Dark Dreams X Four

By Brian White

This is an anthology based in part on bad dreams, the kind that leave you shaking all morning. Monsters, energy vampires, ancient Gods, and even the devil will be found on these pages. A key forged in the fires of hell will open the doorway between the living and the dead. Judgment day is not a single event but happens quite often. A disgruntled reporter working for a tabloid rag is sent on a preposterous call that turns out to be true. And an ancient demon with incredible power can invade dreams, alter reality, plus lead numerous people to horrible deaths are but just a few of my dreams recorded here. May you have pleasant dreams...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian White
• Release date: Apr 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301291892

Book preview

Foreword

Edgar Allan Poe described my dreams perfectly; Sleep, that little slice of death. Though his reasoning may have been brought about by an opium-induced slumber, mine seem to happen naturally. These stories are based in part on some of my dreams. You know the type. Fragments of a troubling dream are with you as you awaken in a cold sweat.

Dreams are but a part of the tale. I used images remembered in the plot, but with the exception of Floaters, the inspiration for each story came from external sources. My muse guided me on how and where to plant the material.

One afternoon as I was writing in my book, I’d fallen into a cliché every author knows; writer’s block. My mind began wandering away from Switcher. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t get beyond the sentence I’d typed in the middle of a stupid paragraph. The middle; I was becoming so frustrated I felt like tossing the computer out the window. Then I heard the clacking sound of my dog’s nails on the floor as he moved toward the back door. A curtain was completely covering it; a sliding glass door with the sun beaming directly on it. He nosed the curtain aside to look out, which grabbed my attention. Sunlight glinting off a shiny brass key hanging on a hook next to the door seemed to mesmerize me. A question came to mind. ‘What if there’s a cursed key with dreadful powers forced upon the unsuspecting, and what if all isn’t as it seems?’ Throw in two different scenes from my nightmares and The Key was born. It consumed all of my attention until completed. Happily, once finished the creative juices for Switcher resumed.

Some years back I was in a chat room on-line around Halloween when one of the participants asked me to tell a scary story. Others chimed in their desire for me to do so. When I wrote Once upon a time they all died horribly ever after, no one accepted it as ‘the story’. I recalled a dream with a bizarre monster destroying everything in its path and I was but a young boy facing it. After thinking it over a little, I started typing the rudimentary beginning of Darkfall Woods. Of course it was crude as well as incomplete. After the chat ended I started work on this version, incorporating some of my non-monster adventures enjoyed with my best childhood friend Max Eshleman as well as my first girlfriend Kim. Just like today we had bullies back then, and one seemed needed for this tale. In spite of that last sentence, let me state bullying is wrong and must be stopped.

A single man used to live in the house behind mine, his only company a lone cat. This feline was downright spooky. The silly thing would sit in its back window whenever I was outside; staring at me like it was peering into my soul. Back then we didn’t have fences. When he’d let the cat out, it would come close to me. Normally I make friends with animals easily, but not this one. He wouldn’t hiss or act like he was going to attack, only approach to about ten feet and maintain that distance. I’m still uncertain if he was the impetus for a bad dream about ancient terrible Gods, but upon awakening it seemed that dream was made just for him. Pepperdean, the odd name I gave to an odd cat, seemed fascinated watching me type through our respective windows.

Floaters is based entirely on a nightmare. I also borrowed from my paranormal knowledge to bring the monsters from a dream-state to realism. The worst part of the dream was its portrayal we weren’t the top of the food chain and we didn’t know it. No one believed me in the dream until it was too late. I won’t disclose how the dream ended here, but will say it did not have a happily ever-after style conclusion.

Just for the ‘halibut’ as my mother used to say, I included one of my poems written before The Key. It was also motivated by a dream. Have you ever been sleeping soundly when suddenly you hear your name shouted as if directly in your ear? If so seek psychiatric help immediately! I’m kidding, but that is the motivation behind Spook". I simply HATE being startled awake like that. What’s truly odd is you’d think by now I’d be used to it. I hope you enjoy my stories.

Contents

Spook

Floaters

Pepperdean

The Key

Darkfall Woods

SPOOK

At dead of day

With light so dim

You start to pray

It’s up to them

You know so well

What time they come

The tolls will bell

Ten and then some

Noise from beyond

Always the same

Comes from the pond

Calling your name

Frighteningly cold

Air hath become

Grit put on hold

Teeth click to gum

Then it begins

There’s no escape

Specters with grins

Tickle the nape

Hair doth arise

Under attack

Something that dies

Moves to fall back

Moans of the damned

Float through the night

Inside is jammed

No one to fight

Beneath the ground

Above the sky

Cometh the sound

Fills in thy eye

Unsound of mind

Now is thy fate

Scream, tear, and blind

But it’s too late

That you have seen

Horrors from hell

Images glean

From the death knell

Rotting and dead

Hover around

Under the bed

They will be found

A light, a light

It’s one last chance

Know wrong from right

The final stance

Now the tolls bell

The lightening dark

Down the fire well

Leaving their mark

So the night ends

Not without price

To that which tends

The freezing ice

For at long last

It comes to thee

Thy breath hath passed

Specter to be

And all the shades

During thy strife

It’s thy own raids

On thy own life

Forgetful sleep

Sickest of kin

Models thy keep

To rise again

BB White

FLOATERS

Invisible creatures from outer space, bah; Jones would be the better choice since he believes this nonsense. Why is he covering herbal miracle cures and I get the nut case?

We need a skeptical eye for this one, Editor Williamson said four hours ago. Either go talk to the guy or the unemployment clerk; your choice.

So here I am, driving out into this god forsaken wilderness following a lead about invisible monsters sucking the life out of people! Couldn’t this whacko at least have the decency to live in the city and not in the middle of a swamp? I think the only invisible fiend sucking life is that old evil rum-genie filling one man’s head with wild ideas that drain me!

The call came in this morning. He said no other newspaper would listen. I guess that explains why I’m now on my way; we’re nothing more than a sensationalist rag running with bizarre tales and oftentimes fictional reports about celebrities.

Bad news increases local circulation, Williamson once said. Incredible news fills shopping carts worldwide. We will go where all others fear. We will write when our subjects plead stop. Ours is an awesome opportunity as well as responsibility. If you start feeling beleaguered or sympathetic, remember our countless readers depending on you to cover the real news. Now go out and find that eye-catching heart-stopping story!

Each time I recall his version of a pep talk I want to laugh. Williamson wouldn’t know a real news story if it rose from the ground to shake his hand. Alien invasions, Bigfoot sightings, women giving birth to litters of puppies; those are his real news!

A huge pothole brought me out of my commiserations nearly forcing me into the deep ditch after hitting it. Boy that was a real nut-shaker. Thank God I’m almost there. Just cross the next bridge into Folsomton, take the third right, first left, first right, and then his house is the fourth on the left. Let’s see now; what was his name again? Oh yes, Marvin Adelson. No wonder he sees monsters with a name like that!

Folsomton is a small island complete with three red lights, a supermarket the size of a convenience shop, combination hardware and gunsmith store, fire police and rescue all in one building reminiscent of a gas station, and three hundred reclusive people who like living completely surrounded by swampland with limited access of two bridges. There wasn’t a hotel within fifty miles, but that’s okay. All I need to do is have a nice chat with the guy, ask for quotes, and then get the heck out of there. Lord sometimes I wish I’d listened to my mother and become a musician.

After five hours of driving, the last half-hour without a radio station, I was finally in front of Adelson’s small white ranch house bordering the swamp. Considering Williamson said he sounded to be on the verge of panic, I was astonished he didn’t come running outside. Oh well; let’s get this tripe over with. Then I can go back to the closest city and seriously drown my sorrows on the expense account.

Damp hot air rushed through the opening car door just as soon as I started pushing. Squawks of strange birds announced my presence, with thousands of chirping insects warning me not to stray off the beaten path. To emphasize their caution, a squadron of airborne bloodsuckers began an all out assault while I hurried to the front door. Swatting at them only seemed to increase their determination to sample me for freshness. Some how I’ll get even with Williamson for this!

No sooner had my feet hopped the three porch steps to thud on the entranceway, the front door opened a crack.

Are you the reporter? A voice concealed in darkness asked.

No I’m selling Girl Scout cookies.

Yeah; I’m Jake Peters from National Watchdog. Mr. Adelson I presume?

Buzzing that sounded like one of the flying suckers fired up his chainsaw blew by my right ear bringing forth a futile effort of defense. If this chicken-little doesn’t invite me in soon I’m packing up and leaving.

Shouldn’t wear cologne out here Mr. Peters; it sends out a dinner invitation.

I’ll keep that in mind next time. May I come in?

Slowly the door creaked open, shedding light on a sight that took great effort at avoiding a smile. Standing before me was a man in his eighties wearing large glasses that looked like binoculars held against his eyes by a head-strap. One picture from me and this clown will find himself resting in the room with soft white walls. His attention focused on my shoulders, slowly rising a few feet over my head.

Bugs usually indicate safety but I always make sure, he said while turning his back. Come in and close the door good and tight not that it makes much difference.

Bugs that indicate safety; oh boy this ought to be good! Once I stepped across the threshold into the inner darkness all buzzing stopped. It gave me an eerie feeling of walking into a spider’s nest while I pushed the door closed. Adelson had already made the fifteen feet down the narrow hallway and turned to watch me start heading his way. The binoculars were dangling from his hand. I have to give him credit; he’s spry for an old lunatic.

We’ll talk in here, he said while glancing to his left.

A closed door was the focus of his attention as he stood in front of an open entrance. If he takes me to his bedroom I’ll leave and make up the story. No way am I going to become involved with the sexual fantasies of a delusional escapee from the rocking chair society.

Would you pick up the pace? He asked impatiently. They know you’re here and it ain’t safe for you no more!

Who knows I’m here?

Aside from this bird-watcher I thought my arrival would be a matter of surprise.

Not who, what, he said while motioning with his hand for me to hurry. I call them floaters. They can go through walls and roofs but can’t get in here.

I’ll bet this joker is a life-long bachelor. If he