Floating

Now here I go again, I see crystal vision
I keep my visions to myself
Its only me who wants to wrap around your dreams and ...
Have you any dreams you'd like to sell?  -  Stevie Nicks


When I'm tired I fall asleep so much faster. My dreams come quickly and I start my adventure for the night with much anticipation. When I start to drift off sometimes I know what kind of dream I will be having. A lucid dream is any in which one is aware that one is dreaming. Sometimes I have lucid dreams, other times not.

I felt tonight I would not have any control on where this one would take me. In my subconscious mind I felt apprehensive, worrisome, and even tried to keep from falling asleep. That is not like me at all. What did this night's dream entail? Remember I never like to analyze my mind wanderings.

I was in a dark place. I could not make out where I was. Nobody seems to be here or close as I could not hear noise of any kind. Then the smell hit my nostrils, it had dampness, mixed with a sour putrid odor. I was in a cave with no source of light, frightened I moved forward holding to the side of what felt cold and slimy. 

I felt a breeze, slightly touching me as it passed, then again and again each time coming closer to my face and hair helping me along the narrow dark space. Was it young spirits playing with my psyche? It seemed like they were guiding me somewhere. I let go of the wall and started floating with the slight wind carrying my body along. 

Ghost like figures emerged, with laughter they scolded the vaporous young spirits. I was at the entrance of the cave and saw sunlight. They all disappeared at once, except one holding back saying they would come play again if I was in need, then it was off catching up to the others that had stopped to wait for this mysterious little spirit.  

It turned out to be a good dream and I look forward to meeting my little friends again. 




 
.

Twice Dead?

Real or Dream?

Was I asking for trouble? I bought an old house that needed renovations in every room.

Wanting to do many of the jobs myself, then having local workers in the area to do the reconstructions of what I could not handle. This was a small town and the gossip at the cafe was the house was haunted. I was not one to believe in their lore and just laughed and smiled as the storytellers enjoyed their tales.

When I heard about the previous owner Mr. Greyer, he sounded like a typical ruthless, ornery old man with an angry disposition on life, treating his relatives with disdain when asked for money they had worked for in his employ. He was the richest man in the area and many relatives wanted him to die and leave them in his will. That didn’t happen. It all went to a charity far away in another country.

The story went that all the relatives got together and each taking a knife to his body, stabbed him twenty times. His housekeeper found him in his bed one morning. They all had alibis for each other so no one was ever charged.

My large new bedroom had a high ceiling, heavy drapes covered tall narrow windows, and the bed was at least one hundred years old. It had been old Mr. Greyer’s, so I bought a new mattress.

Drifting off after a grueling day, I thought I was all alone until the heavy breathing started within the walls. As it grew louder and louder it got closer to where I was laying, now with the covers over my head with only a slit to peek out I scanned the room. I could see no one.

Then a tapping began, it sounded like Morse code, I was not even sure what that sounded like, but the tapping kept up, growing with urgency, it seemed like someone was trying to communicate with me. Were the stories true? Was the house haunted? Now I started to wonder. Was this why the workers would only stay a few days, then leave with an excuse, some saying they heard voices when they had torn down the walls in my bedroom to expand it.

The women I had hired to cook and clean, came running in, telling me someone had stolen all the knifes from the kitchen and left the kitchen door open with a trail of blood leading out to the garden. She was afraid to go look outside. The tapping had stopped. I went down stairs with her, heading out to the garden with trepidation.

Old Mr. Greyer was lying in my flowerbed. Twenty kitchen knives protruding out of his body.

The police came, no fingerprints on any of the knives. The blood was from an animal.

 Was someone making portentous statement? 

Mr. Greyer or the relatives?