The spiral winds tighter as it descends, so we’re getting pretty close to the core at this point. I’ve done my take on scary books and movies, spent some time babbling about ghost poetry and music . . . but now it’s time to switch off the light and go to sleep.

So, let’s talk about dreams. Not to state the obvious, but they’re remarkable constructs, intricate and maddeningly detailed narratives that we manage to generate out of a sleeping mind.

Even more so, nightmares.

Something deep in our minds wants to scare us. But it’s wrong perhaps to ascribe motive or desire. Perhaps it’s better to say that something deep within our mind needs to scare us.

Fear, apparently, has it’s place… even in our dreams.

From an evolutionary perspective, it’s interesting to speculate on whether that capacity represents a vestigial trait that we are on our way to shedding — or is it the first layer of something new in our evolution, a glimpse of something we might one day become?

I’ve been keeping a semi-regular, semi-faithful journal for a number of years now. Apart from my own internal whining, it has served chiefly as a place to write down my dreams — whether they are little, half-remembered shreds or full length narratives. A lot of the time, I cannibalize the creations of my sleeping mind in my writing.

Sometimes it’s just an episode or an image that gets worked into something. Other times, the dream is the spark that sets something alight in my waking mind. Matters of Mortology started as a dream. And my poem “The Queen of Middle Night” (available in this chapbook, shameless plug) is nothing more than a stack of snapshots from my dreams and nightmares.

Like everyone else, my dreams are deeply persona and they run the gamut: I’ve had murder dreams, flying dreams, erotic dreams, apocalyptic dreams, and even prophetic dreams.

(The answer to your next question is “Yes” — but that’s not our topic for today.)

Once, while I was telling a friend about a dream I’d had, he stopped me and said “Your normal everyday dreams are like my worst nightmares.” I took it as a compliment.

But it’s rare for my dreams to scare me — even at their worst, their darkest.

About fifteen years ago, though, I had one of those sit-bolt-upright-in-bed kind of dreams. In it, I encountered one or two of my biggest fears. Yet it wasn’t a scary dream. It was one where you wake up with a gasp, sobbing uncontrollably.

Scariest dream I know of isn’t one of mine. It’s one I heard my father tell my mother, years ago, and it is a very clear memory. We were driving along in the car — that old blue Buick of ours —- and the windows were down. I was in the backseat and I don’t even know if they knew (or cared) that I was listening.

But, as you can tell, it made an impression on me.

The funny thing is, I asked my father about it a few years ago and he doesn’t remember it — neither the dream nor the telling.

Dreams are personal things, so I won’t go into his telling of it here. But I can share a monologue from one of my plays, one in which I shamelessly cannibalize his dream for my own:

I am in the old house, where we lived back before my parents split up. I’m standing in the doorway of the back bedroom, the one where guests would sleep when they came to stay. But no one has come to stay for a long, long time.

The air in the room is warm and musty and thick. Outside, the sun is going down. Tiny particles of dust roam in the shaft of yellow light that spills in through the grimy window.

Against the wall, half-hidden in the shadows, is an old chest of drawers.

The top drawer is open.

A mirror hangs on the wall above it, grimy and filmed with dust. The top drawer is open.

I wipe the dust away from the smooth surface of the mirror. My reflection, my face, hollow and pale, stares back at me.

The top drawer is open.

I look in and there’s, there’s something in there, I don’t know what. Something I shouldn’t have seen. I slam the drawer shut and turn to leave the room, suddenly afraid.

Halfway to the door, the dull sound of wood rasping behind me freezes me in place. I turn around.

The top drawer is open.

I go back and push it closed again.

I step away and, and, the drawer, it . . . it slowly slides out again.

I push it closed, I lean against it, trying to hold it closed. But I can feel something inside pushing back. It’s stronger than I am, my feet are slipping on the floor, I can’t hold it in any longer.

I step back, halfway turn to run and stop when, one by one, all of the drawers slowly slide open.

Like “The Bogeyman” story I mentioned yesterday, my dad’s dream stayed with me for a very long time. In fact, it’s still quite strong in my mind. Any time I pass a drawer that’s not quite closed, I can’t help but push it shut.

And, each time I do, I step back and wait a moment… half expecting something inside will slowly push it open once again.