Torn Realities

by Post Mortem Press

  In one particular book I was fortunate enough to chance upon a highly interesting chapter on lucid dreaming, which is the art of training oneself to gather one's senses enough to wake up whilst still within a dream, thereby being in a position to live out your every fantasy. At first I was skeptical and found the concept difficult to grasp, but I forced myself to understand. If nothing else, it was an interesting theory.

  The basic technique involved adopting a habitual cue, something you do on a regular basis in your everyday life. Looking at your wristwatch, for example. Apparently it was possible to train yourself to "check your reality" and determine whether you were asleep or awake every time you checked your watch. In theory, one day you will unwittingly perform your cue whilst in the throws of a dream and, through sheer force of habit, check your reality and hence realize you are dreaming. The indefinable power of your imagination would then be at your disposal...

  Over the following months I practised and perfected the technique, using sneezing as my cue. It was the height of summer and, me being a hay fever sufferer, I sneezed quite a lot. Every time I sneezed I would immediately and enthusiastically determine whether I was asleep or awake. Knowing that in the fantastic world of dreams, we mimic our everyday actions, thus performing a perverse parody of life, I deduced that it could only be a matter of time before an opportunity presented itself.

  And all the while, the dreams themselves, the root of my anxiety, were getting steadily worse. They were becoming ever more vivid and so disturbing that I arrived at the pathetic point of actually dreading the onset of nightfall, the time when every man on earth was forced into a lonely confrontation with his own personal demons. In daylight hours you can run, you can hide, you can distract yourself with menial tasks so your demons are held at bay. But they will always find you under cover of darkness.

  I visited that washed-out empty wasteland almost every night and even with my new-found knowledge of lucid dreaming, sometimes had difficulty distinguishing the dream from reality. Also, despite my hatred and primal fear of the dark, I found myself sleeping more and more, spending every spare moment within the warm confines of my bed. My own bed became my prison.

  Shortly, my whole attitude changed completely. I began to view the recurring dream as if it were simply an alternative reality. I actually thought of myself as lucky at one point, being the only person on the face of the planet who knew exactly where he was going when the lights went out and the mind took over.

  I practised faithfully and patiently waited for the dawn of understanding when I would break through the shackles of consciousness and be free to roam my sparse netherworld in search of answers.

  I don't remember the trigger event, the sneeze, at all. I can't even be sure that there was a sneeze, or if my expanding mind had somehow found another gateway to the land of dreams. However I got there, the sensation I felt on arrival will stay with me forever. It can only be described as returning to your senses after a long absence and being astounded by the sudden explosion of light, sound and color. It could only be compared to being born. Or re-born. In fact, it was all rather too close for comfort to a profound religious experience. In a word, I felt enlightenment of the highest and purest order.

  I was alone, as usual. This time in an unfamiliar, apparently deserted house when suddenly, with effortless ease, I simply woke up. Came to my senses. I felt fresh, revitalized and more acutely aware of my strange surroundings than ever before.

  It came as no great surprise to discover that I was locked in the same, all too familiar nightmare. Once again I was visiting that sad, deserted shadow land where nobody lived and nothing stirred. There was only one perceivable difference; this time I was awake and fully in command of my senses.

  Did this now mean that my strange other realm was now real and tangible? As real as the waking world?

  I shuddered with excitement as the realisation threatened to overwhelm me, forcing me back inside myself and into oblivion.

  I stood on the ground floor of an old, dusty house. I was slightly disorientated and swayed on my feet as I clawed desperately at the surface of my mind, trying in vain to uncover some clue as to my whereabouts. Was it some forgotten relic of my past?

  Vaguely, the flickering images fading fast, I could remember looking for something in the dream. The object of my misguided search, however, eluded me. I tried manfully to remember but the answer to my question danced agonizingly just beyond my reach. Beyond my comprehension, perhaps. And there was something else. A nagging sense of urgency. I had to find it, it was vitally important. But what, exactly, was vitally important? To whom was it important and why?

  The confusing dream within a dream was soon forgotten as the last lingering images gradually faded into obscurity. Then the thrill of it all seized me and refused to let go. The heightened awareness, the confidence and the strength flooding through my veins was similar to being under the influence of a powerful, mind-altering drug. I had to explore this strange new world.

  I instinctively knew that it was either dusk or dawn. The place had a gloomy, semi-dark feel about it. Turning full circle, I scanned my surroundings and noted that I was standing on bare wooden floorboards, littered with debris and festooned with dust. There was no sign of any furniture and faded wallpaper hung from the walls in strips, revealing the naked plasterboard beneath. There were no visible doors, just gaping empty holes marking the sites where they used to be. There was a heavy, damp odor hanging in the air. The place had obviously not been occupied for a very long time.

  Then there was a soft clunk. A small, insignificant noise which nonetheless shattered the foreboding atmosphere that had settled over the building. I stood still, not even breathing, straining to hear above the deafening silence.

  On another level to that of which I was used to functioning, I knew I was not alone. I also knew that whatever was sharing this experience with me was a key part of the puzzle.

  Through one of the gaping doorways I could see a staircase. Cautiously I crossed the room, stepped over the threshold and started climbing the ancient stairs. I decided to search each room systematically but found only more examples of disrepair and crumbling neglect. There was no sign of any life. Reluctantly, I admitted to myself that the mysterious noise I had heard must have existed only in my mind, a mind which had become accustomed to a relentless onslaught of abuse and could not recognize the luxury of pure silence. Regardless, I decided to take my quest further afield.

  Turning to make my way back down the staircase, I was suddenly overwhelmed by an insatiable urge to do something reckless, dangerous even. I had not experienced such a sensation since my teens--an inexplicable yearning to do the unexpected, the irresponsible. Just for the hell of it. A religious fanatic would call such feelings the work of Satan but on reflection of my troubled teenage years, I think that they are little more than desperate cries for recognition--the desire to be noticed and recognized as an individual and not just one of the pack.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I was standing before a large bay window. I wanted to leap through it and spiral through the air like a deranged Hollywood stuntman. The only thing stopping me was the possible implications of my actions. What if I was awake after all? Or sleepwalking? I could expect a few broken bones at least. And what if the old wives tale that said if you died in your dreams then you died in real life was actually true?

  But then that wicked little voice that lays buried deep within us all over-ruled my sensible half. I pushed the nagging doubts and clouds of uncertainty aside and with a strangled cry of defiance, away I went.

  I felt an amazing rush of adrenaline coupled with a strong feeling of disbelief as the window glass splintered and shattered all around me. Falling helplessly through the heavy air induced a panicky sense of mortality. I became convinced that I had made a terrible mistake, one that was going to cost me. I had what seemed like an age to contemplate all I had done, culminating in this one fatal error of judgement, this one final act of sheer
stupidity. It is true what they say. As if I was drowning, parts of my life flashed before my eyes in an abstract sequence of flickering memories; Childhood events that had shaped my future, forgotten friendships, lost lovers...

  Then I hit the ground. I braced myself for that sickening blast of pain, but it never came. Gingerly, I got to my feet and examined myself for injury. Incredibly I hadn't even caught a stray splinter of glass on the way through the window.

  I stood in the overgrown garden gathering my thoughts for a few moments. I found it ironic that for months I had strived to gradually train my mind in anticipation of this day, and when it came I didn't know what to do with myself. I studied the deserted streets and neglected buildings around me, the wonderful feeling of enlightenment that had filled me was gone to be replaced by an eerie sense of foreboding. Try as I might I could not recapture my earlier mood and I knew perfectly well why. I was lost. Utterly lost.

  It was while I was mulling over my current predicament that a second noise shattered the silence. The unmistakable clatter of a tin can being hurled or kicked against concrete. I held my breath and listened intently, but there was no repeat performance. Uncertainty and fear seeped through my veins. I was not alone after all. There was someone, or something else, here with me.

  I was still plagued by a nagging sense of urgency. I had to find what I was looking for. And quickly. I was certain that my very life depended on it.

  Like a frightened child I wandered the barren streets. Time lost all meaning as I explored the forgotten multitude of derelict buildings.

  All the while, there was something with me. It never showed itself but made its presence known with a series of deliberate audible signals. A soft footstep here, a menacing scrape on concrete there. I didn't know what it was or what it wanted, but I got the impression that for now it just wanted to play with me, see me squirm, frighten me. I kept thinking about poltergeists.

  Or is it all just a trick of the subconscious mind?

  Eventually my journey came to an abrupt end in an old, long-abandoned playground. Here I rested my weary legs and, absurd as it may sound, I think I actually slept for a while. There were no dreams this time, however, only merciful blackness.

  When I awoke from my exhausted slumber I was still locked in the dream. The emptiness was all around, suffocating me, and again I was faced with the familiar burden of guilt and remorse that so often awaited me on the waking side of sleep. The playground, presumably the scene of so much laughter and happiness, then bore witness to such a pitiful display of gut-wrenching grief that by the end, when the uncontrollable sobbing finally subsided, I was lying in the fetal position on the cold, gray, unforgiving tarmac which was now sodden with tears.

  *****

  The sun neither rises nor sets. I have lost count of all the derelict buildings in varying stages of terminal decay that I have explored in my fruitless search for life. It appears that I really am completely alone in this barren wasteland, save for my tyrannical anonymous pursuer. But surely, if it was going to attack it would have by now. It has had ample opportunity.

  The only thing from which I can draw any comfort is the fact that now I know what I spent an untold number of panic-stricken hours searching for--I was looking for life. At last I know the cause of that terrible burden of guilt and loss I had so often endured. I was grieving for the life I had lost. My real one. Now I am able to understand that this is the true nightmare in all its desolate glory. I am trapped alone in this dead twilight world, tracked by a mysterious unseen adversary and sadly, it is all my own doing. A self-induced punishment, a hell of my own creation.

  It seems as though I have been here for an eternity. It has occurred to me that all this is but another tremendously vivid dream, my strained and persecuted mind manipulating my darkest fears but if so, then how long can it go on? I cannot survive in this lonely chamber of horrors for much longer; I fear that I will be driven to madness, if I haven't already.

  I don't even know if I am awake or asleep. Alive or dead. Surely it can only be a question of time before I wake and am returned once more to the blessed land of the living.

  Isn't it?

  RAWHEAD REX

  Clive Barker

  Someone once said--I think it was Neil Gaiman--everything Harlan Ellison did was part of one big work of art called "Harlan Ellison." The same rule applies to Clive Barker. Clive hasn't been content in any one medium or genre; in art, film, literature, and theater--from Hellraiser to the epic Arabat series--Clive's been composing one great big construction called "Clive Barker." This story, "Rawhead Rex", from the Books of Blood series, but it could only have been written by Clive. Being able to acquire this for Torn Realities has been one of the greatest highlights of my burgeoning career.

  Of all the conquering armies that had tramped the streets of Zeal down the centuries, it was finally the mild tread of the Sunday tripper that brought the village to its knees. It had suffered Roman legions, and the Norman conquest, it had survived the agonies of Civil War, all without losing its identity to the occupying forces. But after centuries of boot and blade it was to be the tourists--the new barbarians--that bested Zeal, their weapons courtesy and hard cash.

  It was ideally suited for the invasion. Forty miles south-east of London, amongst the orchards and hop-fields of the Kentish Weald, it was far enough from the city to make the trip an adventure, yet close enough to beat a quick retreat if the weather turned foul. Every weekend between May and October Zeal was a watering-hole for parched Londoners. They would swarm through the village on each Saturday that promised sun, bringing their dogs, their plastic balls, their litters of children, and their children's litter, disgorging them in bawling hordes on to the village green, then returning to The Tall Man to compare traffic stories over glasses of warm beer.

  For their part the Zealots weren't unduly distressed by the Sunday trippers; at least they didn't spill blood. But their very lack of aggression made the invasion all the more insidious.

  Gradually these city-weary people began to work a gentle but permanent change on the village. Many of them set their hearts on a home in the country; they were charmed by stone cottages set amongst churning oaks, they were enchanted by doves in the churchyard yews. Even the air, they'd say as they inhaled deeply, even the air smells fresher here. It smells of England.

  At first a few, then many, began to make bids for the empty barns and deserted houses that uttered Zeal and its outskirts. They could be seen every fine weekend, standing in the nettles and rubble, planning how to have a kitchen extension built, and where to install the Jacuzzi. And although many of them, once back in the comfort of Kilburn or St John's Wood, chose to stay there, every year one or two of them would strike a reasonable bargain with one of the villagers, and buy themselves an acre of the good life.

  So, as the years passed and the natives of Zeal were picked off by old age, the civil savages took over in their stead. The occupation was subtle, but the change was plain to the knowing eye. It was there in the newspapers the Post Office began to stock--what native of Zeal had ever purchased a copy of Harpers and Queen magazine, or leafed through The Times Literary Supplement? It was there, that change, in the bright new cars that clogged the one narrow street, laughingly called the High Road, that was Zeal's backbone. It was there too in the buzz of gossip at The Tall Man, a sure sign that the affairs of the foreigners had become fit subject for debate and mockery.

  Indeed, as time went by the invaders found a yet more permanent place in the heart of Zeal, as the perennial demons of their hectic lives, Cancer and Heart Disease, took their toll, following their victims even into this newfound-land. Like the Romans before them, like the Normans, like all invaders, the commuters made, their profoundest mark upon this usurped turf not by building on it, but by being buried under it.

  *****

  It was clammy the middle of that September; Zeal's last September.

  Thomas Garrow, the only son of the late Thomas Garrow, was sweating up a
healthy thirst as he dug in the corner of the Three Acre Field. There'd been a violent rainstorm the previous day, Thursday, and the earth was sodden. Clearing the ground for sowing next year hadn't been the easy job Thomas thought it'd be, but he'd sworn blind he'd have the field finished by the end of the week. It was heavy labour, clearing stones, and sorting out the detritus of out-of-date machinery his father, lazy bastard, had left to rust where it lay. Must have been some good years, Thomas thought, some pretty fine damn years, that his father could afford to let good machinery waste away. Come to think of it, that he could have afforded to leave the best part of three acres unploughed; good healthy soil, too. This was the Garden of England after all: land was money. Leaving three acres fallow was a luxury nobody could afford in these straitened times. But Jesus, it was hard work: the kind of work his father had put him to in his youth, and he'd hated with a vengeance ever since.

  Still, it had to be done.

  And the day had begun well. The tractor was healthier after its overhaul, and the morning sky was rife with gulls, across from the coast for a meal of freshly turned worms. They'd kept him raucous company as he worked, their insolence and their short tempers always entertaining. But then, when he came back to the field after a liquid lunch in The Tall Man, things began to go wrong. The engine started to cut out for one, the same problem that he'd just spent £200 having seen to; and then, when he'd only been back at work a few minutes, he'd found the stone.

  It was an unspectacular lump of stuff: poking out of the soil perhaps a foot, its visible diameter a few inches short of a yard, its surface smooth and bare. No lichen even; just a few grooves in its face that might have once been words. A love-letter perhaps, a "Kilroy was here" more likely, a date and a name likeliest of all. Whatever it had once been, monument or milestone, it was in the way now. He'd have to dig it up, or next year he'd lose a good three yards of ploughable land. There was no way a plough could skirt around a boulder that size.