The third dream had rattled Tyler. He had remade the demo and dropped it off at the talent rep's office downtown. He had gotten his window repaired, thanks to some help from his dad, but he still had not replaced the radio. It was three weeks since the break in, and with nothing to do and no gig ahead of him, he drove around town in silence thinking about both Mr. Red and Mr. Yellow. Could he remember their faces? Not very well. There were just little details that remained. Mr. Red's had been reduced to a featureless skull of a head. Pale and plain, the only thing that stood out was his yellow eyes, at least there at the end.
Mr. Yellow's face, on the other hand, was slightly more memorable. It was slender, but not gaunt. His eyes were sleepy, but determined. He hadn't smiled, but he never seemed agitated at Tyler. Instead, it appeared he had been sent to intercede. I just wish he hadn't made me kill Mr. Red. There had to be some other way, he thought. 'Kill someone and kill a part of yourself,' the saying goes. Was that true for dreams as well? It certainly felt real. He also recalled that Mr. Yellow's jacket was different from the cloaks of Mr. Green, Blue and Red. It was tailored to his build and stopped at his waist. He couldn't recall the material, but Tyler did remember that it had a word running down one arm. What was it? Oh yes, HIGHROAD. Was that the brand? He had never seen that one before. Where would his mind have come up with that? How had Mr. Yellow know Mr. Red would need to be killed? And why did it seem like the other three men couldn't see Mr. Yellow?
The questions kept coming, tormenting him as he drove. The worst ones were the ones Mr. Red had asked him for that form. Did he have a job? Did he make any money? Did he have friends? Would he make something of himself? Could he really be a musician? Would his parents be disappointed with him? Damn, he thought. Mr. Red knew my worries down to the detail. Then a strange thought struck him. Am I Mr. Red? Were all three men shades of me? Is Mr. Yellow part of me, too? That might be how his sister would interpret the dreams. Am I thinking about suicide?
Sweat beaded on his lip and the back of his neck. He could see the steering wheel becoming slick from his perspiring hands. He felt nauseous. At the next exit, Tyler abruptly veered off the highway and drove too fast to his parents house with that one thought careening around in his mind. Am I thinking about suicide? But when he arrived there, he did not stop. Instead he drove to the edge of the neighborhood where the field began and stopped the car abruptly. Turning off the engine, he fumbled with the door handle and felt his stomach lurch as he fell away from the vehicle. Sweat now ran heavily down from his brow. The nausea moved higher towards his throat. He crouched on his knees next to the back wheel for three long minutes, waiting for it to pass. Finally steady enough to get to his feet, he stood shakily against the car and then hoarsely whispered, "Zachary.''
In a daze from this new malady, Tyler staggered off across the field. Moving slowly at first, he finally broke into an uncontrolled run before reaching the edge of the trench, falling in with a frenzy of grasping, flying leaves, flinging of mud, and finally a splash into a pool of water below. There he lay, with the ripples of the creek trickling around him.
"Zachary..." he said again.
"Zachary, are you here?" The creek and the woods gave up only their usual sounds. He felt himself stand up, but still dazed from the nausea and the fall, he was unable to focus on his surroundings.
"Zachary, if you can hear me, I need your help. I know you're here, you're always here." He began to move to the other side of the creek. Still weary and not in his right senses, he climbed slowly up the opposite bank towards the trees on the edge of the woods. As he walked, he felt his dripping body swaying as though he stood on the deck of a ship at sea, and his head still swam. For a moment, he even thought he could hear the rolling of the waves around him.
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YOU ARE READING
The Book of Dema
ParanormalThe Way to Peace for Troubled Souls is Through Our Colored Doors. This is the lure the Bishops of Dema use to draw hurting people to Dema and eventually into Vialism, the rite the Bishops use to sustain their long lives. Follow the members of Twenty...