Dream Riders

by Taylor Kole

  Corey stood in a stone hallway. The wall overlooking the dream area was high, giving him a view of Marci and the ornate bedroom that constructed the dream area below.

  Marci was on a slab of hardened clay. Two cat statues of Bastet, the Egyptian Goddess known for protecting women and children from disease, sat on haunches to either side of her.

  Even though her image wasn’t clear like it was in the waking world, Marci wore a single-strap linen dress. Her shape was well-defined behind it. Her hair was in a braid and wound tight around her head. He made a note to play dress up some night.

  Florence sashayed down a hall toward the bedroom. She wore a white single-strap dress like Marci, but hers was clasped with gold hoops. The stitching was prominent, as well. Her hair was short, braided, and decorated with beads. She wore a gold crown.

  Two young ladies preceded her and spread rose petals at her feet. The bedroom was larger than any Corey had previously seen. It was lit by torches and a fire, but also unnaturally bright.

  Two guards lined each of the three walls.

  The majesty of it all, and perhaps the lore of Cleopatra, who had children with two of the most famous men in history, distracted Corey from the nagging fear in his chest that always surfaced after he entered a dream. He couldn’t help but listen for signs a Jinni approached. After portions of a dream passed without getting that sickening feeling, he usually relaxed to a greater degree and enjoyed the job. So far, things felt clear, but the mood in the room was taking on an unhealthy hunger.

  Florence removed her crown and passed it to a servant who took two steps back, in time with the other servant. She then unclasped her dress and let it fall to the floor. She wore nothing underneath. The guards remained stationary, same as the servants, but they all watched Florence. She crawled atop the bed and rolled to her side and then her back.

  Suddenly naked, the guards pounced like Hyenas loosened on a fresh kill. Corey cringed at their unnaturally large members. He checked the balcony for mist and the air for a Jinni’s arrival. So far so good.

  The scene below was barbaric. If he couldn’t sense Florence urging them for more, he’d assume the abusive acts were part of a nightmare.

  Corey kept looking from balcony to dream. If the immorality underway didn’t conjure a demonic spirit, he’d have his proof Jinn attached to certain people, like he already believed.

  Minutes passed with nothing on his balcony. Below, and despite the pummeling, Florence’s enthusiasm increased. A trail of additional guards started at the bed and went into the hall. As a man became tired or spent, he would roll or be yanked off of the bed and replaced by the next man.

  Corey couldn’t watch the scene much longer. It was deplorable. He loosened his hold on the dream as an indicator to Marci they had done enough to fulfill their job.

  By the sharp snap of her emotional response, she didn’t agree. She also wasn’t as bothered by the scene.

  He needed to allow the Dream to continue. The resistance from Marci had interrupted him. He’d have to ask her about that once they exited. It almost felt like she could override his hold on the dream, if she chose. He hoped she would never keep him in a hellish dream against his will. The mind could only take so much. He could only take so much. He settled in for the debauchery.

  Corey jolted awake.

  Marci marched past him with her head down and entered the lavatory. He imagined she breathed deeply to calm herself, or gave herself pep-talks to justify the unpleasantness.

  Corey returned the equipment to where it had been when Florence passed out, and sat by the window, watching the glowing city of sin come to life.

  The coming dawn brought an end to another cycle of day and night. Recently, that cycle had conjured good versus evil analogies for Corey. He didn’t want to assign the normal sciences of life a greater import. He wanted to relax, complete the upcoming consultation, and eat breakfast at home, with his family, yet his mind raced.

  Mountains lined Clark county, placing the metropolitan area of Las Vegas at the bottom of a natural bowl. On their move to Las Vegas, they had reached the city at night, from an elevated plane. The sky had shimmered with colors like a near earth aurora borealis.

  From twenty floors up and inside its belly, mornings brought a different experience. The eastern sky around the rim of Las Vegas glowed orange long before the rays of sun met the property line. Reaching the ground after official dawn, the angle seemed to increase the rapidity at which sun chased away night, as if the swiftness represented an apology for elongating temptations. By high noon, people comported themselves amiably, the previous and upcoming night of sin almost forgotten, at best fleeting memories, as if bad dreams.

  Marci exited and rubbed Corey’s shoulders.

  “How long have we been out?”

  Corey checked the clock, “Nine minutes.”

  From their experience, the dreamer expelled the riders twenty to thirty minutes before waking. Their new sleep serum added another thirty minutes to that. Marci believed the original delay aligned with a person’s consciousness climbing the last three rungs of sleep, giving the dreamer time to wipe away evidence of that hidden area where the Padeskys functioned.

  Ever since sharing a communication with Walt’s Jinni, Corey wondered if specific messages, delivered by a guiding essence, were brushed away during that time as well; that remembering only fragments of dreams for short periods was programmed into human awareness.

  Florence woke fifty-two minutes after them. Ten minutes for lavatory, coffee, and then they gathered for the consultation.

  Florence studied them between sips. “I’m trying to think of a way to express the experience without losing my composure, clapping, or laughing hysterically.”

  Corey withheld a grimace.

  “We’re glad you’re satisfied,” Marci said. “Many clients ask for an interpretation of their dream as part of their consultation, if you’re interested.”

  Florence inspected her nails. “I prefer to protect the specifics of my dream.”

  “Okay, so we’re all done.”

  Finally.

  Florence parted a single nod and said, “There is something I haven’t shared.”

  “What is it?” Marci said.

  “Currier is my maiden name. However, I’ve been Mrs. Zimbardo for most of my adult life.”

  Corey gritted his teeth. He had sensed something off with her from the moment she opened the door.

  “To be clear,” Marci replied. “Walt Zimbardo is your husband?”

  “Nineteen years this August.”

  “Congratulations,” Marci added. “How is he? Good, I hope.”

  Florence huffed, “He’s been busy with… this...” she waved her arms at the room, ending on the prop-filled bag. “I simply had to know what has his world turned upside down. I’ve seen him crazy obsessive before, but never like this.”

  “And what,” Corey interjected. “You’re here to spy on us?”

  “No. This was my idea. We live independent lives.”

  “Well, all of your cameras are packed away for you,” Marci waved toward Florence’s purse.

  A shrug, “He is my husband.”

  A beat passed in silence.

  “Listen,” Florence said. “I avoid hearing any of Walt’s business ideas. I watch the bottom line and he does a good job of keeping it steady. Curiosity brought me here, and having experienced this… Dream shaping, I understand why he can’t let go.” She peered at Marci, “Have you experienced this for yourself?’

  Corey’s wanted to shout yes. Yes, they experience it all the time, mostly it’s harmless fun, except for the demon in your life-mate or the demented ambitions of your soul.

  “We’re fully aware of the experience,” Marci said.

  “It’s just if you knew what this was like for the user, you wouldn’t be setting up three-hundred dollar appointments and meeting in hotel rooms. This is the type of enterprise that topples conventionalism. My husband understands that, and you
need him. I hate to let the cat out of the bag, but he’s working toward the acquisition of your company, or company model.”

  “We would be honored to accept your husband as a business partner,” Marci said. “There’s simply too many unknowns to rush it. Our method can’t be licensed, so the moment we share our secret, we’re vulnerable.”

  “That’s a justified reservation, but from my understanding, he offered a true partnership. You only need an attorney to look over the contract. Once signed, you cross every bridge hand in hand.”

  “Partners to begin with,” Corey said. “But with ambitions like his, I’m sure there are loopholes that could leave us in the lurch.”

  “Hence, the attorney visit.” Florence smiled. It lacked mirth. “To be frank, where’s your risk? Walt makes you a couple of hundred million dollars and then finds a way to squeeze you out, which I’m not saying he would—I’ve never known him to conduct business that way—but if that scenario played out, what’s the downside for you?”

  “There are factors more obstructive than money, like safety,” Marci said. “It took us years to fine-tune these techniques but we are still outlining a method to teach this to others.”

  There are other obstacles, too. Like a Jinni; like avoiding becoming studied by the government, like a man committing suicide because of them.

  “Hey,” Florence waved her hand as if dismissing Marci’s reasoning. “Whatever makes sense to you. Walt’s bull-headed nature doesn’t help matters. I know that. How about taking us on as normal clients? Walt won’t admit as much, but he needs your service, for medical reasons. He wakes up every couple of nights pouring sweat, confused, and with no memory of his dream. The nightmares are becoming more consistent.”

  “Night terrors,” Marci said. “He told us about those.”

  “We’re not sure we can help with that,” Corey added.

  Florence studied them for a moment, “How about us as customers? I’m sensing a hesitation. Is servicing us out of the question?”

  “Of course not,” Marci said, as she moved her hair behind her ears.

  “If you wanted to work exclusively for us until you figure out the details with Walt, we could put you on a salary. Seven thousand dollars a week. Grant us four rides in that time, alternating between me and Walt, and everyone is happy.”

  Corey adjusted his position with enough flare to draw attention from both women.

  She looked from Corey to Marci, “It that a deal?”

  Corey couldn’t stop his head from shaking ever so slightly. Marci only pursed her lips.

  Before Marci could speak, Florence continued, “Apparently, you have some personal reasons why you won’t do business with Walt.” She shrugged and stood, signaling the end of the consultation. “I’ve made my offer. I won’t take up any more of your time.” At the door, she added, “The thing is, you might want to get accustomed to working with my husband. With his level of conviction, you’ll soon have no choice.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Corey surveyed the swimming area and shivered. It seemed poorly-lit when compared to it’s massive scale. Mist rose from the floor in places, as if the pool room had heated tiles. The shadows along the back walls were deep, and dark.

  Kids darted across wet tiles. They yelled as they climbed ladders and rails, and involved themselves in various water activities. Instead of joy and comfort, each playful shout raised alarm in Corey, every splash brought a nip of paranoia.

  “This is an impressive turn out,” Justin said to Corey as he surveyed the Olympic-size pool.

  Corey and Marci had given Dream Rides seven days in a row. He assumed the lack of natural sleep played a role in his current gloomy perception. He should have stayed home to nap, but Janey had been so excited about swimming and his energy was high, so he pushed on.

  When kids screeched, the sounds arrived muffled, and seemingly off-time. Images blurred, and often carried tracers, as if people’s shadows were struggling to keep pace with their host.

  Near the shallow end, where Corey sat on a chair, the floaties and goggles were being put to good use. Children as young as three laughed and splashed amongst supervising adults.

  “A pool party in the middle of a desert summer, what a blessing,” Justin said. “Look how much fun everyone is having. The plan seems to be working.”

  “God’s plan?” Corey asked with genuine curiosity.

  “Well, at some level, sure, everything is. Pastor K, however, gets the credit for this festivity. Incoming,” Justin said, nodding to Janey, who climbed the stairs near them in the shallow end and dashed toward her father.

  “Don’t run!” Corey yelled. As his voice died down, he realized two other adults had yelled at the same time as him.

  Janey dropped to a high-tempo walk.

  Rising from his seat, a dizziness twirled from Corey’s chest to his head. He stretched his eyes and worked his jaw as if adjusting to a popping eardrum. He closed his eyes until the moment passed.

  “Are you feeling okay?” Justin asked.

  “Yeah.” Corey noticed Justin held him by the elbow. Corey hadn’t felt the contact. “I’m fine. I just haven’t slept much this past week.”

  As if in emphasis, Justin knelt, and extended an open towel to Janey. Thankfully, she ignored her father’s neglect and hugged the cloth tight.

  After four days of consecutive Dream Riding, his senses started to skip.

  Day five proved a vapor wave could overlap his vision, making the world darker at its dark points and colors more pronounced. Each time he stuck his head under morning six’s shower, whispers called out to him. The shadow tracers in his field of vision had also started yesterday. With Marci napping daily, and her habit of being confrontational about his Dream Riding thoughts, he hadn’t talked to her about the effects.

  He imagined she was asleep at that moment. In fairness, she’d done sixty dream interpretations during the week, along with their Rides. She’d also promoted and organized their business, made time to play with Janey each day, and reconciled their finances.

  “Why doesn’t mom come to church with us?”

  Looking down, Corey found Janey’s big hazel eyes—which seemed green enough to be fluorescence—locked onto him. All morning, it had seemed as if Janey was dipping into his mind, inspecting the data running along the nerve impulses, and then commenting on her findings.

  Her question about Marci carried many layers. He looked to Justin for support.

  His pal grinned, removed his shirt, which exposed a broad and hairy chest. “Seems like a perfect time for me to teach Chevy the frog stroke.” He ruffled Janey’s hair and left them alone.

  “Does she believe in God, daddy?”

  “Your mother has tremendous belief, honey.” Janey continued to stare. Corey patted the rubber-strapped collapsible chair across from him. Once settled, he said, “Each person must find their own way to show appreciation for life. Your mother shows hers with meditation, love for you and me, and devotion to our futures.”

  “She wants proof of God, huh?”

  “I think we all want a little more proof.”

  “Not me.” Janey pulled the towel from around her and dried her hair. “If we had proof, there’d be no test. Heaven would be crowded with people only faking to be nice.”

  He chuckled. The effort dimmed the lights. Movement in the far corner of the ceiling drew his attention. The high-pitched squeals of children echoed off the tile, but he didn’t glance in their direction. He stared at the dark shadow in the ceiling’s corner. Long narrow arms elongated from the darkest spot. The hands were clawed, like a Jinni. They quickly retreated, almost as if they had believed the children’s screams were screams of terror, and once identified as delight, the arms abandoned their attempt at an embrace.

  “What is it, Daddy?” Janey moved between his legs and peered at the shadowed corner.

  Normal lighting returned. Corey blinked hard. “There’s nothing, honey. Dad just needs to sleep more is all.”
/>   “Do you see a little man in that shadow?”

  Corey leaned to the side and examined her face, which continued to study the shaded area. To take his mind from the absurd fear coursing through him, he lifted her onto his knee. “Shadows are only places without light.”

  “Yeah, they hide dark things, like under my bed.”

  He attempted to smile and faltered, then planted it firm. “There’s nothing under your bed but dirty icky socks.”

  Janey dropped her bottom jaw. Her room was often the tidiest in the house. “There is no dirty icky socks under my bed.”

  He tickled her until she laughed. He then stood, glanced at the corner, then back to Janey. The banter helped extinguish his superstitious thoughts. Once home, he would take four Tylenol PMs, and conk-out for a day.

  “We have to help her,” Janey said.

  “Who?”

  “Mom.”

  “Your mother is the strongest person I know.”

  “We have to teach her faith is not easy. Mrs. Grainger says doubt lays the bricks of God’s temple.”

  A beach ball bounced repeatedly off the tile near them and careened off the wall, coming to rest one chair away. A pair of boys swam to the pool’s edge and yelled for Janey to return the ball to them.

  “You go play, honey.”

  “Are we going to help her?”

  “We’ll help her.” Corey turned his cheek for Janey’s incoming peck and watched her briskly walk to the ball, lift it carefully with both hands, and gingerly pass it to the awaiting boys. After descending the steps one at a time, she joined a group of kids her age at the rim of the pool, and kicked.

  Corey nodded to a married couple from Hope’s Corner who were directing the training.

  Relaxing, he studied Janey’s serious expression as she kicked. His fatigue lifted as he surveyed the pool room. He became so engrossed in the activity that Justin seemed to materialize next to him, drying off. Corey tugged his ponytail to help him wake up a bit.

  Justin placed a hand on Corey’s shoulder. “Maybe you should take a dip, wake up some, have Janey practice her kicks with you, away from the safety of the edge. It’s a good time.”