forefront of what seems a very long
hall, almost too long to be real. I often have a vague sense that
there is something in my hand but I don’t look at it; the hall is
of more importance.
The walls on either side seem oversized and
climb high into nowhere. The same fixtures and paintings decorate
them. I am unable to make these out with any clarity, but they
leave me with a feeling of being otherworldly.
It is dark. And yet it is not, which gives
me the impression of some lighting being present. Its existence
only increases the eeriness and the gloom, creating an incessant
stream of ghostlike shadows appearing and disappearing along the
walls.
I feel fear in stepping forward, but some unrecognizable
force pushes me to do just that. As I walk along the hall, the wall
on my left ends and gives way to a spiral staircase. It is made of
dark iron. Occasionally, I pause long enough to take in the
intricacy of its design, the swirls and curls that career
downward.
To my right there is another painting. This one, I do
recall, a portrait of a man, quite fierce in his expression and
quite conservative in his demeanor. Large bushy eyebrows rest over
cold, grey eyes that give me the impression of being followed. For
a moment, I remain paralyzed before it, fascinated by the detail
but at the same time frightened of it. Sometimes, I sense it speak
to me, instructing me to go back to where I came.
But I know I can’t.
An abrupt movement to the left of me catches
my eye. Slowly stepping up the shadowy staircase is a woman. She
stops; her hand grips the iron railing. The expression on her face
is changeable, sometimes impassive, sometimes jubilant but always
staring at me. She is saying something but I cannot make it out. My
mouth moves as if I’m answering, but the words are silent, lost in
the ethereal void between us.
She then turns and fades downwards into
nothingness.
I turn my attention back to the door.
Interestingly enough, the markings on the door continue to increase
in detail with each dream. It is almost as if it is a living thing,
maturing, developing its own characteristic designs.
In addition, there are voices. I’m certain of that. Barely
audible, but definitely present. Soft, colorless voices, humming.
In some of the dreams, I imagine that I can actually decipher
intermittent words, but their nonsensical disorder lacks any
meaning.
In spite of it, it never takes me long to
establish the origin of the voices. The door, ever dominant, ever
formidable, continually reigning in its hold over me, drawing me
closer and closer.
When I finally arrive in front of it, as I always do, I am
immediately taken aback, not just by the sheer magnitude of it and
all its curious markings but also by the swift shot of terror
overpowering me.
Ordering me not to open it.
The feeling consumes
me, saps my energy.
In every dream, it is precisely at this
point that I wake up.
***
My body lurched with an enormous inhalation
of air.
My dress was
drenched, my body quivering. I sat upright, raised my arms behind
my head and concentrated on inhaling several deep breaths, a ritual
I often did to steady my reaction to the dreams. Gradually, my
heart stopped its thumping; my body its shaking and my senses
returned to some normality.
As they did,
I slowly began to take in my surroundings. I was on a queen-sized
bed, in a room of contemporary taupe and white furnishings. To my
left, soft, gossamer curtains fanned from partially opened sliders,
revealing a bushy stretch beyond. To my right, a glistening white
ensuite. In front, large paneled doors, most likely the
wardrobe.
I bit my lip
and tried to recapture the events that led to my being there, the
family Christmas and all it epitomized, and the gruesome incident
in my car. I dropped my head in my hands, wishing I had not
remembered. Soon, another image began to form. That of a
man.
Saul Reardon.
I remembered
him coaxing me from the nightmare and me freely driving off
hall, almost too long to be real. I often have a vague sense that
there is something in my hand but I don’t look at it; the hall is
of more importance.
The walls on either side seem oversized and
climb high into nowhere. The same fixtures and paintings decorate
them. I am unable to make these out with any clarity, but they
leave me with a feeling of being otherworldly.
It is dark. And yet it is not, which gives
me the impression of some lighting being present. Its existence
only increases the eeriness and the gloom, creating an incessant
stream of ghostlike shadows appearing and disappearing along the
walls.
I feel fear in stepping forward, but some unrecognizable
force pushes me to do just that. As I walk along the hall, the wall
on my left ends and gives way to a spiral staircase. It is made of
dark iron. Occasionally, I pause long enough to take in the
intricacy of its design, the swirls and curls that career
downward.
To my right there is another painting. This one, I do
recall, a portrait of a man, quite fierce in his expression and
quite conservative in his demeanor. Large bushy eyebrows rest over
cold, grey eyes that give me the impression of being followed. For
a moment, I remain paralyzed before it, fascinated by the detail
but at the same time frightened of it. Sometimes, I sense it speak
to me, instructing me to go back to where I came.
But I know I can’t.
An abrupt movement to the left of me catches
my eye. Slowly stepping up the shadowy staircase is a woman. She
stops; her hand grips the iron railing. The expression on her face
is changeable, sometimes impassive, sometimes jubilant but always
staring at me. She is saying something but I cannot make it out. My
mouth moves as if I’m answering, but the words are silent, lost in
the ethereal void between us.
She then turns and fades downwards into
nothingness.
I turn my attention back to the door.
Interestingly enough, the markings on the door continue to increase
in detail with each dream. It is almost as if it is a living thing,
maturing, developing its own characteristic designs.
In addition, there are voices. I’m certain of that. Barely
audible, but definitely present. Soft, colorless voices, humming.
In some of the dreams, I imagine that I can actually decipher
intermittent words, but their nonsensical disorder lacks any
meaning.
In spite of it, it never takes me long to
establish the origin of the voices. The door, ever dominant, ever
formidable, continually reigning in its hold over me, drawing me
closer and closer.
When I finally arrive in front of it, as I always do, I am
immediately taken aback, not just by the sheer magnitude of it and
all its curious markings but also by the swift shot of terror
overpowering me.
Ordering me not to open it.
The feeling consumes
me, saps my energy.
In every dream, it is precisely at this
point that I wake up.
***
My body lurched with an enormous inhalation
of air.
My dress was
drenched, my body quivering. I sat upright, raised my arms behind
my head and concentrated on inhaling several deep breaths, a ritual
I often did to steady my reaction to the dreams. Gradually, my
heart stopped its thumping; my body its shaking and my senses
returned to some normality.
As they did,
I slowly began to take in my surroundings. I was on a queen-sized
bed, in a room of contemporary taupe and white furnishings. To my
left, soft, gossamer curtains fanned from partially opened sliders,
revealing a bushy stretch beyond. To my right, a glistening white
ensuite. In front, large paneled doors, most likely the
wardrobe.
I bit my lip
and tried to recapture the events that led to my being there, the
family Christmas and all it epitomized, and the gruesome incident
in my car. I dropped my head in my hands, wishing I had not
remembered. Soon, another image began to form. That of a
man.
Saul Reardon.
I remembered
him coaxing me from the nightmare and me freely driving off
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