House of Dreams

  Out through the fields of tall weeds and wild grasses, past a decayed oak and rusted-out pickup truck; into the dense woods on the other side, where the ground is carpeted by multiple layers of dead leaves, built up over the past century. Deep in the heart of these woods is an old house, its boards gray and weather beaten. At night, flickering blue lights dance through the darkness, but there is no one there to see…

 A steaming day in July, the air heavy and hard to breathe. Insects of two dozen varieties filled the thick air, thrown into a frenzy from the heat. The drone of their buzzing had become background noise. I was totally focused on the warped, weathered boards of the old house. Specks of white paint still clung stubbornly in places. A two-story, Southern Gothic masterpiece, it had been abandoned now for many years. Overgrown with weeds and briars, it fairly vibrated with memories of long ago days… Lives lived and lost, children’s laughter, the sounds of cooking, whispered secrets; all the mundane moments that fill our lives between the great joys and tragedies. Memories hung in and around the house like spirits, not yet ready to leave this world. Wanting to mean more than they had in their short lives. I felt a deep and mournful sense of loss, for what I wasn’t sure.

  A sudden wind arose, roaring through the leaves of the trees overhead. Disturbed birds flapped madly. Huge raindrops begin to fall. I quickly sought shelter in the house. I cannot say that I thought quickly; I did not think. I just did it. The door was ajar, and before I knew it, I was inside. It was dark and damp, but not as hot as I’d expected. The wind blew through the broken windows, tattered curtains flying. I was surprised to see that it was still furnished with ancient furniture, bookshelves with half-crumbling books, ornate tables with dusty vases that once held flowers. It was full of dust and debris, dead leaves scattered everywhere. There was a huge fireplace near the center of the far wall, and a door beside it that led down a hallway. Something gleamed in the fireplace, I couldn’t tell what. I had no time to investigate; suddenly I felt very sleepy, and had to lie on the dusty old sofa to keep from falling on the floor. I dreamed of tiny blue lights hovering around my head, talking to me. I dreamed of plague doctors crawling around the walls like spiders. I dreamed of a foreign land, with strange beings walking strange streets, all in the most vivid colors. The blue lights were soothing, comforting; I didn’t feel in danger. In fact, I felt exhilarated. I felt as though I belonged here. I didn’t want to leave the house, leave these dreams. I wanted to stay forever.





  I was late for dinner, but my wife was used to that. My mood surprised her; I’m not usually the most demonstrative of people, but I took her in my arms and gave her a soulful kiss. She didn’t even mention my lateness. Later that night we made passionate love for the first time in weeks. I knew that she wondered what had come over me, but would never ask. She knew that she’d married a strange man, and was just happy that I was happy for a change.

  By the next day my mood had changed again. I felt anxious, unfulfilled. I kept thinking about the house. By early afternoon, I found myself walking back in its direction, almost in a trance. It was waiting like an old friend. I wanted to explore more of it, but the drowsy feeling came over me almost as soon as I entered. Soon I was back on the sofa in body and in the strange land in spirit. There was something very familiar about those twisted streets. I seemed to know my way around as I walked. Odd-looking people greeted me as if they knew me. I returned their greetings without hesitation. This land with green skies seemed somehow to be home, more so than my own world had ever been.

  I walked into a curio shop and purchased a wolf’s head walking cane. I didn’t need money; my pockets were full of gold dust.    The blue lights kept me company, hovering around my head. I was headed for a little pub called The Dreamhouse, sandwiched in between a library and café. Before I reached the door, I felt a sort of tug; suddenly I was awake on the old sofa. I was holding my new walking cane. I’d brought something out of my dream! Even though I hadn’t stayed as long as I’d have liked, I was filled once again with that feeling of happiness and well-being. I walked home in the darkness, whistling a tune I’d never heard before. At least not in this world.

                                                   


 My sixty-fifth summer passed quickly. I began visiting the house earlier each day so that I could spend more time there. I always seemed to wake soon after dark. I wasn’t getting any writing done, and my wife’s happiness had turned to worry. I’d lost some weight, in spite of eating the oddly comforting food in Dreamland. I knew that if I wasn’t being pushed out somehow, I’d never leave. But every night I’d awake, feeling refreshed, and walk back to what I wasn’t sure anymore really was home. I loved my wife, but things were changing. I was changing. The pull of the house began to wake me during the night. I wanted to tell her about it all, but was sure she’d start a campaign to make me see a shrink. I wished that I could take her with me, just once; then she’d see.

 Little by little I began to realize that the Dreamland people all had the faces of people I’d known who had died. That shook me a bit, and I decided not to go back… at least not for a while. But the air was so mysteriously sweet there, the green skies always clear. One night I awoke and decided to go to the house. It was October, and the night air chilly. I slipped out of bed, dressed, and put on my jacket. Nothing had ever happened there at night before, but I had a strong urge to go. Leaving my wife sleeping, I left, closing the door quietly behind me. The woods were strange in the moonlight; nocturnal creatures scurried in the bush, shadows danced. I had no trouble finding my way; the path I’d made was well-worn now.

 As I walked, I seemed to hear my wife’s voice calling out to me to come home. I wanted to, but just couldn’t. There was something that needed to be done, and I had to do it alone.

 As I entered the house, I knew that I’d never leave again. But why would I want to?