One of my Nightmares
I sometimes have what I consider to be vivid nightmares. This was one of the two I had last night.
THE HALL
It's too cold in the hall. I wrap my arms around myself and stare down the length. First there are lights, but as the hall goes down, they get further apart, dimmer, less. The walls grow darker and even so far away I know the hall becomes narrower. I stare down the hall and hear the first creak.
The doors are starting to open. All along the walls of the hall are the doors. Thick doors, strong doors, doors made of wood and metal, each fitted with a key. The keys jut out into the hallway, grasping metal hands for me to shake. I rush to the first door, slam it shut. The key turns of its own accord. Beyond the door, something slobbers loud. I turn away in time to see the next door slipping open. I slam it.
The next and the next and the next. They start to slip open and I run from one to the next, shutting them hard, feeling the keys turn. My heart is pounding. The air burns my throat and lungs. My hands throb with pain. I run to the next door and thrust it close, the vibration running down my arms.
The hall narrows. The floor is missing boards. I skip across them and keep running. The doors are what matters. I have to keep the doors shut. The things beyond them are dangerous. They slither and gibber and scream. The doors rattle when they pound but they hold. They hold. If I had a moment, I would sigh with relief.
I don't have a moment.
The lights are flickering like fireflies above me. The floor has developed gaps like a mouth with busted teeth below me. The doors are canted and melted on the edges like a Salvador Dali painting. I keep running. I run. I slam. I ignore the green and purple tint to the air or the smell invading my nose.
The last door is there. Right there. A hands breadth away. It yawns open. My hands contact the wood. I try to shut. A hand wraps around my wrist. The hand is firm but mostly skeletal. It pushes me backward without letting go. His eyes are blue.
They drown me.
He's talking to me, a soft voice. I can hear him over the sound of the keys as they begin dropping to the floor. The keys make the laughter I don't hear in his voice. They tinkle and speak. The doors yawn open now, expelling monsters like vomit into the hall. I see them. I know them. Their faces are me-made, their bodies grotesque and misshapen from my imagination.
He's talking to me.
"It's safe," he whispers drawing me back to the edge of the door. "This is your hall. These are your monsters. We are like you because you made us."
My heart is stopping. Not just no longer pounding but stopping. In my soul are blue roses and tendrils and thorns reaching through me and out of me. These are my loves and with them I am safe.
THE HALL
It's too cold in the hall. I wrap my arms around myself and stare down the length. First there are lights, but as the hall goes down, they get further apart, dimmer, less. The walls grow darker and even so far away I know the hall becomes narrower. I stare down the hall and hear the first creak.
The doors are starting to open. All along the walls of the hall are the doors. Thick doors, strong doors, doors made of wood and metal, each fitted with a key. The keys jut out into the hallway, grasping metal hands for me to shake. I rush to the first door, slam it shut. The key turns of its own accord. Beyond the door, something slobbers loud. I turn away in time to see the next door slipping open. I slam it.
The next and the next and the next. They start to slip open and I run from one to the next, shutting them hard, feeling the keys turn. My heart is pounding. The air burns my throat and lungs. My hands throb with pain. I run to the next door and thrust it close, the vibration running down my arms.
The hall narrows. The floor is missing boards. I skip across them and keep running. The doors are what matters. I have to keep the doors shut. The things beyond them are dangerous. They slither and gibber and scream. The doors rattle when they pound but they hold. They hold. If I had a moment, I would sigh with relief.
I don't have a moment.
The lights are flickering like fireflies above me. The floor has developed gaps like a mouth with busted teeth below me. The doors are canted and melted on the edges like a Salvador Dali painting. I keep running. I run. I slam. I ignore the green and purple tint to the air or the smell invading my nose.
The last door is there. Right there. A hands breadth away. It yawns open. My hands contact the wood. I try to shut. A hand wraps around my wrist. The hand is firm but mostly skeletal. It pushes me backward without letting go. His eyes are blue.
They drown me.
He's talking to me, a soft voice. I can hear him over the sound of the keys as they begin dropping to the floor. The keys make the laughter I don't hear in his voice. They tinkle and speak. The doors yawn open now, expelling monsters like vomit into the hall. I see them. I know them. Their faces are me-made, their bodies grotesque and misshapen from my imagination.
He's talking to me.
"It's safe," he whispers drawing me back to the edge of the door. "This is your hall. These are your monsters. We are like you because you made us."
My heart is stopping. Not just no longer pounding but stopping. In my soul are blue roses and tendrils and thorns reaching through me and out of me. These are my loves and with them I am safe.