I was in the dream, but I wasn’t me. I was an angry, forlorn person. And the house was a large, dilapidated structure that contained the remains of several generations.
A couple of drunken men stood over the grave of a young child, singing a sad little story of the child’s death at the hands of one Angus Hawthorne. “Where is this Hawthorne?” I asked. They pointed to my left, but begged me not to rouse the murderer.
It seemed perfectly natural that in my dream, I never walked, but instead seemed to be transported on a wave of rage, my feet never touching the ground. It seemed I floated over a tomb upon which sat a large finely carved wooden name plate such as one might find on the desk of an executive. “Angus Hawthorne,” the dark block letters read.
With a furious swipe, I knocked the ugly name off the grave and it shattered against the wall. In a rage I screamed the awful name and cursed that fate which denied me the pleasure of killing the monster that had tormented the child.
I remember being on the front porch of the house, brooding life in general when someone said, “You’ve done it.” “Done what?” I asked. “He has awakened.”
It wasn’t a wave of rage this time, but sheer terror that carried me back to that room. The name plate I had shattered was now sitting atop the tomb with nary a scratch on it. But the concrete slab had a gaping hole, as if something had burst from inside the grave with the brute violence of a cannonshot. A cold chill ran down my spine.
Again, I was brooding, watching the deserted street from the front porch. He would come for me. And I would take my place along side that child. Then, deciding to go down swinging, I loudly called out the name of the miserable wretch, and went back inside looking for him!
It seemed the house had a heartbeat. Or was it my heart, beating faster by the moment? The chill started on the back of my neck and then seemed to wrap itself around me. A scream to my right, followed by a loud gasp! The chill grew colder still and, with a jolt, I awakened. The scream had been the brake pads squealing as the truck next to me backed into the parking space. The gasp, the release of the air brake. The cold chill reminded me that it’s in the 20′s tonight and I should turn on the heat. What a night…
Join Ricochet to be part of the smartest and most civil conversation on the web.
- Engage in great conversations on just about any topic on our exclusive Member Feed.
- Write your own posts and let the world know what you think.
- Interact with our contributors as well as fellow members.
- Have your voice heard by opinion-makers and political insiders.
- Attend our legendary Ricochet member meet-ups that take place all across the country and around the world.