Five: The Dream II

The hallways were dark, it seemed as if the temperature had dropped ninety degrees. John

lie on the floor, the crimson carpet ugly in the little light that lit the hall itself. He came to

himself slowly, feeling groggy, woozy, and a little hung over, or something like it. His head

ached, his saliva tasted like an ashtray, and he did not remember falling asleep on the floor. In

fact, this crimson, hard carpet was not his carpet at all.

John looked at the walls. They were cement that was cracked all over. He got up and

noticed that he was not wearing the sneakers that he was when he got home. His bare feet felt the

rough surface of the carpet. It was then that John noticed the distinct feature of this place: It

seemed to go on forever in both directions. The hall stretched in both directions until John could

no longer see it clearly. What is this place? John thought.

There was a sudden gust of cold air, his dirty shirt, which had been neatly pressed and

ironed before he had left for work, the white clear and untainted, was now smudged with dirt,

and blew in the direction of the gust wildly. His nice pants now hung loose over his legs, and also

blew in the wind. John knew something was wrong.

There was another gust of wind. This one, although, was hotter, if not scolding. The

hallway began to brighten, then John saw it. A giant fireball was moving toward him at

breakneck speed. John turned, body pulsing with adrenaline. He ran in the opposite direction of

the fireball, which was gaining on him every second. As John ran, sweat trickled down his face in

tiny rivers. Eventually the sweat made it's way into John's eyes, blinding him. John cleared his

eyes of the sweat, but the hall had gone black, the fireball had disappeared, John still ran, as fast

as his legs could take him. Then it all changed again.

John slowed to a walk as he passed the doors, moonlight filling the end of the short hall

where the stairs lurked. This time John did not turn as he walked toward the end of the hallway.

Now he remembered what had happened. There had been no fireball or any endless hallway. This

time things had gone smoothly. He had stabbed her, Amber that is, and he had simply walked out

of the room after cleaning his knife. She had not gotten up, and there had been no fighting her,

she was dead with a capital D.

Finally he reached the stairs, the silence only disturbed by the clicking the heels of his

boots made on the wood floor. The stairs were steep, but John didn't mind, after all, things had

gone perfectly in this murder, who was he to complain about stairs that were a little steep? John

began descending down the steps slowly. About the time when he reached the second step was

when it hit him. The coldness of it hitting his forehead startled John, then more drops hit him,

making him recoil back up a step. Slowly he turned his head to fact the ceiling above the stairs.

There she was, the holes gaping, allowing blood to drip from them. Without second

guessing it, John tried to flee down the steps, but before he could make it past the third step

down, Amber thrusted herself down onto him, sending them both through the stairs. They landed

in an old disused cellar. The smell of the air was rancid and stale. As quickly as he could, John

got to his feet, but before he could run, she was in front of him. He stood, frozen in place, unable

to do much less than breathe. She has me! Oh god, she has me! John thought.

Amber moved her face in closer to John's. He grimaced at her and she chuckled. She

grinned, showing the long, bloody canines. He tried to pull away, out of her telekinetic grip, but

it was no use.

"That's right, I have you." Amber said, almost laughing as she said it. John's eyes

widened, and he began trying endlessly to free himself. "Try as you might, but you can't escape

me. Now bend your neck like a good boy." John resisted, but his head curved to the right,

exposing the area of flesh between his jaw and left shoulder. Amber opened her mouth wide and

bent down to bite him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John jumped from his chair, hands grasping for his neck. There was nothing there, no bite

marks. After feeling only the untainted flesh of his neck, John relaxed a little. He looked at the

clock, which read 3:21 AM. The tv was showing what looked like another one of those insipid,

monotonous reality shows. John found that the remote had fallen from the arm of the chair to the

floor. Was I struggling in my sleep? John wondered. He got up from the lazy boy, grabbed the

remote, and turned off the tv. It was then that John noticed that the house wasn't the 74 degrees

he had turned the dial to. In fact, it seemed colder than the original 54 degrees it was. After

stumbling over his slippers, John made his way to the kitchen, turning on the light.

The dial read 41 degrees and was dropping. Jesus, I'm going to freeze in my own home.

John thought, pushing the dial back up to the intended 74 degrees. When he heard the heat click

on he was satisfied.

He changed from his work boots, which he rarely needed anymore, to the sandals he used

as slippers. He made his way back through the living room, through the short hallway, and into

his bedroom. His bed was a larger Kinka with a maroon comforter and olive green pillows. On

the night stand next to the bed was a small lamp and a book, "Conway's Daughter" by some guy

named Ben Mears. It was pretty good too.

Across from the bed was a 30 inch Sony tv. John looked at the remote and decided to turn

it on. The buttons on the remote clicked and the tv came on. John sat on the bed, channel surfing.

When he came across BBT, the Burton Broadcast Television station, John froze. He had a

flashback of the dream he had when he fell asleep in the lazyboy not too long ago.

Playing on the station the moment when John had his flashback was Bram Stoker's

"Dracula".