I Awoke Screaming
In my dream, I'd been hearing some clattering noises in the kitchen of my grandmother's 13th Street house, in which I was sitting in a mostly dark living room near the television, which doesn't seem to have been turned on. With great resolve, I had finally convinced myself that the noises were nothing, and I made myself into the smallest fetal-position ball I could manage, tucked behind an ottoman, when the noises became the distinct sound of approaching footsteps.
I lifted my head above the side of the ottoman, and instead of the nothing I had told myself I would see, the vision a semi-transparent, flayed, headless body was walking steadily toward me. the definition of his exposed muscle and bits of fat and other tissue was terrifyingly clear, and as the man approached, he didn't slow.
I began shouting about the time the spirit made contact with me and walked through me.
What I intended to be screams of terror, however, emerged more as a wavering "yah yah yah!" sound.
At least the noises were enough to wake me from the dream, and I guess that's good, but you'd have thought someone could have done something about that, in general — the way that desperate attempts to run for your life, scream like crazy, stab attacckers with a fork, disarm ticking bombs, and so on, end up turning into silly limp flailing gestures instead, even in the dream.
It's a good thing it wasn't a real ghost.
This time. . . .
I lifted my head above the side of the ottoman, and instead of the nothing I had told myself I would see, the vision a semi-transparent, flayed, headless body was walking steadily toward me. the definition of his exposed muscle and bits of fat and other tissue was terrifyingly clear, and as the man approached, he didn't slow.
I began shouting about the time the spirit made contact with me and walked through me.
What I intended to be screams of terror, however, emerged more as a wavering "yah yah yah!" sound.
At least the noises were enough to wake me from the dream, and I guess that's good, but you'd have thought someone could have done something about that, in general — the way that desperate attempts to run for your life, scream like crazy, stab attacckers with a fork, disarm ticking bombs, and so on, end up turning into silly limp flailing gestures instead, even in the dream.
It's a good thing it wasn't a real ghost.
This time. . . .