Have you ever had a dream that never left? How about a dream that stuck with you because it repeated itself on multiple occasions? Someone recently asked me what is the scariest dream I ever had?
I'm almost fifty-one years old, and that is a lot of life, including, but not limited to, sleep and dreams. For me to dig into the feverish sleep movies of an already overactive imagination, especially being a horror writer, is imperative because I love sharing. I had a couple terrifying dreamscapes that visited me in my youth. Dreams during the years my mind was a bowl of oatmeal. When I thought outside the box, without inhibition, sleep seemed alive, real, and a place that both haunted me when awake, and inspires me. These dreams, mostly nightmarish, entered my subconscious more than once and that is why they are still vivid, valid, and alive with me today.
Dream 1: When I was growing up there was an influx of Pink Panther movies that replayed on television. I had no interest, but I liked the motion of the pink cat who strutted on the screen. While in the state of REM the deepest of sleeping... the dreamscape put me in my bedroom. The carpet a tight weave of blues and oranges, the ceiling adorned with a popcorn plaster, the walls a light brown paneling. I sat on my bed and the guy with the hat and the mustache, Inspector Clouseau, walked in, a drunken amble to his gait. I didn't think anything of it, until he dropped to the ground onto his back. His face contorted, eyes two angry slits and the look of an insipid snake he flopped around the floor and writhed. Getting into the supine position the short man hissed and rolled back and forth. The air escaping his pearly whites was like a tea kettle, escaping angrily, the contortion, and the alien actions of a mostly harmless caricature, scared the fuck out of me. I woke up sweaty and horrified. That dream visited me a few times and it's still freshly taking up real estate in my head today.
Dream 2: The second I'm going to discuss is a sad oddity more than a demonic visitation. This dream made me feel so fucking melancholic and down that it never left my memory bank. It started out like an actual movie. I was at my grandparent's, who lived next door, and I couldn't stop crying. There was newspaper flashing, a sign that I watched too many movies while awake, the clippings were about a family dying in a house fire, my family. There was a patch of woods that had a trail through it that lead me to my house. Sobbing and looking for my family I followed the path home to see if the newspaper was real. My house was intact, despite the fact having burned down. I saw my parents and two sisters bringing luggage out to our old white station wagon. I asked if I could come and they said no, Tim, we're dead and going to heaven you have to stay here you can't take this vacation with us. I cried, sobbed, and couldn't stop. I tried to explain to everyone I saw my mom and dad, that they weren't dead, and was ignored, until I woke up. When waking I felt a sense of dread, an emptiness filled me, an emptiness that I never felt from any other dream.
In a nutshell, my dreams help me realize who I am and where my head can go with just the smallest of inspiration. My dreams help me stay in touch with the fear that sometimes lingers inside, the fear of being alone. They help me realize that this life is full of surprises, I just have to find them, and believe me, in this travel life, surprises are around every corner.
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Tim Eagle
Tim Eagle is an author of the novellas Stolen Seed, Life Ship, and the Vasectomus Collection. He lives full time, on the road, with his wife, Maria and their dog, Cocoa. He grew up in Michigan and is inspired by the dysfunction of America. His books are available on Amazon, godless and this site timeaglefiction.comÂ
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