and decay. I sneezed when the dust made its presence better known, and little Billy blessed me as only a six year old can.I looked to the right of the couch we sat on, which often turned into a box or a milk crate, depending on the perspective-view of the dream. I thought I saw something move on the large chair over there, but I didn't want to know just then, and focused on the small ray of light that shone just at the foot of the chair, followed it up to the window, shadowed by cobwebs and more sandy-dust.
The man with the mustache walked by our door very intently, passed us by, his lips pursed and his brows determined. I lifted my hand to wave at him, opened my mouth to say something, but I inhaled dust and began coughing.
I heard echoes of my coughs down the hallway. The echoes turned to mocking, as a dozen other coughs imitated mine. Billy's eyes got huge, and he grabbed my left arm tightly. I tried to stop coughing, but instead my eyes began to water, and everything was turning into a blurry sandy haze. I was frightened, and became more anxious as things became less clear.
My heart raced, and we both stood up. The coughing cacophony became roaring laughter, and as we approached the door, we heard more screams. I didn't care, I went through the doorway into the hallway, and saw the man with the mustache down the hall on the left with a small pick-axe. He suddenly seemed to be from the 1930's, dressed in an off-black, almost brown suit, his hair slicked back and his mustache turned to handlebars. He looked at me, his body facing a doorway and his head turned left, and he smiled a most sickly smile that gave me chills. I pushed Billy back into the room, told him to "go go go," pushing him quickly back to the couch.
I looked behind me at the window again. It was high, high like in a warehouse, and I suddenly wished the mattress would appear, make me safe again. I wished little Billy wasn't around, and that he was safe somewhere else. I noticed my clothing at this point...a drab, off-white lacy gown, very lovely and proper for a girl of this time frame. I felt like I was in a bad western movie, and ran my fingers across the lace, much of it crumbling to the ground as I did so. I stepped backward, and a hand reached out from the chair I had ignored before, a woman telling us, "It was him."
I screamed and jumped forward, my dress ripping in the woman's hands. She sat up, a white sheet suddenly stained with blood, fell to the floor below her. She had a split through her face, a bloody and gored cavern that showed me her old, dying brain. She hissed and gurgled, and Billy didn't know whether to be amazed or horrified.
The man with the mustache came in, and growled loudly as he moved forward to slam his axe into her face. I grabbed Billy, tried to cover his eyes but we both still watched, our faces pained and scared, but unable to look away.
When the man was done, there was a pool of blood on the floor heading toward our feet. I picked Billy up and we climbed onto the couch. The man with the mustache said, "I've done had enough of this place," a long drawl making his words sound comforting, despite his obvious excitement. I pulled Billy closer as the man with the mustache looked up at us with brown, angry eyes.
He squinted for a moment and asked, "Now, what're y'all doin' up there?" He walked toward us and we jumped, which took him by surprise. He didn't understand why we didn't trust him, and began laughing at us "Silly kids." He held out his hand, reassuring us that everything was OK. Just then, the remains of the woman who he'd gored grabbed his leg, and he became an angry mess again, turned away and just kicked her and bashed her skull with his boots.
I was hysterical now, crying and scared. Billy seemed numb, and before we could look away, I heard my mother's voice, laughing.
"Mom!?"
She came around the corner carrying a glass of Pepsi in one hand and a cigarette in the other, smiling from ear to ear. My father was smoking too, laughing with her. "This place is damn fun," she said. She then proceeded to tell us about the hauntings they'd encountered, having stayed overnight. The bed had lifted with them in it, spun and they laughed and thought it was the most fabulous thing ever. Billy and I just stood there, staring. My dad held out his hand, seemed to step right into the man with the mustache. But he began to disappear, and we walked out of the room, the light trailing behind us.
When we opened the front door, there was a carnival going on of some sort. Little Billy became a much older boy, whose name changed but I could not understand. He was mentally retarded now, a tall, thin, well-behaved young man who carried a balloon and wore suspenders because they kept him "together."
We walked across a yellow-grained field, the older boy switching from holding my hand to holding my mother's hand. We were a happy family, the field glowing gold around us as we headed for the tent across the way.
Inside the field, there was a game beginning, and the boy wanted to play, tugging on my father's shirt. He laughed and helped him to put together his string.
It was a strange game, nothing I had ever seen before. You tied a string to a cow in one of the four corners of the tent, and carried the other end tightly, keeping it taut in the air. Another player would do the same, only in the opposite direction. The contestants would jump around, always facing each other, their strings crossing and rubbing against one another. My boy was doing well until the mustache man appeared again, bringing his son to play.
My boy lost over and over again, his string snapping and landing him on his bottom several times. The mustache man smirked triumphantly, and garbled insults about my boy's state to neighbors. I walked up to him, merely seventeen or so, and poked him in the arm several times to get his attention while my dad helped the boy with his string.
"D'ya know why they are retarded, mister?" I asked him angrily.
He raised his eyebrows and looked down at me. "No, angel, please tell me why."
I spat in his left eyeball, is face a contorted, insulted mess. "Because people like YOU cain't seem to get it outta yer thick skulls that THEY AIN'T KIDS NO MORE!" I kicked dirt onto his shiny shoes, and yelled something about how they couldn't be normal if treated 'em like "they was retards!" and stormed away, feeling a bit like the tomboy character in Fried Green Tomatoes. Her name felt like Budgy in the dream, or maybe Idgy...I don't know.
I stormed into the string-ring, and picked up the line the mustache-man's son had been using. There was a thick black string wrapped around it. He was cheating, as everyone else had been using thinner string, colorful and equal. I ran to my dad with it and showed him. He said, "All right, honey, we'll check it out."
We walked over to the judge table, and mustache man's wife sat there. I had a fear in my gut that she was sneaky too, but when we showed her, she tried matching the string up to the ones in her sewing kit and said, "well, I'll be. They sure were cheatin'. I guess I'll hafta disqualify my kin!"
Just then, the boy tugged on my shirt. He kept trying to tell me something, but he couldn't talk. Instead his lips kept saying, "meuh! Meuh!" I tried to see what he wanted to say, but I just couldn't get it. Eventually, he let go of me and ran out into the field. My eyes followed him as he ran, his body changing back into a little boy's, only still not the Billy-boy, and he pointed back toward the farm that used to be a haunted gore-house.
I noticed the gray in the sky, and the swirl...I said to myself under my breath "Tornado..." just as he screamed it for the world to hear.
There was mass chaos beneath the tent, people running to find somewhere, anywhere to hide from the beastly winds. I grabbed my mom and dad grabbed the boy. We knew there was a cellar at the farm, but it was haunted, and the tornado would be there before we would. So we ran east, past trailers and other tents, soldiers cooking rabbits over open-fires. My mom tried so hard to keep her drink from sloshing as she ran, but it did anyway and she grumbled, "Pisswhiskers!"
People hid under their trailers, but we kept running, past an old log cabin and barn, warping and caving in as we passed it by. I could smell a cigar somewhere, and gagged.
We turned a corner in the woods, and rocks tripped my mother so she fell face-first to the ground, crying. Strangely, this created a domino-effect, and we all fell to our faces. I rolled over and told my mom everything was OK, noticing that there was a lake just below our path whose tide was rising. I reached out with my right hand to touch the water, and then looked back upward to my mom, who was now sitting upright and dusting the dirt off her blouse, still holding that glass of Pepsi up.
She cried, "I can't do this anymore. I'm too tired. Just let the wind carry me away to my grave!"
I shook my head and tried to reason with her. Then I felt him coming.
I looked out over the lake, and a zombie-like creature with one bulging eyeball and a dying gray pallor rose from the water slowly. He eventually stood on the water, green drool falling from his mouth where teeth once had been. I tugged on my mother, "Ma, we HAVE to go!" She nodded and agreed through tears, but as we tried to stand, my father lay still on the ground behind me, not dead but not necessarily alive either. I tried to talk to the little boy who was behind my father now, laying on his belly and playing with dirt and rocks. I told him we had to go, called him Billy, but then Tommy, both my brothers' names IRL, but not him. I couldn't find his name, yet tried to motivate him, desperately. He looked up at me, then over at the water-zombie, and then at my father's foot. He tugged on my dad's shoes, tickling his toes. Dad opened his eyes, as if to jump-start a robot or something, and began sitting up. I turned back toward my mother who sat stricken with fear as the monster stood over us, seven feet tall, a face like
scottradke's marionettes, only covered in green goo and black blood.The little boy said, "Mom!"
I turned quickly to see him, to know him, and woke up.
