Dream Log: November 26, 2004

It was the house I spent the first half of my life in. It was a sunny summer's day. I was lying in bed, the house was unusually quiet. I got up and went into the hallway. From the vantage point of my doorway, I could see into my parent's room, the living room, part of my sister's room, and the door to the front of the house. Looking around, I noticed that the front door was open. As I left my room and walked through the hallway to the front door, a man walked in. Easily 6 feet tall, and the size of two football players standing side by side, wearing a butcher's apron, covered in blood. In his left hand he clutched a massive butcher's knife, and slung over his shoulder is a young naked, blond girl. Quite beautiful, and very dead. He face is turned towards me and her eyes are black as night.

I just stood there in my bedroom doorway, watching. As the man passes by me on his way to the bathroom, he turns, slow motion and looks at me. We make eye contact and he disappears into the bathroom. When he comes out minutes later, he is alone. He looks at me again, and I at him as he makes his way from whence he came. I just stand there for a while, not moving. Within moments, he comes back, a new girl, the same blood soaked knife. He disapears into the bathroom as before and comes out again moments later, alone.

By this point in time, I was getting a little sketched out. When he left, I made my way into the bathroom. There, in the shower, compiled in a way that would make the cast of Cirque De Soleil proud, is a tangled mass of bodies, all laying naked in the tub. At least 30 of them, in some grotesque vision of Dali on LSD. The shower is on, running steaming water over their bodies (to drain out the last of their blood), their eyes, all black and glassed over, staring up at me.

I quickly left the bathroom and found myself in the hallway, face to face with what I can only describe as my psychotic alter-ego, a lifeless body strewn over his shoulder. He smiled at me. The next thing I realized, I was walking towards the bathroom, a bloody apron over my half naked body, the body of a dead girl slung over my shoulder, blood dripping from my knife. Needless to say, I didn't fall back asleep after that for a long, long time.

It's late at night. Myself & Jessica are snooping around the upstairs of this creepy, old New England house. We open one of the old heavy, creaky wooden bedroom doors, and inside, behind the netting on a large four-poster bed, Jessica finds the old woman who owns the house, lying dead, strangled to death. unphased, Jessica takes my hand, leads me out of the room, and down the stairs (the hairs on the back of my nick stiffening all the time in anticipation of a pair of hands encircling my neck from behind). When we get to the bottom step of the staircase, we hear the sound of a car pulling up on the gravel path outside the front doorway. Jessica freezes, as do I. Through the opaque glass of the front door, we see Sherrif Chubb emerge from his car (because that's what happens in "Murder She Wrote"; the Sherrif always turns up, unsolicited, to the scene of the crime!). Then, as the soundtrack to my dream becomes more intense and the string section come into full flow, we see a threatening figure, obscured by the patterned glass, round the back of the police car and come up behind the Sherrif outside the front door. Jessica seems calm, but I realise I haven't breathed in two minutes. Tension is at it's highest point, and I wake up. What an odd dream. I wasn't even watching "Murder She Wrote" today, though I have been known to spend my unemployed afternoons looking forward to it! There's something of the "so bad it's good" about it.