by Justin Bell
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A smile of triumph crossed William Strickland's face as he poked his head out of the trees further down the street from his home. He had been riding for the bulk of the afternoon, taking several side roads, trying to create some distance between himself and what had gone down at his house. That trek had taken him down towards the familiar wooden sign for the Norwood Pool. For some reason, that pool had a familiar feel to it. It was a small natural spring pond formed deep in the woods in this small Vermont town, and the local populace had turned it into a popular swimming hole. It was too late in the season for anyone to be using it now, so Strickland figured it was safe. Looking back and forth, to confirm no cars were coming, he darted across the road, over the chain fence, and down the narrow dirt path. Instead of riding right now, he wheeled the bike from the shelter of the trees and within minutes, he was down by the pool itself. It felt downright liberating to be free of all the heavy equipment he had been carrying. Stretching his arms up and above his head, he groaned slightly at the various aches and pains that permeated his body, not just from the long run, but also from various injuries that he had suffered over the past forty-eight hours. The pain in his left leg was especially intense, though he felt reassured that he had dug the bullet free. Lingering pain was okay, as long as there wasn't a potentially lethal hunk of pounded lead sitting in his muscle tissue. The memories of this place were not specific, but felt more ingrained in him. He knew this place instinctively, though he couldn't quite form any coherent memories of what happened here. Maybe he had come here with his wife? Taken his kids swimming?
His kids?
He closed his eyes and physically forced himself to think. Why couldn't he even remember his kids' names? They were right at the edge of his mind, just blocked off by this strangely malleable red cloud of dripping goo.
The mere thought of these questions forced a glance down at his forearm, which was still red and irritated from the apparent scrapes he had put into his flesh. DNB 455. The scrapes were fresh, as if they had been made within the past twenty-four hours, but he simply could not put together the right pieces. For the first time that he could really remember, he felt at a loss for what actions to take next. Sitting in the dry grass, he looked up at the sky, which was the dusty orange and pink of approaching sunset, and leaned his head back on the thin tree trunk behind him.
Thick red clouds at the fringes of his memory drifted inward, blotching out the brightness of free thought. As his subconscious mind had been striving for answers, every turn led him to crimson-hued roadblocks, almost as if planted there purposefully. His dream-self went forward, some of the red mist separated and he saw the cabin in front of him? the cabin of nightmares. Squeezing his mind's eye closed, he was surrounded by rotted wood and flying glass, spinning around him in a chaotic tornado of dream state. Strickland's mental form crouched down, covering itself with wrapped arms as the wind ripped around him in furious anger, beating at his head and chest. Deep, guttural noises emerged from all around him, from sources he could not see, so deep they tore at the inside of his eyes. Growls turned to barks, which turned to howls, and then suddenly a vicious and violent screech of horror that forced his eyes open.
And there she was.
The woman of his dreams, in more ways than one.
Standing there, her medium-length brown hair slicked to her face by some mysterious substance that wasn't water. Her eyes pleading, her mouth open, as if to beg. Strickland felt himself almost reaching out, even as the large mottled gray and brown creature rose above the young woman from behind, its eyes glistening with anger.
Strickland's mouth opened in a silent scream in his dream state.
The creature's gaping jaws pried themselves open even further as Strickland tried to reach for the woman, to grab her hand, but she looked almost calm again. The monster had placed hands on her shoulder and waist and for a split second, she stopped resisting. Almost as if she now just expected Strickland to save her.
"I will save you!" he shouted, but again, only in his dream.
"You can't," she whispered sadly, shaking her head. "But it's okay."
Strickland's mind raced? this was his wife! Wasn't this his wife? Behind her, the creature reeled back, teeth caked with red seemed to burst from the exposed gums. The woman's eyes were calm.
His fingers extended? he drew closer. The jaws slammed shut and a blinding white flash punched him in the face like a pail of hot water, as he spiraled back out of the dream and into reality-
