The Dream by Danny Mac

The Dream

I am driven up to the house in a car that is dark and long and the driver is never seen. This was done at the bequest of a man I know and trust with a valuable opinion. I have known this man most of my life and yet I have never seen him.

The house is made of a gray stone, a hard rock and two feet deep. Each irregular block attentively cemented into place. From a distance, the house appears strong and vigorous. As I approached the house up the narrow walkway, I can see cracks weakening the foundation. Years of abuse and neglect pits the exterior walls. There are two large oak doors separating me to my home.

As I step on the stoop, the door to my right opens with a long creaking moan. This trusted man greets me. He is the keeper of this house. I invited him to stay many years ago. He promises to care for my home if I leave him in charge of it. He is dressed in white and covers him head to toe. I strain to see his face and yet it is shadowed by the spotlessness of the frock.

He immediately points out my interference in his work. We walk through the house together. It appears to be in good order with a few exceptions. There is a table in the corner with a leg broken and the keeper makes it new. Not a scratch found on it. As he pointed out mistakes I did with the house he corrects them. He even adjusts the shade of paint that does not quite matching the décor and this makes the room appear larger and brighter.

Just as I thought the house was perfect, this man who I have never seen waves me to follow him. I find myself in front of seldom-used door. The white paint on the door has become dingy and melancholy. There is a distasteful odor emitting from behind it. My guide indicates for me to open the door. The hinges are rusty and the door opens stubbornly. My body cast an eerie silhouette on the unpainted brown and gray steps. I am to lead this man in white down the stairs. It is dark and dank at the bottom. An unnatural coldness breezes by me and I shiver. There is only a faint light luminescing from the open door above. Yet I can see major cracks in the foundation. This man urges me to move to my left. As we walk along the wall the cracks are getting bigger and more numerous. We come to the corner and follow that wall.

At the half way point of that wall is an old cedar door with blackened wrought iron hinges strapped across it. There is a half circle atop the door, which has light escaping from it. I open atrocious gate and find the source of the odor that tainted my nose at the top of the steps. There is a single 60-watt light bulb dangling from the ceiling. The room is 20 by 20 feet with a corroded wooden shelve going all round the room and a 3-inch diameter steel post in the center.

Positioned in the far left corner are two large urns with ceramic lids. My caretaker moves to the opposite corner from the urns. He will remove them but cannot until I give the word. There is something in the urns and it makes me anxious. There are no markings on the urns and yet I know there is a toxic concoction in them. They start vibrating, barely noticeable at first but growing. The vibration starts moving the urns closer to me and I cannot escape their control. Now I can feel the wickedness from within sinking into my bones. There is an unadulterated hate radiating from the urns. I own this hate and it is terrifying me.

I look back at my keeper dressed in chaste white and he is unscathed by the influence of the urns. He stands calmly in the corner while I face this evil with trembling repugnance. I asked him "who are you not to be affected by the urns." I know he can rid the urns if I can let go of the hate. I awake with "Amazing Grace" running through my head still shaking from the experience.