The House of Grey Prologue - The Original Modern Fantasy Thriller

The House of Grey Chapter 5 - The Original Modern Fantasy Thriller

CHAPTER FIVE

Nightmares

Images played at the edge of his consciousness, creating a webbed but disjointed slide show. Scenes seemed connected but confused, like a storyboard that had been tipped and jumbled, disjointing the order and twisting the timeline. Suddenly, the screeches of women, some in pain and others in panic, permeated the air as gobs of liquid fire enveloped them, searing their bodies and finally silencing them. Screams in a forgotten language left his mouth, joining the throngs of agonized moans as an eerie silence and pain overtook him.  As quickly as it started, it stopped. Blackness threatened to overcome, but then the scene changed, or maybe it just became clear, because the vision of a man wearing a cloak came into focus. He was bathed in red flame and his step crushed the concrete beneath him while tempestuous winds swished and swirled around him.  He walked forward, holding something in his hand that seemed solid but at the same time wavered with pulsing energy. Hatred so intense it almost took a physical form radiated from the cloaked man as he moved closer to where a second man lay panting. The second seemed defeated; he lay battered, bloody, and bruised. The cloaked man grinned, while purpose shone in his movements, and an aura of evil, pure evil, surrounded him. He moved on, but it seemed to take a long time for him to get close to where the second man lay. It was as if he were fighting an invisible force that impeded his progress. As the second man lay there, repulsion seeped in, emboldening him to move. He did so, but being too weak, merely stumbled back to the ground. The man with the cloak approached calmly, getting closer and closer. His cruel eyes shone under the dark cloak as finally the shadow of a face could be seen.  The embodiment of fear peered out from the darkness of the cloak as a countenance was both lit up and thrown into relief by the light of the object positioned aggressively in his hand. A smile played across cruel lips as he raised his hand to strike —  

Monson awoke with a start, breathing heavily and feeling slightly feverish. The curtains darkened his room, making it impossible to tell the time of day. Monson reached up, placing his hand on his forehead, and felt cold beads of sweat on his brow. How long had he been asleep? It couldn't have been long, but there was no way of telling because of the curtains, and he didn't have a watch with him. Monson noticed a pitcher of water sitting on the bedside cabinet to his left. He stood up, retrieved the pitcher, and poured water into a glass, downing the contents in two great gulps.

And people always wonder why I look so tired, Monson thought wryly. He climbed back into bed and stared at the ceiling.  Strange images flashed across his vision as realization hit him. A dream, yet another, that he could barely remember. He closed his eyes, trying to grasp and decipher what he saw. 

Pain. Screaming. Distinct. Familiar—damned familiar. Everything is damned familiar! Monson opened his eyes, punching his bed in frustration. He had dreamt of something important, but now he couldn't remember the dream or why it was important. Was it a repressed memory, or a piece of the past? Why? Why couldn't he remember?

Monson felt like tearing his hair out, if only to give him something else to ponder. This vision or nightmare was different—a new dream from a new avenue of the mind. He felt that, but he didn't know how to latch onto these dreams. He probably never would.  

This line of thought made Monson wonder about his past self. A single moment had wiped out the person known as Monson Grey, and now lying on this bed was a shadow of that person, that seemingly fictional being, who wrestled with his own fears and the realities of his life. When he looked in the mirror he didn't recognize the face looking back at him.

Monson rolled onto his stomach.

What am I left with? Where do I go to from here? Will these dreams ever make sense?