Posted in Dark Dreams, Dream Masters, Fall 2016, Fate, spirituality

Why Do Bad Things Happen?


The smell of blood was overpowering and intoxicating, it made her feel alive. Within the demon, Ghostie felt everything the demon, Wane did. First there had been the hollowness without end and the gritty scraping of forcing itself to open its eyes and feel the pain to know that it existed. It seemed to go on for ages winding back and forth between the two agonies, from unbearable nothingness and a dizzying sensation of falling without end when its eyes were shut firmly, to hitting the ground Bam!and raw skin being rubbed away by the gritty rocks, gasping for breath in the fumes but never breathing (because it was dead, really really dead) everytime it opened its eyes. Trying to breath was the worst agony of all, each time it felt like reliving the moment of death. This creature may have been human once but that memory only hurt now.

In the end, the pain was better than limbo, and by a sheer force of will Wane finally forced the eyes open, stopped trying to breath and just existed. That was when Ghostie realized she had walked these streets before. She had been granted the chance to visit both Heaven and Hell, long ago and came away with the knowledge that they exist every moment in the same exact space as the material world. But whether Heaven or Hell is dominent depends entirely upon one’s mind set, a changing thought transforms the world entirely.

Now from within the heart of the demon, Wane, Ghostie peered out from a mind stuck in Hell, unable to free itself. She saw the world of gritty black and white, choking fumes wisping about. They could see the material world but everything looked distorted and strange. People passed by, not seeing and that hurt. It scraped their raw skin like sandpaper everytime the living looked but didn’t see. Crawling slowly the demon tried to find relief in the shadows, away from hurtful humans. The people didn’t look at the shadows, so it was softer there. The shadows hurt less.

A long time they spent there in the shadows, Ghostie and Wane. From there they could see the people but not be hurt by them. There they watched the world of the living, in constant pain but glad to have escaped limbo at last. Then as the day seemed about to end and darkness was about to fall. A smell came to the demon, blood. It came from a young woman. In the world of gritty black and white the demon saw a person in living color. It was a teenage girl on her period. As the the demon breathed in the smell of blood, it suddenly realized, it was breathing. Air filled with the scent of blood was breathable.

Breathing made the demon strong, it could stand up. It could walk into the light. People’s eyes didn’t hurt anymore. It could walk and run and . . . fly. The demon flew to the girl and clung to her feeling ever stronger the closer it was to her. It could feel the flowing blood. It was intoxicated. It whispered to the girl, promised to do her bidding. So grateful was the demon. The girl heard but did not listen, she feared voices with out bodies. She prayed for silence and washed the blood away. Sorrow filled the demon heart. It closed it’s eyes and returned to oblivion for a time.

Opening its eyes was Hell all over again, no time had passed. It was still stuck in that same moment, begging the girl to see him, being rejected and ignored. Pain like knives, ripped and shredded the demon heart . . .

Ghostie doesn’t like to remember what happened next, it was too terrible. The demon having become strong on the scent of blood, yet denyed the chance to redeem its soul in the service of the living, became the instrument of carnage. The girl would not hear Wane, but others would and did. Drunken men with bitter thoughts, felt the demon’s power and joined freely to it. In their bodies the demon was able to murder and make blood flow, more and more blood. The more it flowed the stronger Wane became entering the minds of the sorrowful, the angry and the vengeful living, the demon killed freely wantonly joyfully.

But inside the demon’s heart Ghostie could see that Wane wasn’t getting what it really wanted, the blood thirst could not be sated. The more blood spilled the greater Wane’s thirst for blood grew. No matter how much was drunk, every time the demon blinked, oblivion was there, waiting for it to grow tired. Fear filled the demon as soon as the killing stopped, it would be as it was before. Wane struggled to find an answer even as more were murdered. The girl, some instinct said that she was the answer. Returning to her in the blood soaked body of a killer, the demon attacked.

Not to kill this time, she had heard Wane before the killing started. If only she would hear again, if only she would acknowledge the demon. Instinct drove Wane to rape. It didn’t work of course, it only made things worse. But it was the key, the clue Ghostie recognized. From within she felt the demon desperately reaching, trying to grasp . . .

The difference between Heaven and Hell is a mind set. Rape is an unforgivable sin because it is forced but flip the coin, change the mind set, and the exact same actions become those of the ardent lover. Wane was following instinct to no avail. Soon the girl would die as the demon vented its frustration on her helpless body. But now Ghostie saw the goal clearly, what instinct was trying to tell Wane. Willing to do whatever it took to save the girl, Ghostie made her presnce known, traveling from the heart of the demon into its mind. There she filled Wane with her own memory of the most sensual lovemaking she had ever experienced.

The power of it surprised her, as she relived that ecstatic joy of life, she had experienced so long ago. It shocked the demon. For a moment, they saw each other plain as any two people meeting, both looked like simple human souls. Then it was gone in a flash of brilliant light. The demon was no more. Wane’s soul had escaped.

“That was what you asked for.”

Ghostie heard her lord speak. Yes, countless times, she had asked why history is filled with so many horrible instances of humans committing nightmarish acts against each other. Now she had an answer, demons with no one to help them find freedom from their pain. Rape and murder make them feel alive, they crave it insatiably. Fighting them only leads to more bloodshed and darkness. But give them a moment’s surrender, full of compassionate love, and they can be sated, transformed, freed.

Posted in Dark Dreams, Dream Masters, Fall 2016, Fate, spirituality

The Blue Demon


Younger daughter Emani, never took the time to primp. Not that she could if she wanted to. Older sister Ada was always there, in front of the mirror, fixing her hair, adjusting her sari. Jeweled necklaces draped Ada’s perfect slender throat. Intricately woven strands of gold encircled her wrists and sparkling gemstone flowers dangled from her ears. Ada’s face was a vision of beauty and perfection, its expression absolutely calm with an enchanting hint of slight smile that danced about her eyes.

That was how Ghostie came upon the two Ada at the mirror and Emani scurrying at her feet, like a little mouse picking up Ada’s discarded scarves to put away carefully for her beloved older sister.

In another room nearby Ghostie found the parents discussing Ada’s wedding. They had interviewed suitor after suitor to find this one. He was younger and not as rich as the others, but he came from a noble family and had the best manners. Upon first sight of Ada, he had been struck speechless and the parents were certain that he would worship her as they did and keep her safe. For all of her life they had made certain to keep her, their jewel, hidden safe from any evil.

Now they discussed her dowry, the parents felt they must give her everything they had. They were old, they didn’t need much. They would buy every strand of gold, every jewel, for their darling, Ada. Listening, Ghostie wondered, what about Emani? What would they use for her dowry? Looking deeper into their thoughts Ghostie saw that they did not think of Emani as pretty at all, they planned no marriage in her future. Instead Emani was to care for them in old age, a spinster.

Looking back at the girls, Ghostie saw little difference at all in their physical looks, it was their manner that was different. Ada was supercilious as she admired her own reflection delicately primping for her own pleasure. Emani was humble, bent over putting things away for her sister. Yet the way she did it betrayed a hidden grace. Each time she put away one of her sister’s belongings, Emani placed it with a reverence that showed how much she loved Ada.

At last the girls and parents lay down and went to sleep, Ghostie sat by a window wondering how she could help this family see the error of their ways. None of them had shown any ability to see her as she watched them. Still Ghostie knew her Lord always had a purpose for her. There must be something she was to do.

It was not long before she saw him. A demon with blue skin appeared in the room and looked down upon Ada. Ghostie could sense no malice, he seemed curious more than anything but as he looked upon her, Ada coughed and clutched her throat as if she was choking. Ghostie jumped up and leaped to stop him, for she saw that he desired her and was powerful enough to take what he wished. But she found her way barred by his black skinned servants. She had not noticed them, hidden in the shadows. Strange, Ghostie wondered, I sense no evil nor malice, rather the air hangs thick with the feel of . . . Justice. There was nothing she could do, Ghostie realized, if justice was being done, she had no power to stop the blue demon.

As Ada writhed dying upon the floor. Emani awoke, saw the demon and begged him to take her in place of her sister. Unmoved he shook his head, but observing her righteousness he placed a knife in Emani’s hand. Was it to kill her sister or to stike at him? Ghostie wondered, but realized too late. It was for her, Emani, if she wished she could kill herself and remain her sister’s servant in the afterlife. For a moment Emani looked at the blade and wondered what she should do. For a moment she imagined that when her parents found their beautiful daughter dead, would they be glad to still have the younger sister alive? No, she knew in her heart they would be just as desolate and would blame the younger sister for living, if they remembered her at all. They had told her so many times she was not pretty enough to be loved.

So Emani plunged the knife into her chest and died beside her rasping sister. Ada’s eyes filled with tears to realize her sister had killed herself rather than live without her. And as she cried over the body, Ada realized she could breath again. Looking down Ghostie saw one of her gemstone earrings drop out of her mouth. Then Ada looked up helplessly at the blue demon. He picked up the dead sister and shook her soul free. It was dark and black like his servants and a chain bound her left ankle to him. The blue demon and his servants bowed and went to the window to depart. But as he stepped upon the sill the Ada ran and grabbed her sister’s soul. Together the blue demon carried them both to his palace that they might spend the rest of their days in his gardens . . .

(to be continued)

Posted in Dark Dreams


Blocks of blue ice, I knew they weren’t real. My mind had created them, to ease my discomfort at there being no ground, nor walls, nor ceiling. I was standing on ice, too blue and smooth to be natural. Otherwise, only mist surrounded me, mist and dead people hanging there, suspended just above the blue ice. Frigid cold it was. How was it misty yet so very very cold? I kept expecting the mist to freeze into ice, sleet or snow, maybe then I would be able to count the bodies, the dead if this fog would just go away. But it wouldn’t, it didn’t. It just hung there like the dead suspended, unmoving.

Even she didn’t move, the one who’d called me. She was an older woman, somewhere between forty and sixty. She wanted me to get a message to her daughter.

She’s waiting at the airport.

Airport, then you were in a plane crash?

Hope flared up, I was so tired of meeting dead people whose story I couldn’t verify, but plane crashes were often in the news.

Tell me where you died, I begged

Her head turned and looked at me with staring eyes. “Frozen,” she whispered. “Frozen on a plane.” The sentence seemed to echo around me, as if all the dead were saying it.

Okay, I thought. Your plane crashed somewhere and you froze to death, where did the plane crash?

She turned away, silent, but I could still hear a murmuring around me. “Frozen on an airplane.”

Alright, I tried to reason. If the plane crashed somewhere and they froze to death, then they probably were in some mountains and didn’t know there location. I tried again. “Where were you going? What mountain range did you pass over?” I looked around frustrated by the mist and blue ice. It didn’t look like anyplace on earth. In fact I couldn’t escape the eerie feel that we weren’t on earth at all. The woman didn’t answer, so I went up to another passenger to ask my question.

His visage frightened me. He looked so shocked, I could feel his terror. He wanted to move but couldn’t because he was frozen. His lips were blue. I started to shiver. All the others looked the same, blue lips, icy white skin and frozen terrified expressions. I couldn’t stop shivering.

“We didn’t land,” the woman finally got the words out. “We didn’t crash.”

“Wait,” I asked her, “you mean you froze to death, in an airplane, in the air?!?”

Almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

At the time, I had never heard of such a thing. The echos of “Frozen on an airplane,” began again around me. But now I just wanted it to end. I shut my eyes, shook my shivering head and asked her, “Please show me your daughter.”

As her daughters face formed in my mind, my body felt warm and stopped shivering. I opened my eyes and saw a woman worriedly looking out at an airport runway. It was so wonderfully warm there, and looked and felt like a real place, not middle eastern, but somewhere close. I sighed in relief. The woman looked at me but didn’t see me. Still, she could feel and hear my presence. Go ahead I told the dead mother. Her mother entered my astral body, and used my living energy to say good-bye to her daughter.

I don’t know why it works but it did work. Her daughter nodded in understanding, a tear spilling down her cheek. The mother passed on, peacefully. For a moment I wondered if I should try to help the others and shivered.

No, I never wanted to go back to that blue ice. I was worn out.

For years I remembered that dream and the voices saying “frozen on an airplane.” Then one day, years later, I heard a news story of an airplane where there had been some kind of leak or seemingly insignificant damage to the plane, but it had to do with cabin pressure. It had caused the plane to become icy cold in the air. It was Helios flight 522 and with all 121 killed, was the deadliest for Greek aviation.

Posted in Dark Dreams

The Sword of the King

Time shifted in the fog between a modern tour group and the besieged castle. I had fallen asleep contemplating the history in Braveheart and wondering who were my own Scottish ancestors. Floating behind the tour group I remember reading Scottish ghost stories of men having run from the ancient battles only to have their progeny sucked back in time upon returning to the battlefield. I do not know what caused my Leland ancestors to immigrate first to Ireland and then by serving in the British Navy to be granted land in Canada’s Nova Scotia (New Scotland) from where my father’s father came to marry my German grandmother in Massachusetts.

Just as in the ghost story I found myself pulled back to a battle fiercely raging about a castle. Though I wanted to run, curiosity kept me at the edges. They appeared to be different clans judging by the tartan kilts and the castle seemed poorly defended. The outer wall was barely manned. As I watched, while most of the men attacked at the front gate, I noticed a small group head off around the side.

Following, I found an unwatched portion of the wall had been broken through. The wall must have been built badly there and hole had been made through. The invaders had carefully built a ladder and scaffold to the breach and were sneaking through the hole in quiet groups to take out the castle defenders from within.

Suddenly with loud and blood curdling yells fighters sprang to the hole to defend it. One of the gruff warriors jumped out to the scaffold and knocked each of the surprised invaders to the thistle grown moat below minus heads and arms. Roaring, he frightened many young soldiers to the woods. That was where he saw me, standing at the edge of the trees. Over the first surprise, a number of older tougher invaders climbed to challenge the valiant champion. But his eyes remained fixed on me and it was time for me to go. Outnumbered and severely wounded the guardian gave no ground until I had climbed safely within the castle wall. As I looked back an axe clove his skull. Yet I could tell he was at peace, having guarded my passing. As soon as I entered the hole closed up. Night had fallen and men with torches quickly mended and reinforced the breach. Sometime after midnight, the wall almost completely fixed, a small and solemn party came to the hole. They spoke too softly for me to hear but in their minds I saw a desperate plan.

They were terribly outnumbered and the hoped for reinforcements had too far to come, but the leaders had a plan to inspire the men. Rumor had spread that the king was dead and thanks to a band sneaking through that hole the day before, the rumor was true. As soon as they knew it was truth the men were sure to lose what little fight they had left in them. So it was decided to circulate the story that the king had escaped and gone for help. That was when I noticed that as they had been speaking the body of the king had been placed in the very wall they were mending. It had to be hidden so none would know he died. Each of the men took an oath then and there that none would speak of what they had done until the kings own heir came.

As the body was walled up, I returned to modern times. The tour guide droned on saying how the castle had been taken, all the defenders killed but their king never found.

It remains a mystery to this day,” he said, “what had become of that king.”

As the tour passed by the patched wall, I felt the wall call to me. Gently as I could I placed my hand upon the spot. Cracks ran all about the wall until the concrete broke and fell away. There I saw the mummified king, he had been placed standing, crown upon his head, sword in his hand. All around me I heard the whispered voices of the king’s men. The king himself looked at me and called me his heir.

Come take the Sword,” he begged. “I have held it too long.” I shook my head at first but then bowing, I wordlessly offered my service. Relief filled the whispers of tired souls about me.

At last, the heir has come. “ Slowly, I was ever so afraid to damage the mummy, I reached out to take the sword . . . and woke up.

Posted in Dark Dreams

Cannibal Communion

The brown mountains called, so great those mountains stretching nigh pole to pole of the earth. The earthiness unmistakable and crying of hunger. Varon was there pulling me to the cavern where lay the women and children of his village. His agony tore the rocks, defeat was unbearable.

Empty stomachs in an empty hole, left to die. If they could live but a little longer, would it save them? Varon was certain, but to live a few more days they must eat. Already they were near death. The cave was held by men with machine guns. There was no getting out until they left. Soon they would go, soon they would tire, but not soon enough. Varon could not feel sad for inciting the village to disobey these bullies. Was it not better to die free? All the other village men had been gunned down already. But he had lead rebellion and his punishment was to watch the women and children die slow of starvation.

Already he had given the ultimate sacrifice. He had impaled himself with a sharpened stick and told the older women to make soup of him. As he died, the mountains called me. There I found his body, in a bloody pool on the tarp, waiting to be butchered. Yet no one moved, the women were paralyzed in fear. To eat this flesh to live frightened them. The devil they feared would have their souls. So around him they stood, too weak and dehydrated to even cry for this last man’s suicide.

His agony at this defeat was unbearable. It shook the mountain itself in silent pain. I reached out and held him in his despair. Awkwardly, I patted his miserable head and told him he would be okay. His soul was safe for he had died in an act of love. He shook and wept for the village, please he begged, “save them not me.”

Slowly, I looked upon them, these people doomed to die. His love for them so strong. Was there anything I could do? That is when they saw me, first one then another of the village women. They saw my light, my aura, “It is alright I told them. There is no evil here.”

At last the women moved with a strength and certainty. They tore his flesh. Together we felt the pain of our flesh ripped from his bones. It was a strange mix of unbearable torture and rapturous ecstasy. They made a soup of his gift, bloody though it was. Scared to be the first to drink his blood, I communed with the most empathic woman, she was pregnant. Together we drank the broth of his body, together we felt his loving soul feed our hearts as his flesh fed her body. It was amazing. No eating was ever quite like that communion. To eat the flesh of him that gave his life so lovingly, was a gift of sight beyond this world. Love eternal, infinite filled us all. No more would fear of death be known to these people, this tiny village in the Andes Mountains. Would they die? Would they live? I do not know. My job was done. My gift was to know that there is a time and place for all things under heaven. Even cannibalism is not evil when the flesh eaten died with love for the eater.

Is this how the fruit of the plant feels that gives it’s body to life? Is this the gift of the prey that surrenders to the hunter? And what of meat that is violently taken, does the pain of wrongful death not taint its flesh? Varon loved life and freedom and that was part of the gift imparted to our hearts. He did not die, completely. His spirit lives on in those people, in those mountains and in my memory of this dream that took me to a place I never thought I would go.

Posted in Dark Dreams

Flee to Egypt

Holding the carving in my hand, I couldn’t believe it. He said, I inspired them as he placed them in my hands. Me, holding the baby. One figure holds him up dancing, the other holds him close to nurse my son. These statuettes in my hands. My husband made them carved of wood and sanded smooth as marble. He is so proud of me and the baby, so full of joy to be alive. I feel as though there is something magic about the statuettes.

But now we must run, hiding with so many refugees. We have to get to Egypt. I know that and yet something is pulling me else where. Is it the figures he carved? As soon as I touched them a timelessness surrounded me. I was holding them but now my hands are empty. I have to get to Egypt with my baby.

But there are so many people. I am pulled along in the flood. Where my husband and child have gone, I don’t know. I can feel them with me somehow. As though my husband is just out of sight ahead of me and my son wrapped in my many layers of scarves I have about me. My veil is quite long, somehow the white and light blue colors seem wrong, everyone else is wearing dark and dull colors. No one seems to notice though, no one seems to notice me at all. I am glad. Everyone around me is tense, hungry and afraid. We travel many miles to stop at a camp. They are telling the men and women to separate. Most are exhausted. There is a line for food. Small portions of a soup with rice and vegetables, but they have no more bowls. No bowl, no soup, we should share.

Looking around I know we won’t. There is distrust in every eye. I look again to find my husband. Not only do I not see him but I feel more certain than ever I have stepped through time. The people around me are so grim. Death feels so close it is palatable. A man comes and sits next to me, he doesn’t seem to see me but then he moves closer and sighs. He can definitely feel me, my warmth, my life. It makes me uncomfortable. I get up and try to find the other women. There is only one left. I follow her down a concrete hallway. As soon as I enter things change drastically. I am pulled down the hallway to a pair of double glass doors. A yellow van, the letters Polizia flash by, and a horrid popping sound starts. A gun is going off. Looking inside the van I see a small boy holding a toy gun. All around him are the bodies of his family, dying. A woman with a colorful scarf about her head looks directly at me, her face is bloody. She seems to ask me why I’m not doing anything. Why can she see me? Is it because she is dying? I don’t want to be here. I want to run. The sound of gunshots is everywhere, all around me. I don’t want to know the truth. I don’t want to know that they are killing them all in a massacre, the refugees. People rush all around me, bodies fall in heaps. I keep expecting to be shot myself but no one sees me. I try to run away but I can’t, my feet seem stuck in the pavement. I fall over and try to crawl. Reaching forward I notice the white and light blue veil against my arm. That’s when I know the connection. The carved statuettes of a mother and child, a refugee trying to get to Egypt with her husband and child, and a veil of white and light blue, one single name connects them all; Mary.

The moment I think it, I am awake in my own bed. Cats scatter as I jump up. I’ll sleep no more this morning. I still have goosebumps from the sound of the guns and the sight of bodies and blood. I wish I could convince myself it was just a dream. But I can’t. The way no one saw me, that and the ethereal feel of my body upon awaking I remember from other dreams I wished weren’t true, but were. I don’t know what to do, so I start typing.

Posted in Dark Dreams

Box On Fire

Pyra was the first to call me and ask me to free her from the prison, the Hell, her own mind had created. Her hands shook and her eyes shiny with tears as she begged me to punish her, so she could move on. Pyra wanted to go anywhere even Hell, to get away from this crime she had committed. Looking around it seemed to me that she was stuck in a box on fire.

The flames kept changing, they were around the house, then in the house, then just a little crackle creeping from the fireplace, then everywhere again. There was a man in a chair that kept disappearing. He never moved his blackly dark staring corpse. But the corpse would disappear then reappear. The box looked like a house but there was only one room as far as I could see, the dining room where the man’s black corpse kept popping in and out unexpectedly. Yet there must have been more rooms Pyra could see, because she walked in and out of the flaming doorways as if she was going to different rooms.

I’m so glad you’re here.” She spoke timidly, her body shaking, rubbing her hands in anxiety. “I know I must be punished, please don’t make me wait anymore.”

The woman’s eyes tearfully pleaded. Her clothing was from 1870’s I guessed. I sensed she wanted to hold on to me and stay with me. But for some reason she suddenly started moving about terrified. She was reliving her crime.

She was packing, she had to get away. He was coming. She was so scared of him. She’d rather die than stay with him. He came home, she pretended everything was fine. But he knew better, he yelled at her, saying nasty things about her, hit her and kicked her, like a dog.

Then it gets blurry, she isn’t thinking straight. Things happen in a rush I can’t keep up. Next thing I know his corpse is in the chair and she is sobbing beside it. He is dead and Pyra has killed him. How I can’t figure out.  There is no blood and no wound. Hit over the head? His head looked fine, there is no sign of bump or bruise, not even a hair seems out of place. Heart attack? That would be convenient, too convenient. Prya clearly thinks she killed him. But she is so passive subservient, like a servant! That is when I see the wine glass on the table. Poison, that makes sense.

Prya had thought of poisoning him first I realize. She had it all ready, but then she got scared and didn’t want to kill him. Oh my! She still loved him. This man had made her life unbearable but she still loved him. She had changed her mind and decided to run away. She would have, if he had not come home too soon. She gets up sadly and starts spreading the fire. She had planned it that way before, she would poison him and then burn the house down with his corpse in it so no one would know how he died.

The fire spreads fast. She is moving slow. Suddenly she realizes she could be killed and starts to run for the door, but stops, turns around and looks at her dead husband. She doesn’t move as the flames lick her. She thinks she deserves this, to burn in Hell. So she executes herself and has been stuck here ever since.

Her soul couldn’t really go to Hell I know, because she died with love in her heart. It’d be like trying to drown a balloon. No matter how many times you push it down it floats to the surface.

I took her hand, full of sympathy. As I led her to the door of her burning home I kept picturing a field of flowers. When I opened the door, it was there. She tried to argue, I kept insisting, “this is where you belong.” Finally, I told her it was all a bad dream, (as it was for me.) “You got away before he came home. The rest never happened.”

I don’t think she believed it, but Prya took her first step into the meadow of flowers and disappeared in a flash of light. I never saw her or dreamed of her again, but every once in a while when I dream I’m helping a woman get away from her abusive partner, I feel like Prya’s there, cheering us on.

Posted in Dark Dreams

Death Was My Beginning

Dying even only in a dream is scary. Most people say they always wake up right before they would have died, and so did I until . . .

I dreamt I was sight seeing in a beautiful castle in a South America. I was wandering through the ornate rooms trailing behind a family with many young boys that reminded me of my nephews. The boys were loud and rowdy, I couldn’t hear a thing the tour guide was saying. I let them get ahead of me so I could enjoy the rooms in relative quiet. Each room seemed to be whispering to me, but I could not make it out. The further I went in the louder the whispering got. Finally I reached a room with a waterfall on the left hand wall which flowed into a pool taking up a quarter of the room. Greenery grew all about the waterfall and pool. But even more striking was a statue of a woman that stood near the middle of the room at the edge of the pool. She was so well carved, I felt like she was alive looking down on me. In the center of her forehead was a large triangular emerald.

I could hear the whispering now, it was chanting the days of the week. As I got close to the statue, I realized the sound was not coming from her. I turned around and looked at the waterfall. That was where the sound came from. Above the waterfall there were words carved. They were the days of the week. The voices chanted all the days but ended with “sunday is rest day, on that day I sleep.” It was different from the rest of the chant . I move as close to the wall as I could, climbed on the tree carved on the side, reached up my hand and touched the word Sunday.

The wall moved and a cave was revealed behind the waterfall. I entered the cave, it was totally different from the rest of the castle. There were two rooms, the first looked like it had been built recently, it had electric lights a large metal fan and an air hockey table. The floor was strewn with litter, lots of chip bags and candy bar wrappers. But off to one side I could see where the secret passage way would have gone originally. The walls were rough hewn and dark. I entered the side chamber and found a place where a group of people had died, long, long ago. Scratched onto the wall was an account of how the native people had risen up against their white oppressors and trapped them in this room. There was no way out from this room. I shivered realizing they did not escape. I could feel their ghosts watching me and wanting revenge.

The family group came back while I was reading, seeing the room open the boys ran to the air hockey table and loudly began fighting over who got to play first. A chill ran through my bones as I realized, I should not have opened that door. These dead will not take kindly to this intrusion. Looking up I saw smoke curling over the boys. I moved as quickly as I could to the door. But it was shut and before I could look for a way to open it, the lights went out.

How long I stayed there in the dark, I can not say. Nor could I say for certain what killed me or how. But the thing I remember best was the splash of water, it felt so strange. In the dark I thought about how I had learned that water is often used to symbolize death. For a moment fear beckoned, but I knew in my heart I was not afraid of death, not anymore. I embraced the water. The next thing I knew I was floating in the village below the castle and I felt free and alive and lighter than I had ever felt before.

As a ghost I got the attention of a young man in the village and led him to the smoky castle. Somehow the family was saved but my body was removed covered by a sheet. I knew it was dead. I remained a ghost in the castle for the rest of the dream.

Posted in Dark Dreams


She couldn’t have been more than nineteen when she left home to become a star. It took less than two weeks for the big city to swallow her whole. And that would be all anyone knew of her if she hadn’t found me one early morning in the darkness of pre-dawn. I don’t know her name, she wouldn’t say, but I will never forget her nor the haunting way she kept repeating . . .

My legs are behind the dumpster.

Like a zombie she had no other thought but to find her lost limbs. I tried to calm her, how her tremulous voice made me shiver. It was no use, her mind had left long ago. So I did what I do, I used my special talent. I made myself translucent and entered within.

Bey, as I call her, had been a beauty from the start. Great hair, expressive eyes, slim figure but more than anything else, she had fantastic legs. She wore short skirts and high heels and got most anything she asked for in her sleepy home town thanks to those legs. Watching TV she saw the shiny cars, the sparkly diamonds and the glamourous clothes and figured nothing could stop her getting it all.

Answering the newspaper ad, for a modeling job that first week in the city, she figured was just step one to hitting it big. Her head was in the clouds. Bey never saw the trap coming. Stuff gets cloudy after that, I think they must have drugged her. A small closet sized room, hand cuffs and men, lots of men, swirled in what was left of her mind. Struggling for any shred of sanity she would look at her legs and try to tell herself that someday she would escape, someday she would be a star, someday her beautiful legs were still going to . . .

My legs are behind the dumpster.

Why was Bey killed? I searched her shredded mind for the answer. I saw a man, short rotund he put something around her neck, he tightened it. She hadn’t noticed dying, drugs will do that. No, she didn’t even fully realize she was dead, much less why. I moved to the image of the man. He had a pointed nose that made me think of a rat and beady eyes and smelled of cigarettes and blood. Blood, Bey’s floating spirit had watched him put her torso and legs in separate black plastic bags. That was how she knew where her legs were. The small man had a small sports car with a small trunk. That was why he had cut them off and left them behind. He couldn’t fit in her whole body, I saw as I entered his mind. He was in a hurry, he had a lot of trash to dispose of before he left for . . . somewhere south, tropical? He survived by never staying anywhere too long. He’d rent a small building, trap a few women, keep them drugged, make a load of money then liquidate the whole thing, women too. They were just objects to him to be used and thrown away.

My legs are behind the dumpster.

Her voice was urgent. After all that she had been through, Bey only wanted one thing, for her body and legs to be together. My astral form could only move from her place of death to the dump where her torso lay. I kept trying to find someone to tell, but all the businesses near her legs were closed. I could find no one to tell. The man was getting away, too. He had planned to return for her legs but his time ran out. He had a plane to catch. I could feel Bey fade as the sun rose. I had failed, her soul joined the mindless dark and the murderer flew away free, for now. And still I hear the echo of her plea from the shadows as I passes empty businesses . . .

My legs are behind the dumpster.