I unfold a soggy newspaper on the dining room table and study it carefully. Dribbling down translucent page four in green, black, and blue ink is the picture of an enormous house. Beneath it, in jet black ink, is an extremely humble price for such an extravagent house. This newsprint, I realize- though now it looks more like rice paper- is a real estate listing. I immediately scribble down the address of the house before it trickles down the paper in a black waterfall, and speed off to see it for myself.
I turn the car's steering wheel carefully, hand-over-hand, just as my driving instructor had scolded me about so harshly before, down the street that would lead me to the amazing house. I duck below the tint just above the windshield to assure that what I am seeing in front of me is indeed real:
Enormous houses, larger than any I have ever seen and in the most generic of shapes, squatting in the middle of a deserted freeway.
A large strip of wilted grass bristles in the center of the highway, poking out from between huge chunks of cracked concrete and the tallest trees I've ever seen. They just from the ground like massive, splintery toothpicks. To my right, there is a vast expanse of white, dashed lines flying by me. No other cars are driving on the road beside me, despite the asphault looking relatively new.
I spot a stop sign precariously perched at the edge of a concrete chunk, that had been uprooted from the ground, and slam the brake to the floor. The car squeals to a stop in front of a hideous heap of rotted wood that I immediately recognize as the house from the picture in the newspaper. It must have looked better in the picture because the ink was running, I decide. Looking in my rearview mirror I see no cars coming, so I flip off the ignition and pocket the keys, leaving the car in its place just behind the stop sign.
The moment the car door slams, an odd woman appears in front of me. Her beady, black eyes are sunken in, her skin sallow and wrinkled. A few strands of hair fall loose from her tightly wrapped bun, swaying underneath a black veil that sweeps her brow. It is an odd phenomenon to see it swish like that, since I feel no wind on my cheek, and she hasn't made a move since I met her eyes. She nervously begins to finger the large pearl necklace hanging around her neck as our eyes lock in place, our glances toward one another skeptical.
"Please, do come inside." she simply says. She digs her grotesquely long fingernails into my arm and sweeps me to the croaking front porch of the hideously misleading house. The shifty boards groan under my weight, but she leads me inside despite their protests. A sick feeling wrenches my gut, but vanishes when I see that the expression that everyone had always told me was true. While something may not be too pretty on the outside, it sure is on the inside.
Two grand staircases twirl up the left and right walls of the entrance room, garnished with ivy leaves that spiral up the railing. The woman slips off my coat, and sends me up the massive staircase on the right. I pass an enormous cherry wood door, and begin to wonder what is inside. But an even more spectacular door awaits me at the top of the stairs.
I am helped inside the door, where two maids await. They sit me down and pour some steaming, brown liquid from a silver kettle into a tea cup that they must have slipped into my hand when I least expected it. They hurry away with the ghostly tea set when the old woman steps into the room through a smaller door that leads into the hallway to my right.
"Please, come this way dear." she says and takes my hand. The tea cup is left sitting on the table beside the chair I had just been sitting in, though I swore I never set it there. I am shown dozens of racks of clothes of all kinds: satin, velvet, silk, and heavy cloth embroidered with expensive patterns. These materials make up most of the wardrobe display, though there are also some thinner, less-expensive materials present.
"You may pick any of these clothes that you like, as long as you are willing to do me a small favor when you are finished- ah, and I ask that you not ask what it is. But it won't be too much of a bother, I can assure you." I nod, but feel hesitant. I bite my lip in protest, but no words are able to come out of my mouth. As haunted as this place seems, and as strange as the chance seems that this might actually happen to an unfortunate soul such as myself, I have no reason to accept her strange offer, and part my lips to begin my decline- but then, a thought occurs to me.
My family is trapped in poverty. We can't afford the nicer things in life anymore. If I take these clothes, they wouldn't have to buy them for me. It would be a heavy burden lifted from their chests, should I choose to accept her offer...
"You look worried my dear... oh, but you can rest assured that there are no strings attached here. I want no money, nor anything in return but this one little favor." I nod once again, a more confident stride in my step this time around.
I pluck my way through every rack, making sure that the old woman approved my every choice of clothing. After picking up and carting around dozens of musty, silken dresses, I see what I truly want: a black corset. I had always wanted one, as I am not the most prim-and-proper, and could never attain a good figure nor manage good posture. I spin it around to find that it still has a designer tag hanging from it. The old woman hurries to me, and snatches it from me,
"Please, take anything but this. Money doesn't grow on trees, you know!" she cackles. She tucks it away deep into one of the shelves. I hurry into the fitting room nearest to me, which consists of a simple rectangular room with a red curtain hanging at one end. There is no mirror nor bench; just a room and a curtain.
I quickly pull on and pull off everything I'd picked, feeling that I have found everything I want here. The old woman smiles at me as I left the fitting room wearing a dress very similar to hers: white originally, though now a reduced to a lackluster beige as a result of age. It is made of silk and heavy cloth blends that reek of expired perfume, must, and mothballs, and is covered from head-to-toe in a hideous floral pattern.
I briskly thank the woman by curtsying, and hurry toward the door. I bat a single eyelash and find that she has moved in front of the door, completely preventing me from leaving.
"Ah, you've forgotten my dear. I have a favor I need to ask of you now," she smiles a devious smile, and I somehow know I've gotten in way over my head, "please, my dear, would you marry my son?" My heart sinks into my stomach. My eyes dart back and forth from her to the clothes piled high in my arms. I throw them to the floor, creating a miniscule mushroom cloud of dust.
"Now, now, he's a very nice boy. Only a bit older than yourself, dear." she says. I know that I am young... too young to be married, though I can't argue that to her. She grabs my arms and all the clothes that I threw on the floor without any effort what-so-ever. It startles me, for her appearance doesn't lead me to believe that she is capable of doing any like what I'd just seen.
The old woman shoves me down the grand staircase, whipping the articles of clothing after me, and I tumble out the front door of the haunted mansion, into the chest of a young man with coarse, brown hair. He seems familiar, but scares me at the same time. I don't want to be forced to love him, but I should; for the sake of my family's well-being...
Meanwhile, as I take the thoughts into consideration and weigh out the positive and negatives in my mind, the man's face begins to distort and dissolve. He and the haunted neighborhood dissolve into complete darkness, breaking away like shards of broken stained glass atop a black paper backing. It feels as if a huge burden has been lifted from my chest. I let my mind wander in the peaceful quiet, void of any worries, any pressure, any stress; suddenly, the dark isn't so scary anymore.
YOU ARE READING
Dream Journal
Random"Dreams are the illustrations of the book your soul is writing about you." - Anonymous.
