Who Is Brian Quinn?

The Lost World...

"Last night I had the strangest dream," said Cody. "Must've been the sleep therapy." He lay on the couch in Beardsley's office. The water had risen during the night so the level of the water and the couch were about even. Cody lay with his feet in the water looking up at the ceiling.

Beardsley stood at his desk with his back to the patient. He wore a white smock and shorts, black wadding boots and his hair was rumpled like he'd spent all day getting out of bed. "What was strange about it?" he asked.

"My father was in it. He's rarely in my dreams. At least he hasn't been for some time. In my dream I was a book salesman, door to door. But I couldn't sell anything. Not a single book. I encountered all kinds of people, old ladies, husbands, house wives, children. But I couldn't sell a thing because I was an awful salesman. Just terrible. And do you know why? I guess it's obvious. I couldn't read the books I was selling. Couldn't read a single squiggle.

"A frustrating dream like the kind where you're sinking in mud and trying to run or just move but you can't and you keep sinking, your limbs won't work won't even respond, everything feels heavy. Anyway, I was selling a series of books, a serial type thing, at least that's what several of my customers told me. They could read the books. At least I think they could."

Cody stopped to scratch his ear.

"So, more dreams about books eh, Cody?" Beardsley shook his head. "And what were these books about?"

"Different people told me different things. I began to suspect that the books were different for everyone. That they changed maybe. Some customers after glancing at a few pages told me I was selling a strange sort of almanac that was completely inaccurate possibly from another country, possibly another planet. Others said I was selling a particularly inflammatory set of encyclopedias whose definitions had been tampered with to the extent that they were nearly unreadable and made the head swim and the stomach turn. One very fat woman shrieked when she opened them asking me how I'd gotten a hold of her high school journals.

"I began to realize that the books, the symbols themselves changed drastically for everyone making my job not only frustrating but downright ridiculous."

Beardsley turned, upsetting the water, "You said your father was in the dream."

"He was. Or at least I think it was him."

"What makes you say that?" asked Beardsley.

"I don't know. Something didn't seem quite right. Like he had changed somehow, like a replacement had taken over his personality, his mannerisms. It's hard to explain."

Beardsley nodded and walked to the far wall his boots making gurgling noises in the surrounding water. He stood gazing out the large window that stretched to the ceiling. "And you say not a single person bought your books?"

"Well that's just it," he said. "I got to this one house and knocked on the door. Nobody answered, so I knocked again. The door wasn't locked cause it swung open and I peaked in. There was no one so I went inside. It seemed a normal home, furniture, appliances, television. I continued in past the living room and into the dinning room. I stood for a moment listening.

"Then a phone rang. Coming from a room inside the house. I started down the hallway looking in rooms for the phone. I couldn't find it. I kept turning down hallways looking in rooms. The place seemed endless. I started finding strange stairways that led up to empty landings. And meanwhile I kept hearing the phone ringing somewhere.

"I began running from room to room, trying different staircases, different doors. No phone. I would think I was getting close, thinking it might be behind a particular door but every time there was no phone. Always seemed just a little farther on. So I kept going.