Terrifying dream this morning.
Was living in the castle of mon oncle (he did NOT wear a monocle).
Mon oncle was a serial killer.
Mon oncle was Dracula.
Mon oncle had a spiral staircase in the giant central tower of his castle (which was also a giant complex of cheap studio apartments, red-neoned butcher shops, dirty noodle dives, sawdust and puke beer joints) that did not have stairs; it was the longest handicap accessible ramp in the world. Gravity was thin in the tower so that every time you took a step you half glided, half stumbled, half fell. I realize that that is three halves but fine. Toss in another half of nausea and a fifth half of terror and a sixth half of druggy euphoria and then subtract four halves of knowing what the fuck to do--that work out ok? That add up for you? (it didn't for me)
But I digress: at the bottom of the spiral staircase inside the stairwell, a--well, what did you expect? This is a mere dream a parable pun--a tun, a well, a mere, a pond. Dark water. Black black with green scum on top. Plop plop it went sometimes and that meant that something had jumped but you never saw what it was. At night plopPLOP plopplopPLOP and you could see what was there if you wanted but of course you didn't so plopplop you never stopped but sometimes there were lights, maybe, or were those just spots swimming in your eyes, not catfish eel carp glowing faintly, swimming in the dark? Ghost koi to dine on dead hoi polloi? But of course. Where did you think all the disappeared disappear to? Why do you think the water is so filthy, why do you think it stinks?
But I still digress. I will move into the meat of the dream, and start using the second person pronoun. This is so as to distance myself from the dream. The dream is still playing in a loop inside my head, and I want to get the fuck out of here, stand somewhere (somewhere else) pointing a finger at my terrified dream-viewing self and admonish him. Thus:
Living in the mansion of Uncle Jack-kill-hide-ripper-cannibal-Hannibal-Manson-stein-cula, why do you persist in reading ghost stories, even if it's only a dream? Why do you open the book of ghost stories in a bona fide haunted house, and start to scoff? You think it's funny? Are you fucking nuts? You're asleep, is that any excuse for being a dumbass?
--in waking life when you say there's no such thing as a ghost, there's always a little voice inside that tells you that you're wrong, that the unappeased spirits of your ancestors hover over your shoulders, that they nest in your hair, brush cold fingers down the folds of your cerebrum. A fortune teller told you this once, in the first Popeye's Chicken restaurant in Seoul, Korea, and you believe it. Yes you do.
--in dreams when you say there's no such thing as a ghost, the voice that answers you in your head is not your own. It is an old woman's voice. Faint, dry, flat. But sticky like your diabetic grandmother's hands. The toilet seat moves up and down it chatters like your teeth. The sheet on your bed rumples and twists. And when you jump up, when you stand on adrenaline strengthened legs, you can look into the mirror in front of you you can see in the mirror a face in your closet. A woman. Sepulchre eyes and headstone brow, lips of mist and hair of smoke. She walks forward. You turn around and there is nothing. And all the strength goes out of your legs. You sit down like somebody socked you in the stomach and knocked you on your ass. And you do that Hollywood doomed victim scuttle shuffle, crabwalking backwards frantically, gibber screaming as if trying to achieve some sort of lung-powered jet propulsion...
And you wake up.
Please wake up.
Please.
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