Fall of the Bumblebee

Mr Montague's Dream

  Henry Montague was next to describe his dream to Professor Goodwin:

"Well, my dream may not be as fantastical as young Drake's dream, but it was definitely surreal to say the least. I don't think I can recall the last time I woke up in a cold sweat. Perhaps the most frightening aspect of my dream was that for the duration of it I fully believed I was awake. It was far too real.
That dreadful gramophone of yours was missing in my room, Goodwin. Well, at least in my dream. Instead, in it's place was my own radio. I thought nothing of it. A completely different song was playing, one of my favourites. At least...I believe so since I can't for the life of me recall the song. All I know is that I was fully enjoying it as I slept peacefully, until it was interrupted by shrill static.
No, it was more than that.A shrill screech. A screech belonging to a woman, I believe.
It seemed to have been caught within the terrible static itself. It continued. I felt my ears being pierced by that awful noise, but never once did I attempt to turn off the radio. I let it play.
The static eventually died down considerably, but was still present. It was silence for a few moments, but soon after I heard a voice. A different woman, or perhaps the same with a much deeper voice as she spoke.
She began to say names, and after each name had read out a series of numbers.
It seemed like she was reading out obituaries. But for the life of me I can't remember a single name. It all felt like static to me. Completely meaningless and irritating noise, yet I distinctly remember words being read out, and they were indeed names followed by a string of numbers.
The reading continued as I felt my eyes travel across the room. The entire room had a grey tint, lacking any colour. It wasn't dark as it would've been had I been awake in reality, but a gloomy and foreboding atmosphere hung over the entire room. Almost as if a separate subconscious level was operating whilst within a dream, I for whatever reason started thinking of my wife back home, when a young, dark-haired woman appeared in the far corner of the room.
She was facing away from me. Not once did I see her face, and I dread to imagine what sort of face she might have had.
She did not appear in the sense of suddenly materialising in my room, but was as if I had only just noticed her standing there, yet she had always been there.
After every obituary was read out, the young girl took out a pair of scissors, and cut a slither of her hair and let it fall to the ground. And she kept doing it. The cycle repeated over and over; a name was read out on the radio, followed by a series of numbers, and the girl cut away another lock of hair.
And all I could do was watch.
By the time when I realised this was all but a dream, and I forced my body to wake up, the poor deranged woman had nearly cut away all of her hair, leaving only a grey malted scalp."