by Taylor Kole
Dream Riders
by
Taylor Kole
I sometimes dream of devils. At night, the devils are everywhere. In all corners and under the table. I open doors and behind the doors are crowds of them, and they all want to come in and seize me.
Fyodor Dostoevsky
ONE
Corey watched Mr. Labarge kick discarded clothes and empty beer cans from around the bed. Apparently satisfied he’d cleaned an area for them, Mr. Labarge eased onto the sagging mattress near the nightstand, pulled a Marlboro 100 from a near-empty pack, and lit it.
He was near Corey’s age of thirty, but deep lines etched Mr. Labarge’s face. His salt and pepper hair was buzzed short and receding. He didn’t seem nervous about the legality of the situation, didn’t seem afraid they’d end up killing him or damaging his brain. If this went badly, Corey and Marci could lose their daughter, their home, god knows what else.
Since Corey was here and going through with this, he breathed deeply through his nose, out his mouth, and helped Marci position single-stand speakers in each of the corners. Marci then squatted, unzipped the duffle bag they’d brought, and emptied the items onto the dirty carpet. They had packed flashlights, colored paper, a blow-dryer, candles, anything that might be perceived as affecting a client’s five senses while they slept.
Once everything was laid out, Marci stood and addressed Mr. Labarge. “Now, the fun part—your Dream Ride. Have you decided what you’d like to dream about?”
Mr. Labarge dragged on his cigarette. When the waft of smoke passed over his face, it looked like he was scowling, like he was thinking about throwing them out, or worse. They shouldn’t have come to this stranger’s house. Corey should have spoken up when Mr. Labarge locked the deadbolt after they entered.
Instead of anger, Mr. Labarge’s features softened.
He stubbed out his cigarette and opened the top drawer of the nightstand. After a moment’s hesitation, he retrieved a framed photo. Mr. Labarge wiped dust from the glass. The picture was of a middle-aged man dressed in vertical stripes and bright colors. He placed that on the nightstand along with a CD case labeled “Dad’s Favs” and a pair of military dog tags.
“My father died suddenly when I was twenty-six.” Mr. Labarge stared at the impromptu shrine. “After he died I had these intense dreams where he would visit. We’d spend a day fishing, grilling out, or playing darts.” He parted a faint smile. “I had dreams like that every day for weeks after he died. Over the next few months they faded, then stopped altogether.” He swallowed. “Those dreams gave me hope, man. I mean, it was like he was visiting me from the other side, telling me not to worry, that someday I’d understand.”
“You want to see your father again,” Marci said. The tenderness in her voice was surprising, considering Marci would often chastise friends for expressing exactly this kind of grief. You could get her to admit death was a horror, but she believed since you couldn’t beat it, forget about it.
“Is this something you guys can do?” Mr. Labarge asked. “Let me see my dad one more time?”
So much for a light and easy first gig. Upon Mr. Labarge opening the door, Corey had been convinced this guy would want to dream about an extravagant beach party. That would have been better than this.
Marci placed a hand on Mr. Labarge’s shoulder. “We’ll help you visit your father, Mr. Labarge—show you that he still watches over you.”
Mr. Labarge motioned toward the shrine. “Do you need any of this?”
“No,” Marci said. “We only steer your dreams. You are the engine that drives the process.” She looked to Corey. “Is there anything you want to add?”
This is our first time trying this on a stranger. We can’t guarantee a father/son reunion. We’re not responsible if you’re somehow injured or psychologically damaged. He couldn’t stop Marci from proceeding, so he shook his head.
“We’re ready if you are,” she said to Mr. Labarge.
“Okay, what do we do now?”
Now, we attempt the impossible.
“I just need you to kick off your shoes and get comfortable.”
Mr. Labarge lay on his back with his head on a pillow.
Marci went to the side pouch of their duffle bag and returned with a round tin balanced on her palm.
Corey pulled on the brown hair of his ponytail, as was his habit when he got nervous. His wife returned with what was essentially a homemade poison and assuredly illegal.
“Mr. Labarge,” Marci said, her hands positioned to unscrew the lid. “This is a mild sleep agent. When I open the tin, I’ll need you to lift your head and take three deep breaths.”
Mr. Labarge sought out Corey.
Corey raised his eyebrows as if to say, Hey, you’ve come this far.
“I guess if this was some scam to knock people out and rob them, you picked a poor mark.”
“Mr. Labarge—” Marci said.
“No,” he interrupted her. “I’m good.”
Marci unscrewed the chrome lid and extended the stack of white cotton pads soaked in homemade chloroform spiked with sleep agents.
Mr. Labarge breathed deeply.
Corey tensed. He had read more than one article online about making that exact tincture. If done incorrectly, it induced vomiting, caused burns to the nasal cavity, and in extreme cases, death.
Halfway through his second breath, Mr. Labarge’s eyes rolled back into his head.
Rather than gradually growing tired, Mr. Labarge dropped out cold.
Corey watched Mr. Labarge’s chest for its rise and fall. Noticing the man still breathed, Corey exhaled.
“That was fast.” Marci tapped the now-sealed sedative. “I thought it would take longer to work on a person. Smokey fell out in about the same time.”
“You drugged Janey’s cat?”
She returned the canister to the side pouch of the duffle bag and frowned at him. “What, you thought I’d just try it on a person without testing it?” She squatted in front of the audio receiver as if they actually intended to use special sounds or light therapy or physical manipulation to guide dreams.
“This is crazy.”
“It’s fine.” She lifted Mr. Labarge’s arm at the wrist and let it drop.
He was under, sure, but there remained a chance he wouldn’t wake. Corey didn’t want to think what would happen to them, or to Janey, if Dream Riding spiraled out of control.
Marci tapped the screen of their shared phone.
“What’re you looking up?”
“I’m just making sure he paid us.”
“You had the man do it in front of you.”
“And now I’m making sure it went through.”
A few seconds later, a wide smile stretched across her face. “We are officially in business.”
“Let’s hope.” Corey said half-heartedly as he pulled the band from his ponytail and fluffed out his hair. The ends fell between his narrow shoulder blades.
“You can be honest.” Marci lifted the first speaker stand, kicked a path behind it, and scooted the prop two feet back—well out of their way. “You don’t think this is going to work, do you?”
They stood on either side of Mr. Labarge’s bed. Marci leaned forward and pulled their client’s pant leg up, and pushed his sock down, exposing the flesh underneath. She believed connection with the flesh was an important part of the process.
“I’m not sure I want it to work.” Corey stared at the pant leg on his side. Apparently missing his cue, Marci leaned over and exposed the skin for him.
Breathing heavily, she asked, “Are we ready?”
Corey’s hands were sweating. His heart pounded. Eye contact with his lovely wife sparked his first bit of excitement. They were here, trying to start a business unique to
the world.
Marci pulled her inverted pyramid-shaped Abracadabra necklace—her talisman of protection—from inside her blouse and left it on display.
In unison, they leaned inward. Corey locked a hand around the man’s wrist. With the other, he held the exposed flesh near the ankle. He felt a form of energy transferring from Mr. Labarge into his hand and up his arm.
Seconds later—not the best case fifteen minutes science predicted—Mr. Labarge’s body went rigid with the REM paralysis that accompanied all dreaming. His eyes rocked side to side. Corey felt what they called, the pull. It started with his hands feeling gone. Next, he felt a sensation in his heart close to love. He’d assumed that was a by-product of sharing this blessing with his wife and daughter. It was surprising to feel near the same level of affection for a stranger he’d probably try and avoid in public.
Corey grew heavy with fatigue and saw Marci’s head down and shoulders slumped. A second later, he crossed over.
Coming to with renewed clarity, Corey braced. Colors danced and sparked in the air like distant fireflies of alien origin. He stood on the edge of what he thought of as a snow globe world: a sample-size environment surrounded by something unknowable. Fear, joy, anxiety, hope, rage, and empathy were felt as particles in the light breeze that stayed constant during the Ride. It sometimes made him feel like the strings in a piano where each key was a different emotion, and each dreamer was the conductor.
Corey’s position in the dream was always the same relation to Marci: elevated to her left about twenty feet away. He considered that area his balcony.
Looking over his balcony, he found Marci. She always stood before some imagined type of control, often holding or interacting with it as the dream flowed. The manifested choice often provided a clue as to the upcoming content before the dreamer even arrived. This time, Marci’s hands (which wore fingerless, knuckleless gloves) were wrapped tight around a slim steering wheel that looked suited for a 1968 Camaro.
Corey pumped his fist in excitement. Unlike five-year-old Janey’s happy animated animal dreams, this one might pack a thrill.
When they gave Janey Dream Rides, she always arrived shortly after them and remained center stage, unaware of their presence. He sensed Mr. Labarge arriving and clenched his jaw to temper his excitement.
Giving attention to Janey’s dream always submerged Corey deeper into the performance, enhancing his perception of her emotions. The whole adventure provided a deep empathy for his young daughter, and for that of life. In her innocence, he recalled his own at that age, reflected on the tumult of life as an adult, and accepted he could never shield her from pain and loss.
Unlike Marci, his balcony position kept him strictly as an observer, which he preferred. It took enough of his concentration to hold the dream together, particularly as dreams peaked and valleyed. If he let loose, he was certain he and Marci would be kicked out, and wake.
A rural dirt road backdrop appeared on stage. Thirty feet ahead of Marci, and totally unaware of their presence, Mr. Labarge paced onto the side of that dirt road, now shaded by many black oaks and pine trees. Corey sensed a farm house nearby.
Corey felt the rumble of the car’s engine before he saw it The vehicle traveled race car fast, then slid to a stop in front of Mr. Labarge. When the dust settled, Corey saw a man younger than Mr. Labarge behind the wheels. The man had blond hair cut even and hanging to his chin. He said, “I ain’t got all day, son, hop in.”
Corey had the year of the steering wheel right, but it was a 1968 Firebird, black with T-tops.
“Dad?” Mr. Labarge asked with a tempered grin. “Is that you?”
“C’mon now. This baby don’t like to idle. She’s made to run.”
Mr. Labarge laughed as he yanked open the door and climbed in. Oddly enough, he transformed into a five-year-old boy the moment the door shut. He stood on the seat and raised his arms above his head, “Hit it, dad!”
The tires kicked up dust, fishtailed, and the car drove off.
With the episode underway, Corey sensed Marci’s concentration, adjusted his hold, and relaxed. Dream Riding worked on strangers... beyond that was anyone’s guess.
TWO
Hours after the Dream Ride ended, Corey and Marci entered their home through the garage. Corey slowed at the sight of the dreamcatcher nailed to the wall. It was mainly a cedar twig bent in a circle, centered with a traditional weave. Hawk feathers and turquoise beads dangled from the bottom. It had been there for some time, but he’d never paid it much attention.
Dreamcatchers were supposed to protect dreamers from evil spirits. Had this dream catcher been placed as a warning from his subconscious to discontinue the course that led them to Dream Riding? It almost had to be, but Corey had been too foolish to notice.
If fate was playing out their destiny, were all the actions that led them here pre-ordained. If so, were they in control from here on out?
As a married couple settling into their life as partners and parents, stress had hit them like an avalanche. Marijuana was legal in California. Many other narcotics were “permitted.” They had wanted to rebel but using drugs was too much, so they purchased “synthetic narcotics” from the internet.
They chose synthetic LSD first. The stick of gum-sized pieces of brown paper had an acidic taste. They conjured no hallucinations, but the synthetic narcotic had intensified their libido and senses, creating a night of pleasurable coupling.
Their next batch of the identical product, ordered from the same website, produced dramatically different results. Corey’s dose gave him painful gas; Marci’s gave her the giggles. Or perhaps the latter resulted from his six-second blasts of flatulence, some which drummed on long enough for Marci to rap along.
Chasing that first evening of pleasure led to six weekends of irresponsible behavior.
Then they researched how the drugs were made. Regular people, often teenagers, threw poisons together using recipes from the internet.
Some of the more common side-effects of synthetic drug use: death, insanity, suicide, catatonia, chronic paranoia, psychotic breaks, and fugue states that resulted in the commission of felonies. The information ended their run of fake drug use.
Soon after, as they lay down with Janey for a nap, they entered her dream. It was so colorful and full of music, Corey had believed himself to be experiencing an acid flashback while dreaming. But he’d noticed Marci. He’d sensed her emotions. Later, when he discussed his remarkable dream with Marci, he learned hers matched perfectly. Discussing the dream in great detail led them to believe they’d experienced something unique. Following some trial and error, they entered their daughter’s dream for a second time, and learned they had an ability.
After the night’s events, the dreamcatcher resonated with significance. Corey vowed to look for more signs in life. All they had experienced the previous night was the beginning of change. Unearthing signs might help guide his family through this change unscathed.
Their babysitter, Lisa Flicker, was asleep on the couch. Apparently she was a heavy sleeper. Their garage door rattled and chugged loud enough to wake neighbors.
Kneeling beside the sleeping college student, Marci shook her awake while Corey made his way to Janey’s room.
A foot-wide gap in Janey’s doorway allowed the pink glow of her Dora the Explorer night light to leak into the dim hall. Peeking in, he saw his daughter on her side, likely dreaming she danced with a colorful bear.
Smokey was curled up at her feet. The cat raised his head. Finding no threat, only the long-haired man of the house, he yawned and returned his head to his paws.
Without entering, Corey watched Janey’s small chest rise and fall. He spent a half minute there, and then he joined the ladies in the kitchen.
Marci poured coffee into two mugs and then filled a sealable stainless-steel cup, and passed that to Lisa.
“No problems,” Lisa said before she sipped. “Last night passed without incident.”
Corey met his wife
’s gaze—their night had been much more eventful—yet neither commented.
Marci rooted around her purse, came out with two twenties and passed them to Lisa.
“Until next time,” Lisa said, and then left.
Marci waited for the door to shut before setting her coffee down. “I don’t need any coffee.”
“Me neither,” Corey said. “I’m always rested after Janey’s Rides, but I’m absolutely buzzing right now.”
“I know, right?” Marci gathered the generous stack of utility bills and credit card statements from the kitchen counter and almost bounced with each step to the living room couch.
Corey sat next to her as she activated their computer connected to their television.
Dreamriders.com, written in Paprica font, headed the page; the letters were shaded in a burnt sienna. Egyptian symbols, a Celtic moon, Chinese dragon, and the Greek sun God, outfitted the top third of the page. Marci and Corey’s head shots flanked either side below the banner, each with small bios beneath.
Corey Padesky, assistant professor of philosophy. He hated the misleading tag. Assisting his ex-professor a handful of times fell short of assistant. They couldn’t necessarily write the truth, that Corey had earned his Master’s in philosophy, was frightened by a paragraph he read in Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil, and abandoned his studies and career aspirations. He was still waiting for a passion to fill his days. Dream Riding might fill that bill.
Using poor grammar and typos, Mr. Labarge wrote about the conversations he shared with his father. He labeled the trip as euphoric, and debated whether or not he’d been transported to a different dimension. He recommended Dream Riding for anyone who ever lost a loved one; called it proof of life after death.
Corey read it two, then three times over.
“That’s good advertising,” Corey said.
“That reminds me of a fact I can add to our dream fact’s page: twenty percent of sleep is spent dreaming—that’s the fact. I’ll claim our service can triple that.”
Corey didn’t challenge the presumption. The lapsed time in a dream was hard to place. Besides, Mr. Labarge’s comment made it appear the dream’s awareness lasted multiple hours. He’d pay better attention the next time, and try to develop a dream clock.
