The Dreamer in Fire and Other Stories

by Gafford, Sam

  I fed greatly before he left. Alone, my mind traveled beyond the spheres and echoed through the stars. I conversed with mad Azathoth and debated with creatures who had left earth aeons before and others who were yet to come. Father praised my efforts and search for knowledge but warned me that the convergence was imminent.

  My consciousness expanded and I could feel Willy far away from our home. He was tense, irritated because he was foiled in his attempt to retrieve the page. An image of another shimmered in my mind. It was a strange creature that appeared somewhat similar to Willy but smaller and older like Grandfather. “Wal, all right,” Willy said to the animal, “ef ye feel that way abaout it. Maybe Harvard wun’t be so fussy as yew be.”

  I ebbed away from the scene and fled into my center. Willy’s desperation came through to me as I felt him appeal to another creature, similar as the first, and receive the same response. I impressed the need upon him. Forces were moving together. He must take whatever action was needed. A vision of some four-legged animal with a long snout appeared suddenly before me, and I jumped away as it lunged toward me; but it was Willy, not me, that it attacked. It growled and bit and tore and I could feel Willy’s panic as he tried to throw it off. With a groan, Willy left this sphere the way Grandfather and Mother had, and I howled with him.

  Now only I was left.

  Because I do not understand ‘time,’ I do not understand its passing. Many scenes appeared to me of Grandfather and Mother and Willy, but they were without form or weight. Grandfather demanded that I rise, that I was the only hope left. The hill. I had to make it to the top of the hill.

  Groaning, I pressed against the walls of my prison. Outside, I could hear the hill noises growing louder, as if they were encouraging me to break free. I expanded, contracted, and expanded again. The wood in the walls and the ceiling grew weaker. Pushing, straining, growing. With a last heave, the building exploded and I was free!

  The air smelled sweet and warm. I looked around me with all my eyes. There was a slight wind. I remember the times Grandfather took me to the hill. The trees. The trees were so tall. But now, as I reared up, some trees were shorter than I was. And I was so hungry.

  Not far away I found cows. More cows than I had ever seen! I leaped upon them and fed. Some screamed, but most did not have that chance. Half I ate completely, not even leaving bones, while I sucked the others nearly dry. The more I ate, the hungrier I got.

  But where was the hill? I could not remember the way. Everything was wrong, out of proportion. What should have been large was now small, and trees blocked every way I looked. Tired, I moved down into an area that seemed familiar. There were more of the birds here. Now I could see them, flying back and forth. Bugs lit up for a second, then out and then up again. I pushed the trees aside and fled. When the light came up over the trees, I nearly screamed. It was so bright! Brighter than any light I had ever seen. I huddled close and pulled all my limbs to me and cried.

  Grandfather! Help me!

  The dark was cooler and I could move about again. I found a large wooden box like my home. I shook it, wondering if one like me was imprisoned inside, but only sounds of animals came out. I smashed it and ate what was inside. Another box was nearby, but this had windows. I could see things inside but walked away.

  The way was not clear. I moved about, looking at the curious marks I left as I walked, and hid again in the maze of trees. Grandfather and Willy could not see me. Maybe these others could not either. I might be safe then. The light came and went. I reached out but could not feel anyone. I had to look inside myself.

  “Thar, up that hill,” Grandfather said, “here’s ware ye’ll open the way.”

  Willy clumped up the hill ahead of me. His furry legs kicking and stomping in irritation. I came behind. My legs were too clumsy to move fast. Why didn’t I look more like Willy?

  “What’s ’pecial abaout here?” Willy asked.

  Grandfather slapped him, which made me smile.

  “Watch yer mouth, boy,” Grandfather said. He walked toward a stone table on the center of the hill. “This is a holy place,” he said; “years of rituals were done here. The lines between the spheres is weak here.”

  I climbed onto the table and looked around. If I stretched, I could see our house. Other buildings were away in the distance. There were lights in them and I wanted so badly to go see them and look into their windows.

  “’Remember,” he said, ‘’remember.”

  I followed the dream but got lost. In the dark, I came upon a cliff face that towered even taller than me and I climbed it to the top. There was the stone table! I climbed upon it and reached into the stars, calling the words and moving in the required way—but nothing happened. I could not make it work. In anger I thrashed about and upended trees and bushes. Exhausted, I went back the way I came and slept and thought.

  The anger had grown by the time night came again. I pushed through the woods, mad with hate. I hated Grandfather and Willy. I hated this world. I hated the things that walked here and, when I found another box, I crushed it as easily as a stick. Some puny thing screamed, “Help, oh, my Gawd!” but I grabbed her and the others and consumed them. I could feel them dissolving in me, but it was not enough. I needed more. I crashed through the trees while the birds screeched furiously and ate anything I could find that walked or crawled.

  Deep in the woods, I brooded and thought. My mind slipped sideways through the gap to the other places, and I sought counsel. There were ways, I was told, to compensate for my loss. Changes to be made. Different words to be spoken. I would not be able to open the break enough for Father, but others could come through and they would begin the work. In the end, the result would be the same.

  During the day, I felt something. It was a mind I had known before but could not place. It wasn’t Grandfather or Willy. But it was close and I felt its anger and fear. Perhaps I could use it. I know anger.

  The rain began to fall.

  I looked up and felt it splash upon me. Moaning, I reached as high as I could. I’d never felt the rain, never known how it could make me feel clean and new. I laughed and cheered. This is an omen, I thought. I had to move now. Forces were aligning both for and against me.

  The way was now known to me. I followed the path I had made. The rain fell hard and then soft. The light was dimmed so I could move easily. The hill came closer and closer. I leaned on a wooden box that stood over a river. It creaked but did not fall. Ahead was another box with lights and voices coming from inside. It made me angry. It should not be here. They should not be here. This world is not theirs, but they infest it and scurry over its corpse. I launched myself against the front of the box, but it held. Something inside screamed hideously, so I hit it again and again until it fell in pieces before me. I ate the few inside, but something else screamed from a small box. A voice came out of it screeching, “Sally! Sally! Oh, Gawd, SALLY!”

  I picked it up and sniffed it. There was nothing inside but wires. Where was the voice coming from? I stepped on it, and the sound ceased. The rain had stopped and the light was back out when I got to the bottom of the hill. I slowly crawled to the top.

  Calmly, I reviewed in my mind what I needed to do. I said the words to myself and repeated the motions in their correct order. I had nearly reached the stone table when I became aware of something on a higher rise nearby. The mind was familiar and the same as I had felt earlier. I looked about, searching for something to hit, when I saw them.

  There were three of them. Creatures similar to Willy but smaller, and one of them I knew. I looked and remembered the flash I had gotten from Willy of the man who denied him the pages from the book. It was the same creature that faced me now. He had some sort of thing in his hands and, although I knew he could not see me, he stared at me. I roared and moved to strike him down when he sprayed something at me which pushed me backward.

  It was some sort of powder, such as Grandfather used in certain ceremonies, but different, stronger. I felt it covering
me, suffocating me. I thrashed about, but it only made it worse. Why couldn’t it rain now?

  The creature raised its arms and began chanting rhythmically. Its face was white and intense. Suddenly the birds were about again and shrilling evilly and in ever-increasing volume. I struggled and felt that the binding was losing force.

  “Morgan! Rice! It’s fighting me! You have to join the chant now before it’s too late!”

  From beneath the hills came loud growls and I could sense something trying to help me, but now the three of them were together and singing against me. I looked around. Why is no one here to help me? Grandfather and Willy were gone. I tried to conjure them up from my mind, but they would not come forth. I began to feel sick with dread.

  Maybe it wasn’t that Willy thought he would fail. Maybe he was afraid that I would.

  Terrified, I began to scream.

  “Ygnaiih . . . ygnaiih . . . thflthkh’ngha . . . Yog-Sothoth . . . Y’bthnk . . . h’ehye—n’grkdl’lh. . . .”

  I tried to say the words, but they got mixed together. I yelled as loudly as I could, but nothing was happening. I could not feel them helping me.

  The will of the creatures pressed down upon me, smothering my mind. I felt myself falling apart into pieces. I cried and sobbed, but they would not release me. Instead, they pressed on and on and I dwindled more and more.

  Softly I sensed something reaching for me. Through the gates, between the spheres, he reached for me, but he was still so far away.

  The birds screeched louder and, terrified, I heard their shrill call match the rhythm of my breathing.

  I was losing myself . . .

  Finally, in a last burst of strength, I reached out and screamed, “Eh-ya-ya-ya-yahaah—e’yayayayaaaa . . . ngh’aaaaa . . . ngh’aaaa . . . h’yuh . . . h’yuh . . . HELP! HELP! . . . ff—ff—ff—FATHER! FATHER! YOG-SOTHOTH! . . .”

  Then everything exploded.

  Now I dwell in the spaces beyond. I soar through the cosmos and spread terror. I ride with hideous beings on the night-wind and roam through nameless catacombs and unknown valleys. Father does not blame me. He says that there will always be more chances and that time has no meaning here. Hundreds might fail, but all it needs is for one to succeed. Together we scheme and plan. Father loves me.

  “How Does That Make You Feel?”

  The door smashed easily beneath my fist. I dived quickly into the room, only to find it empty. Doctor Primordial had already fled. The warehouse was still full of strange equipment, so I was not too far behind. I could see weird incubator-like machines posted in lines throughout the room. There were at least a hundred of them. I thought that they had been empty but, as I turned to leave, I could see something moving inside one of the glass coffins. I walked up to it slowly, afraid of what I might find. I holstered my .45 and reached out a gloved hand to the glass. It was cold to the touch and covered with condensation. I rubbed until a small window appeared and I looked inside. There was a corpse lying within. It was wearing a Nazi uniform, and I could clearly see the “SS” insignia on the collar. The flesh was gray and sunken with death. Whoever he had been, he had been dead for some time, preserved in this ghoulish freezer. As I stared blankly at the poor creature, he opened his eyes and turned to look at me. I burned the warehouse to the ground.

  “And what happened then?” Dr. Gull asked.

  “I woke up,” Ed replied. “Just as I always do.”

  Dr. Gull made some notes on his pad. They were sitting in Dr. Gull’s office at Rhode Island Hospital. It was a room like any other psychiatrist’s office. Simple but neutral furniture. Just a couch for the patient and an easy chair for the doctor. A desk sat nearby with a closed laptop on it. Diplomas hung on the wall along with various pictures of family, including one photo that looked very old. It was a black-and-white picture of two men smiling happily at the camera.

  “So let me make sure that I understand what you’re saying. You’ve been having a recurring dream that you’re some sort of ‘pulp hero’ named ‘The Crimson Scorpion’ in New York City in the 1940s?”

  Ed shifted nervously in his seat. For a fairly small man, he was uneasy in his body. The addition of extra weight had made him clumsy and unable to be comfortable. ‘Middle-aged spread,’ Ed assumed; although it bothered him, he never considered joining a gym or going on a diet.

  “Well, yes and no. You see, I’m always the Scorpion but it’s not a recurring dream so much as it’s an extended one.”

  “You mean that it’s like a movie?”

  “Yes. Every time I go to sleep, it picks up where it left off. I keep seeing new chapters. Like one of those old serials, you know?”

  Dr. Gull nodded.

  “That’s very interesting. And how long has this been happening?”

  Ed shrugged. “I don’t know. Past couple of months, I suppose.”

  “And you are always this character? The hero?”

  “Yes. It’s weird, because it’s not me and yet it actually is.”

  Dr. Gull looked over at Ed. He was an unassuming man—the type that people would pass every day on the street and never remember. To many, Ed was invisible. Small wonder then that he had become an accountant in a nondescript dividends department for a large Rhode Island bank. The profession fit Ed like a glove.

  “Mr. Conners,” Dr. Gull intoned, “I don’t think that you realize the importance of this session. You were found sleeping at your desk and, when awoken, attempted to shoot people with a non-existent gun while shouting . . .”—Dr. Gull flipped back the pages of his notes—“I have it here. You said, ‘Beware the wrath of the Crimson Scorpion!’”

  “I have no memory of that.”

  “Of course not. That’s why we’re here.” Dr. Gull sighed. “I am being paid by Fleet Bank to counsel you and determine if you are fit to return to work without being a hazard to yourself or your co-workers.”

  Ed shrugged. “I don’t feel like a threat.”

  Dr. Gull agreed. Ed looked about as threatening as a cartoon mouse. But still, there was something odd here.

  “Mr. Conners . . . Ed, I’d like you to keep a sleep log for me if you would. Just write down whatever you dream about.”

  “If you think that’ll help?”

  Dr. Gull stood up and shook Ed’s hand as he walked him out the door.

  “I do. Let’s see if we can figure out what your dreams are trying to tell us. Maybe then we can understand why you’re having them.”

  After Ed had left, Dr. Gull went to his laptop and searched several websites. Unsatisfied, he turned to his many volumes of psychiatric references but could find little to help him. Anguish patterns in dreams he had known about; those were easily definable. But what to do with a man who dreams he is a 1940s pulp hero in an ongoing dream?

  Before the warehouse had hit the ground, I was in my Ford Coupe with the engine racing as I sped back downtown through the streets of Manhattan. No one knew the back streets of the city better than I, and I knew my time was running out. Somewhere out there was Dr. Primordial, and he had to be stopped! Even I could barely believe that the Secret Nazi Program was the reanimation of the dead. With an army like that, Hitler could march across the world and no one would be able to stop him. And they had chosen to start in America! In the city I had sworn to protect and save from evil!

  I punched the button on the dashboard, and the video screen rose up out of the console. Russell’s face immediately came on-screen. “What’s the deal, boss?” he said.

  “The warehouse was a bust, Russell. Dr. Primordial had already skipped out. But I found out what his secret project actually is . . . he’s making Nazi zombies!”

  Russell didn’t answer. His brain was trying to process the information. Even though he was the smartest person I’d ever known, he was sometimes annoyingly unimaginative.

  “I don’t understand. Why would he do that? What would he gain?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Russell. An army made up of zombies would be practically unstoppable. No m
atter how many times you’d shoot them, they’d just get back up again. Not to mention the rate of infection. Every enemy they kill and eat becomes one of their own.”

  I sped past Broadway and the late-night theatergoers. So smug in their ignorance.

  “Gotcha, boss. But how is he doing it? Resurrecting them, I mean?”

  “I don’t have time to go into it, Russell, but he’s using some sort of incubation tubes. There were hundreds in the warehouse, all hooked up to machines and Dr. Frankenstein junk.”

  “OK, I’ll run over and examine them right now. I can tell you what he’s using—”

  “Don’t bother. I burned the warehouse down.”

  Russell was silent.

  “All of it?” he asked. “But, but . . . I could’ve learned so much from that equipment! I—”

  “Stow it, Russell! We’re not competing with Dr. Primordial. We’re shutting him down, remember?”

  “Right. Gotcha. OK. If he’s using tubes, he must be using electricity. Let me check the utilities files for high usage. Something like that is going to use a lot of power, and we can track him that way.”

  I swerved to miss a pedestrian who cursed as I drove by. You’re welcome, citizen!

  “But, boss, we’ve got another problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No one’s heard from Miss Sarah in five hours. She’s not answering her phone and our mole at the New York Herald says she hasn’t been in all day.”

  “Understood.” I shut off the video screen and screeched into a high speed U-turn. If Dr. Primordial had guessed the connection between me and Sarah Kent, ace reporter, her life would be in incredible danger.

  Dr. Gull flipped back through the pages.

  “And then what happened?”

  Ed shrugged. “That’s all I have so far.”

  “Ed, the amount of detail you have here is amazing. Tell me, when you’re having these dreams, how do you feel?”

  Ed appeared to sink within himself. His chin lowered onto his chest and his voice was low and deep.