Dreams

by Wesley McBride

  Fuck off, he said to no one.

  A man ran past the front of his truck as he entered the parking lot. He seemed scared, as if he was running from something. He couldn’t see what. The arm lifted as he took a ticket from the little box. He drove slowly into the parking lot. The rush he was in to get the day’s events out of the way earlier had given way to a need to avoid it as long as possible. As the truck idled in the parking lot he examined himself in the mirror again. No changing this now. Up the steps. He hated this place. Nothing but memories of death. The large glass doors hesitated but opened for him. There was no need to stop at the receptionist’s desk. He knew where he was heading. He thought she glared at him as well. Same look the cashier had given him earlier. The smell of disinfectant mingled with the burning that had drifted in from outside. The doors he passed were numbered, faded pink numbers on faded cream doors and walls, filled with people whose names he would never know. Filled with machines he didn’t know the functions of or how they worked. Filled with soap and blood and syrups and shit. Next hallway. He wondered if she would be lucid today. Often times the combination of her medication and the illness made her unable to speak. Unable to comprehend who he was or her surroundings or why she was there, unable to move. He made his way to her door, breathing heavily as he did, and entered. It was dark in the room. Someone had drawn the curtains and failed to turn on a light. He could see her outline on the bed. He looked towards the windows. They were covered with a thick curtain to keep light out which he opened then and sat down beside her. She looked worse than he had ever seen her. She hadn’t looked this pale. She hadn’t had a machine breathing for her. She had an IV piercing her arm but it looked foreign now He took her hand. It was cold. Icy. Years ago when he was first told about her condition, the doctors had given them hope. Had given them reason to believe that in time everything would be fine. Later, she had beaten it. She was well until months ago and now here she was dead to the touch and eyes if not for the machine proving otherwise to him. He put his head on the bed and held her hand.

  It was the scariest thing he had ever experienced. He had woken in the night unable to move. He never had a night light growing up, rather his parents would leave the hall light on and his door cracked. This night, the light was turned off as he lay in the black, paralyzed. This was the first time he had met the witch. Lying in the black but still able to see her clearly, creeping towards him, floating. It was the first time she had slowly pierced his chest with her long claws, growling at him, hissing. It was this night he woke up screaming in his bed, after she had gone, in the black. It was his sister who burst through the door to save him, who calmed him down and hugged him until his mother arrived. Saved him from his first night terror. He began to cry. This should be him, he thought. She was a better person than him. This should be me. He held her hand for an hour, watching her eyelids. They were still. A siren was yelling outside the window.

  He wanted to, but he didn’t stop at the receptionist to ask her any questions about his sister. He didn’t ask to speak to her doctor. After a few hours, he didn’t know how long, he just left. Let go of her hand and did not look back. He just wanted to go home. Go home and lie down on his mattress. Lie down and try not to think of anything. Try not to think of memories of his sister. Try not to think of his parents. Or his work the next day. Try to ignore the throbbing that had taken over his foot. It was late in the day now and getting darker, the ash that floated obscuring the moon. As he entered the parking lot he saw the cause of the alarm. A car had been in an accident and had been abandoned in the far corner of the parking lot. Still pushing into the other car, its red paint smeared into the black of the other. He ran to the edge of the lot to investigate. Crumpled pieces of plastic and shattered orange and clear glass littered the area surrounding the accident. Whoever had been in this accident was hurt, they must have been going fast, he thought. Why hadn’t the police come? And the alarm been shut off? He moved over to the black car that was pinned between the concrete divider and the other car. The black tire marks that lay streaking through the ash divided themselves around a small pool of blood that looked fresh through the ever-growing covering of grey that was drifting down. What in the fuck is going on, he thought. He was the only person in the parking lot he realized. There were plenty of cars in the parking lot. Plenty of cars that looked like they had been there for some time judging by the ash blanketing them. There was no one on the sidewalk on the other side of the street either. The buildings on that side were caked in ash. Suddenly, an intense worry came over him. He began to panic. It felt like someone was watching him. He felt like a child again, overcome with anxiety at the thought of having to deliver a speech in front of the class. He began to feel dizzy and ran for his truck, fumbling with his keys while he attempted to open the door. Inside now. Lock the door. He tried starting the truck, turning over but not starting. Searching the parking lot around him, the wind seemed to come out of nowhere, pushing light brown and grey ash down the street as he tried again, successfully. As he left the parking lot, the panic, anxiety disappeared almost as soon as it had come on, though his heart still beat rapidly. Get it together man, he thought, and breathed a slight laugh.

  The street his parents’ home was off of was coming up. He thought about stopping by his parents’ place, just to say hi to his mother, tell her he loved her and that he was sorry about the day before. To see his father and let him know about his sister’s condition, that she was worse. To tell her about his nightmares over coffee while he watched TV. However, he kept driving past the street he needed when it presented itself. He felt ashamed as he did.

  The show he was watching hadn’t interested him. His intention had been to go home and not think of his sister. He had bought a large green bottle and cigarettes on his way home to help. Not think of her and sleep. Sleep and not dream. Not dream of the horrible things he had in the last couple of nights. He had taken two blue pills when he returned home in order to calm himself from the thoughts he couldn’t escape yet they had barely taken effect. He had turned on his favorite TV show earlier. Hours later, he couldn’t tell you which episodes he had watched. Or how many. He had drunk what was left in the bottle he had discovered the night before. About half. Another glass now in his hands. Blurry. He checked his phone. Nothing. He went to his texts and pressed dad. He wrote.

  Hey, I just want you to know that I love you, you and Mom, and that I went to see her today. I don’t know what you guys know. She looked worse. I didn’t know she was on the breathing thing. Call me tomorrow and we can head back after work or whatever.

  He stared at what he had written. He was angry. Wanting to press send but suddenly unwilling to be the first to do so. He turned it off without. He stood. He went outside, door sticking slightly, sat on the concrete and lit a cigarette. Placing his glass on the step, a gust of wind swirled and dropped ash neatly on top of the liquid where it briefly floated before dancing to the bottom of the glass. He noticed now that the light from the garage had burnt out, the halogen type he didn’t keep a spare of. Who would? He looked down the alley. He thought he could see that the homeless man was back, a faint orange glow heaving brighter every few seconds. At least someone gave him a cigarette. He tried to focus on the cigarette, taking long, purposeful puffs. He tried to smoke in unison with the man in the alley but he was going too fast, breathing it rather than smoking it seemed. He thought of a tower beacon. Or a lighthouse. He was sleepy. The pills had taken effect quicker than they should have. Eyes closed. He hadn’t bothered cleaning up his place this afternoon. The rotting condiments still stationed in his fridge. Moldy toast still where he threw it. Bloody socks and rags and tensors still on the floor of the bathroom. He inhaled periodically until he could feel the heat of the ember on his fingers. He got up and headed inside, casually tossing his cigarette into the ash as he did, slamming the door tight and back to the couch to not watch his show. Not watch his show in the light of the lamp that was on in his room, being ignored. After
a few minutes, the TV flickered slightly, asking for his attention. He thought about turning the TV off and reading one of the books that still sat in the cardboard box in his room closet. And again. I see you TV, what do you want. He checked his phone instinctively, not expecting any messages or calls and expecting correctly. And again. Now you’re annoying me. There had been three calls earlier. Three calls from someone he hadn’t seen in a long time and refused to admit that he wanted to. The sound of static began to fade in and out, slow at first then quicker. The picture disappeared.

  God, fuckING, dammit!

  He got up to inspect. As he looked behind the television, he realized he didn’t know what he was looking for. Two cords going in and one going out to the wall. There was a knock on the door, three separate strikes. He didn’t respond. Just started. Three more. Louder now.

  Hello?

  No response. Three more again. He could feel them. He spied through the window, trying to see someone. He couldn’t. Three more, louder still, shaking the door.

  Who the fuck is it!

  No response. He thought.

  If that’s you, you fucking bum, I’ll fucking kill you!

  He started to panic. No response. Three more again, loudest yet. He could feel them in his chest. He felt like they were coming from inside him. Punching his heart. The door began to shake. He ran to it and grabbed the handle. He could feel it being twisted from the other side. He held it even though he knew it didn’t make a difference to hold. It just needed a push. He could feel it lift and pulled downward in response. Three more, right on the other side of the door. More than one person. Trying to get in. Run to the kitchen, grab a knife. No, run to the bedroom. In the shoebox. He turned, foot placed firmly at the base of the door ready to leap of like a sprinter. Ready to retrieve the shoebox. Ready to retrieve what was in the box and point it at the door. Bolt. He was off the door and into his bedroom in an instant, diving under the bed for the shoebox, instead meeting the large, impossibly bulging eyes of a woman. He froze. The woman stared back at him for a moment, cracked porcelain skin bleeding, eyes black, thin wisps of black hair, before starting to shake, tremor, convulse, then scream, impossibly loud scream, a shriek that deafened him and revealed her bloody mouth, teeth jagged, her jaw becoming wider and wider before falling away completely to the rug, scream still falling out of her. She reached for him. He recoiled in horror and pulled his head out from under the bed, catching his head and then ear as he did, her long broken and bent fingers scratching for his as he pushed away. He fell onto his back, pushing himself away as she, it, crawled, skittered towards him. Three more knocks at the door. Booming, causing him to cringe with each one, only to be replaced with more screams. Screams coming from him as well. Escaping from him. No words. Only terror. He had no plan, only retreat, managing to get to his feet as she reached him, tearing open his leg as he pushed away to the door, her face melting away as she did. In his panic, he had forgotten about the knocking. He pulled on the door. It didn’t open. He yanked again. The gurgling scream now right behind him, drowning. He lifted and yanked as it finally came free, falling down the steps, seeing her cracked and bleeding face as he went, her eyes melting now. He hit his head hard on the concrete, numbing himself to the situation momentarily before regaining himself and rolling onto his stomach. She slowed now, reaching out for him from the landing, the skin falling off of her arms now too, her body, soaking what he saw now as a white nightgown, until only raw flesh and then bone remained. She stopped. What remained of her, it, began to crumble. He tried to move. He tried to run but couldn’t. Something was keeping him there. It was it. A gust of wind now, sweeping his face and her. She began to blow away, a viciously hot wind sweeping in suddenly, until only ash remained. He began to tremble. What do you want? Why are you doing this to me? Saying nothing but knowing it could hear. The dread he felt was mingled. He got to his knees, unable to keep himself upright. It wanted to show him something. Something he didn’t want to see. Something he knew inside of him already, briefly, then gone. He tried to crawl away, making it onto her, into her, before collapsing. Please leave me alone. Go. I don’t want this. He thought he felt something warm on his face. Something fuzzy. Then nothing.

  He woke up sweating. He surveyed his surroundings. He found himself sitting, wedged between the door and the wall. He tried to spring up, instead falling forward onto his hands and knees before getting to his feet and running to the bathroom and vomiting. His stomach was on fire. All that left him was stomach acid and retching sound yet he knelt there, dry heaving, trying. A drop of blood fell in while he felt the heat of it leave his face, and again, until he was able to pull himself to the sink and turn on the tap. The water was warm but he gulped, forming a reservoir with his hands, periodically splashing some on his face, a slight swirl of red at the bottom of the basin. He looked up as the water ran. He must have reopened the cut while vomiting, he thought. It looked worse than before. He picked at it. Some of the deep red scab fell into the sink and whirled down the drain. His eyes were red, bolts of crimson threatening to consume the whites, the blue, alien on their red background, was glossy and bright. His right eye bluer now then black but ringed sharply with bands of yellow playing around it. He thought of the nightmare the night before. He could remember all of it. It seemed real. I must have slept walked into the corner, slept crawled, he lied to himself. Nothing new. He couldn’t remember falling asleep. He sat on the toilet. There was fresh blood on his sock. As he peeled it off, it seemed glued to the bottom of his foot, pulling on the cut painfully between his toes.

  6:35am his phone told him. Plenty of time. I’ll be early. As he got to the door he thought about putting on his old work shoes but realized his white pair had been ruined by the ash. He put them on instead of the old ones and headed outside. It was very hot and windy today. There had barely been a slight breeze for a few days, save for a few gusts that had stirred the ash horribly, but now the ash had been raining down heavier than before, swirling around the alley, flooding into the garage, dancing about with purpose before piling against the bricks and siding. As he went to the garage, still open, he wondered if that stain was still there under the pile of ash that had blown in overnight. He wondered why the drainage pipe was on the floor behind the truck, though now he thought he had bent it. Why did I do that? Was I angry? The truck sputtered to life. As he drove out he could hear the broken top of the bottle roll backwards and hit the tailgate, breaking a little bit more.

  He lit a cigarette just as he was leaving the alley. A gust of ash blew through the open window he had opened to ash the cigarette out of. He quickly rolled it up. He ashed on blue plastic that covered the thin grey carpet on the floor. The ash was piling up a bit on the windshield wipers as he drove. When he flicked the switch to turn them on the ash smeared up the windshield in grey streaks. He sprayed some washer fluid but this made his vision worse, ribbons of muddy ash blocking his view out the windshield. He did it again. A little better he thought. Again. Once more and it was clear enough to see out of again clearly. He noted again that there didn’t seem to be any other cars or people nearby. He looked up at the windows that he thought the pair had stared out at him before. Nothing. Fucking weirdos. A sudden flash in front of him. He pushed on the brake and he hit the steering wheel heavily with his chest. He looked out the passenger window. Was that a woman? He tried to lean over to get a better look. He thought he saw her run into the alley to his right. A shout to his left. He looked up to two men running in front of the truck. One stopped and looked at him. Stopped to stare. A snarl. Not a snarl. A low bark. A caught dog. He was off after his friend and the woman. Are they chasing her? He tried to jump out of the truck. The handle was stuck. He pushed with force and it popped downward. He jumped from the truck, slipping a bit and ran towards the alley.

  Hey! HEY! Stop!

  As he entered the alley he saw no one. He kept running. The dumpsters. He ran to the first, looking around the far side, nothing. Second revealed the same thin
g, as did the third and fourth. The doors! Six in total. He ran too each in the alley, trying to twist every knob and push every lever, until he ended up a few feet from the road. Looking back, he saw the chain link fence at the end of the alley. No way they could make it there in time. I know I saw something. Nothing. He got back in the truck. Should I call the police? He pressed 911 on the phone but didn’t press the green button. We’re they actually chasing her? He didn’t want to be wrong. HE thought for a while before driving off. Looking down the alley as he passed. Nothing again. The wind howled.

  As he approached the shop he thought about the story he would tell his boss. His friend. He had been given the job by a man he had met in college, but they had become strained as friends since they had worked together because of his frequent absences, his frequent late arrivals due to those green bottles the night before work. What will I tell him? I was in the hospital. I was jumped. That will work. That will be fine. He’ll see my face. He passed the building and turned into the parking lot. A few cars he recognized. He was nervous as he approached the door. It was locked. His friend was always there by seven to get things ready for eight. He went to the garage door around back of the lot. It was closed as well.