Nightmare

By Rick McQuiston

The dream would start with Neil walking in some strange city, minding his own business. Which city it was, he could never be sure, but the sidewalk always ran parallel to rows of huge buildings.

Some of the buildings were dozens of stories high, while others were no more than small retail shops. Neil never could read any of the signs, which appeared as faded and blurred caricatures of names and addresses. His fear of heights seemed to be magnified by the huge structures, which glared down at him like a young boy gazing at a tadpole in a pond.

The scene as a whole had a bizarre feel to it, almost like a Dali painting, twisted and deformed but in a relaxed type of way.

Doing his best to avoid looking up, Neil would continue on his way, shuffling along the ever-increasing cracks and holes on the sidewalk and trying to focus his mind on other matters.

Up ahead, the street sign would come into view. He could never read what it said, due to the faded condition of the letters and the overall bad condition of the sign.

He would look up to see that the sun had just finished setting, leaving the streets vulnerable to the impending night, which threatened to tighten its grip on the city rapidly.

And then he would hear it. The same sound he heard every time he had the dream. It was the sound of a woman being assaulted.

Her attractive voice was reduced to howls of pain and pleas for mercy. Apparently, she was being attacked down a dark alleyway on his left. Her cries were always accented by various noises of cans clanking and boxes being trampled.

Even though Neil’s recollection of previous dreams warned him not to venture into the alley, he nevertheless felt compelled to help the poor woman any way he could. His moral beliefs were simply too strong to ignore. His mother had always imparted her strong religious faith to him, which included her generous nature and her willingness to assist others in need.

He would call out to the girl in his deepest and most intimidating voice, hoping it would frighten the assailant away. It never worked, but he always tried it, nonetheless. After a brief pause, followed by someone shuffling back and forth, the attack on the girl would continue, and Neil would be forced to act.

The alley would be dark, wet and stink of garbage. Various boxes, papers and discarded food containers would litter the ground, each a miniature breeding ground for filth. Neil would hesitate at the entrance, unsure of his ability to face the situation but ready to confront the cause of it.

And then he would stop dead in his tracks as the silhouettes of the girl and her attacker would stop at that point… together.

They would look in his direction… together.

They would melt into each other, forming one grotesque abomination that would smoothly and effortlessly begin to flow towards him. He would still be able to hear the girl’s voice, although it would be distorted into a raspy drawl that seemed to be mocking him.

He would be frozen to the spot where he stood, unable to move.

Why he couldn’t move, especially with such horror approaching, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps because one cannot always control one’s actions in dreams. Or maybe his subconscious was forcing him to face his fears and overcome them. Or possibly he was just too scared to move. He usually conceded that it was a combination of all three, although the last reason was probably more responsible than the first two.

And then he would find himself in his bed or on the couch or at a friend’s house or wherever he happened to have fallen asleep. The recollections of the dreams would be vivid, spurring disorientation about the difference between fantasy and reality.

He hadn’t slept in three days, exhaustion looming over him like a cold winter day.

He hadn’t slept in three days. But he knew that eventually, inevitably, fatigue would win and catapult him back into the realm of dreams, whether he wanted it to or not.

He shuddered when he thought of the disturbing fact that each subsequent dream he had, the thing in the alley had gotten closer to him before he would wake up. The last time, it was right in front of him. When next he dreamed, it would surely get him.

He poured himself his eleventh cup of coffee and turned up the volume on the television as loud as it would go… and waited.