On a visit to see an old friend at his theatre company in Eastern Europe, sitting backstage looking through old photos of past productions while the performers rehearse onstage.
She sits chatting with me, casual and friendly, despite her celebrity.
She is undeniably charming and beautiful, even without any makeup and wearing her old blue jeans.
I feel a pang of guilt when she sits closer, her hand on my arm.
Eventually she kisses me.
...and as the throng pushes by the windows, I see an old friend being moved along by the crowd. Close by her, I can see—and only I can see—her husband walks at her side as though guiding and protecting her.
Her husband, three months dead now, catches my eye . . . smiles, waves.
They move past a post, out of my field of view for a moment, and when she reappears he is gone.
She moves on alone, but she is not alone.
Without a thought, I leave my wife where she is and go out into the crowd, pushing through the people—pushing against them—until I reach her further up.
Calling to her, I touch her arm and she turns, surprised to see me.
As we hug, I tell her “Dave is with you. I saw him there at your shoulder. You are not alone.”
“I know,” she tells me when she pulls back, joy and sadness braided in silver tracks down her face.
The house teems with activity—shadows darting everywhere, faces peering around corners, dark shapes gathering form and detail to grasping at me as I pass by...
I slide my scolecite ring onto my finger, take some mugwort, and head to bed.
...a brief and puzzling walkthrough by an old friend from high school, someone I haven’t seen in over thirty years.
And for some reason I couldn’t resist the temptation to heckle him, making up the most ridiculous and absurd things and announcing them to the rest of the gathered people, amusing myself and no one else at his expense.
Harmless and silly, yet utterly immature.
...and as my wife heads up to bed I think to myself that I should probably clean out the car. It’s a mess, after all. The backseat is littered with rubbish from our trip to the beach.
While I’m working I hear a familiar voice call to me from the darkened driveway “Hello Mister Camp!” — genial and comfortable, my neighbor, the 44th President of the United States approaches with a trash bag in his arms.
“Can I borrow your trash can?” he asks. “We’re getting ready to head out on vacation.”
“Of course,” I tell him. “Just don’t let the missus know I let you see our garage.” I lead him back along the side of our house to the garage door where he waits patiently, making small talk while I try to get the old malfunctioning automatic door open.
Eventually he says “I gotta get going, thanks for your help...” and leaves the bag behind for me to deal with, handing me a broken white dowel he found on the ground to help prop the door open.
“Have a good trip,” I tell him. But he is already gone.
And I have somehow, embarrassingly, managed to trap myself behind the now non-functioning garage door, staring impotently at the broken spar of wood in my hand.
...and when I turn to go back into the dining room I see a small shadow dart from one side of the room to the other, from one side to the other. Very distinct and very dark against the afternoon light coming through the window shades, it’s wings beating rapidly as it moves from left to right.
I go in to check... But there is neither bird nor bat nor anything else in that room. 
...and mid-way through the episode, I look up from the sofa to see a large dark figure move from where it was standing in the entryway, heading towards the front stairs and out of sight.
Startled, in spite of myself, I sit for a moment staring at the empty doorframe, waiting for the motion detector on the stairs to register the movement . . . hoping it was just my daughter coming down for a drink of water.
Nothing.
I rise and go into the front hallway, looking up the stairs.
After a long moment, one of our cats comes down and stops at the upper landing.
Her eyes, very wide.
Chattering at me, she turns and disappears back upstairs.
I return to my place on the sofa, wondering if the shadow has returned.
Working early at the store, music playing overhead while I stand at the counter and tap away at my computer.
Preoccupied with personal gripes and past arguments—sifting through parental and paternal confrontations long past and never happened.
My mind, in short, on other things.
“Hey.”
A hoarse whisper, loud, from someone standing in the open space to my left. I startle, thinking that one of the other tenants came in when I was preoccupied.
No one is there.
I step out from behind the counter, into the space between the jewelry counter and the rest of the store... Listening.
Nothing.
Crowded afternoon at the store, lots of activity and customers.
A guy gets my attention, excited to be buying the massive brass singing bowl we got from Tibet. I am excited for him as well, since it’s several thousand dollars. Not a bad way to end the day.
I get cornered behind the counter by a difficult customer, raising hell over a minor issue. Her entitlement is almost impossible to satisfy or redirect. I’m especially irritated to be dealing with her while my ex-wife has stopped by with our daughter.
Last thing I needed, was her scrutiny when I am in my own place of safety and power.
My wife and our daughter are behind the counter with me and it’s something of a relief when the customer finally leaves. Then my ex-wife exits as well.
And we close up for the evening, the golden light of early summer streaming in through the windows.
Heading for home, my wife takes her car and our daughter rides with me in mine.
The highway is busy and as we snake through downtown on the infamous S‑curve, a moving trailer in front of us begins shedding household items, sending the other cars spinning this way and than to avoid the appliances, boxes, and bookcases suddenly littering every lane.
Chaos everywhere.
I manage to dodge several obstacles, while narrowly avoiding a few vehicle pileups in adjoining lanes as well.
I can, somehow, hear my wife shouting from her car behind us.
Unable to maneuver any more, I drag the wheel hard to the right and lodge the car into the relative safety of the shoulder. In the rearview mirror I see a swarm of unsuspecting cars and trucks bearing down on us, so I tell my daughter to get out and we run for an gap in the side that opens onto small set of concrete stairs leading down to the street below the overpass.
Suddenly a darkness descends over the city and from the black skies above, a deep and terrible voice rumbles forth...
WOE TO THE PEOPLE OF THE EARTH
THE DAY OF WRATH IS UPON YOU
WOE TO THOSE WHO DO NOT SERVE THEIR LORD
WOE TO THOSE WHO HAVE MADE THE EARTH THEIR GOD
The voice rattles the windows in the buildings around us, it vibrates in my chest and molars.
I was not afraid but a deep sense of dread came over me and all hope left me.
I raise my head and when the professor calls on me I ask “Are these real numbers?”
She pauses and narrows her eyes, hand frozen in mid-motion on the chalkboard where she’d been writing out the tables for the various ratios she was explaining. “How do you mean?”
I stand up and go to the front of the class, gesturing to the board. “Do these numbers actually do what you’re saying they’ll do every single time, or are there situations where it changes?”
I look back at the rest of the students. “See, I’m not afraid to ask the stupid questions for the rest of you. You’re welcome.”
The professor gives me a look. “Why would they change?”
“I don’t know. I’m not good at math. Numbers don’t make sense to me.”
There’s a shift in her posture and attitude towards me, genuinely interested and concerned. “Do you have trouble understanding or writing the actual characters?”
I try to assure her that I am not dyslexic, that I actually have a facility with writing and language... but I wake up before I can finish.
—
I lay there in the early morning dark, mildly frustrated that I wasn’t able to let her know that it is just the abstract nature of math that I have trouble with and not some kind of disability.
I hear the door opens as she enters, the floorboards creak as she approaches the bedside, feel her palms on my shoulder as she shakes me awake.
“You have to wake up, you have to wake up, you have to wake up…”
Insistent, urgency in her voice.
I twitch, struggling against the paralytic bonds of sleep.
When I open my eyes, I am alone in the room save for the pale light of morning coming in through the window.
It was not my wife’s voice I heard, not her touch that woke me—no, just the spirit of this place, this house of ours, coming to rouse me on my day off.
I lay back and consider going back to sleep.
The real question, I tell myself, is whether or not you’re going to choose to believe in these sorts of things or not.
It’s a fair point.
I get up and go downstairs where I relate the events of the morning to my wife.
And then I check the house, just to m able sure everything is safe.
...and as the pus bursts against the mirror, immediately a small stalk sprouts outward from the center mass, giving life to two tiny toothed mouths . . . around the edge three petal formations unfurl and stretch outward, delicate and pale pink in the overhead bathroom light...
Arguing with two women to whom I am both somehow married. One is younger and very ambitious, middle eastern descent. She is furious with me, holding onto some misconception that I am preventing her from pursuing her career.
Furious at the accusation, I point out how my first marriage was nothing but supportive of my wife’s efforts, even to the ultimate detriment of my own life and our relationship.
It’s a frustrating exchange and it only ends when a reporter arrives to interview her.
They leave and the other woman—my other wife?—somewhat older and milder, leads me away to reassure me.
As the evening settles into night, we stand near a chain link fence supported by thick wooden posts overlooking a high canyon.
The fence sags in places and we step out onto it, bouncing together.
After my wife woke up, I lay in bed for a long while.
The door opens.
A large misshapen brute of a man enters the room.
Muscular and twisted, his hulking form loomed over the bed. Stripped to the waist and swollen with rage, he paced back and forth, stabbing a rusty handheld sickle down into the bedclothes as he muttered and growled at me.
At the gateway of the ramp, I take the ticket from the mechanism and slyly point out that we can go through the first level without being detected. My companion is skeptical but follows along as we pass through the gate without being stopped.
On the other side, a woman in uniform stops us for confirmation and I show her the ticket. She waves us on but my feet lose their purchase on the ramp and I begin the slip away, falling upwards into the sky, pulling her along with me.
I tell her that she has to be in trouble for me to be able to do anything, that my own power cannot be activated unless another is in peril.
“Help me,” she says unconvincingly at first. “Help me.”
It does not work, though her sincerity increases as the danger grows and I jerk awake.
(This dream was predicated by the delivery of some cardboard boxes from U‑Haul. I had some old items in the basement that needed to be packed up and so when the boxes arrived I placed them in the back hallway. Later that evening, this is what I dreamed...)
...from one side a spirit approaches me, draped in ivory cloth and vibrating with agitation. The spirit’s face is pressed forward through the gauzelike wrappings covering her head, frantic with worry as she confronts me.
“What’s going on? Where are you going?” She cries hoarsely, shaking her hands. Her distress and misery are palpable, distorting the air around her, warping the edges of the room like the radiating waves coming off of a heat mirage. “Why are you leaving me?”
At first, I thought this apparition was some sort of ghost but it occurs to me that she is in fact the spirit of our house—literally, she is the house—and the boxes in the hallway have upset her. She thinks we’re moving away. And she is upset.
I assure her as best I can, patting her shoulders at first and then hugging her, telling her that we aren’t going anywhere. Eventually I lead her in an awkward dance around the living room, hoping to cheer her up.
–
Over the next few days, when I think of it, I pat the walls of our home or briefly lay a palm on one of the doorframes, and say “It’s okay, we’re not going anywhere...” hoping to reassure her.
She approaches, clothed all in white and crowned with gold.
Her hair is dazzling white, almost difficult to look at, as with fresh snow in the sun.
A gold chain hangs think across her shoulders, resting atop the white fur collar of her heavy coat, cinched at the waist with a belt of gold disks.
Yet there is a puzzling detail, as she is bearded in ice—her cheeks and chin bristle with icicles that shatter and fall when she kisses me.
“Who are you?” I ask, confused.
“Winter,” comes a voice behind me.
I know her then.
-
I am still trying to make sense of the icicle beard. It was not unpleasant to the touch and it didn’t repel me. I am wondering now if it was some kind of muff around her next, pulled up close around her cheeks.
It’s also worth noting that this is the first time she has appeared in white, with white hair.
Waking from a dream of Winterly, I turn in the bed and shift my position to ease my sore back.
And back into dreams I go...
-
For some reason, I am in drag. I am wearing a black bodysuit and corset, covered by a long draped coat in ivory. I wear a white bob wig.
I do not know why I am wearing what I am wearing. I feel self-conscious about my weight and waistline, even with the corset. I draw the coat around me as nonchalantly as I can manage.
Somewhere downtown at an event, possibly a wedding shower. I am sitting at a round table, chatting with a young woman and man seated next to me.
She is dark-haired and has an appealing, if somewhat conventionally contemporary, appearance. Like a secondary charter in a TV drama about corporate attorneys. Not my type and yet I find myself drawn to her.
Her companion is effeminate and flirting with me as we talk, touching my forearm or shoulder to make his point. I don’t want to embarrass him and, always trying to adapt to others, I return the same flirty energy.
It’s a pleasant conversation and I am enjoying the back and forth with each of them. I’m even starting to feel comfortable in my drag ensemble. Empowered even.
When the man excuses himself and gets up to leave, I am genuinely sorry to see him go. Though I am not the slightest bit gay, it’s always nice to be noticed.
I get up and shift into his seat, turning to the woman. The flirty pose is gone and I am more my authentic self, just chatting with her a little more directly.
She is clearly confused. After a few minutes of conversation, she stops me and asks “What is going on?”
“What do you mean?”
She gestures after her departed friend, then back to my outfit. “All of this, I mean, why are you acting like this with me... aren’t you gay?”
I tell her I am straight and I apologize for the confusion my outfit might have caused.
“It’s not that,” she says, implying that she finds it somewhat attractive—or, at least, interesting. “I just didn’t think you were interested.”
I tell her I am and for a moment we both sit and consider where to take the conversation from this new common ground.
-
And then I wake up.
Armed men have taken over the store. I manage to get out before they lock the doors, but I can’t just leave everyone else there I have to get back in. I have to try and do something, to stop whatever they have planned.
I keep going from door-to-door, surprised at how easily they assume I’m one of them.
But once I am back inside, the panic takes over.
I can’t do this. I can’t do any of this.
This is a difficult time.
I wake, half asleep, in the downstairs guest room, fumbling for the alarm clock on the bedside table. The clock radio is warbling a doo-wop tune from the 60s, the music is tinny, fading in and out of the radio static.
“Let me in...” the voice sings, mellow and soothing. “You can’t resist me... Let me in... Let me inside...”
I struggle to sit up, sleep still heavy on me, weighing me down.
The radio, the song, louder now, insistent: “You cannot resist me, let me inside...”
My hand finds the nightstand, flat against the tabletop. Nothing.
I realize then that there is no radio in this room, no clock.
The music, the song, the singing is coming from outside the window.
A shadow looms there, just visible between the half-drawn blinds. Tall and dark, learning down to peer in at me, singing... cajoling... calling softly...
“Let me inside, you cannot resist me, let me in... let me in...”
I put my hand up, the selenite ring on my finger like a little moon, a bright ward against the darkness outside.
The singing fades. The shadow slowly withdraws. Maybe it hisses as it does.
Somehow, I’ve been asked to participate in a rehabilitation program for dangerous prisoners. The prison is large and gray and nondescript, and you can’t escape the feeling of being trapped once you’re inside.
The prisoners are terrifying. And these are the ones ready to be rehabilitated.
My initial assignment does not work out well, since he appears to be more interested in adding me to his list of victims, rather than enjoying the freedoms that await him outside.
The second charge is a bit more promising, while still more likely to end in tragedy than success.
He is elderly, Japanese. Very thin and tall. I only know a few phrases, not nearly enough to actually communicate. He is uninterested, and may or the program, and there is a patient menace, fairly perceptible beneath his, silent frailty.
Leaving the facility takes me through the library, which is a ridiculous assembly of shelves and stairs and books. I’m surprised that the corrupt administration officials, let me wander on my own, even though I have no interest in wandering. I want to leave.
Finally, above ground, I am close to my goal. Two large concrete buildings sit, flanking the gates to the outside. I walk across the flat open courtyard, pale light sky overhead. A familiar sky.
The department has a new manager and she’s been placed in the cubicle with me, which means I have to shift the sprawl of my stuff in order to make room for her things (which are more important than dusty action figures, artifacts of personal flair, and binders full of meeting minutes no one if ever going to read).
Within a day, I’ve been terminated. The packet she hands me is very well designed and includes a stack of little infographic cards detailing my various transgressions—loading up my work computer with personal music and movies, incessant and unapologetic use of profanity in meetings, and falling asleep at my desk.
(To that last point, I woke up nestled against her midsection, cradled in her arms—so I feel like maybe that’s on her too. But she was very kind when she woke me up and handed me the termination packet, so much so that I almost went back to sleep.)
No one is sad to see me go and they barely look up as I pass with my two cardboard boxes full of personal belongings (including the dusty trench-coat I wore every day of my senior year of high school, which was a nice discovery under some forgotten invoices at the bottom of an old filing cabinet).
I am not upset, although I already feel the financial dread of “what am I going to live on?” once the severance runs out. It’s probably for the best, though. The building is so dimly lit that there was no chance I’d ever be able to stay awake. They should do something about that.
A little while later I am standing on a crowded platform next to myself. My hands are empty but the other me is still struggling to manage the two boxes of office detritus. In the dim light people shift and mutter all around us, waiting for the gates at the top of the steps to open.
“Don’t worry,” I tell myself. “It’s like ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’. I’ll be here to guide you.” The trench-coat has given me newfound confidence as a psychopomp, but I can tell that my charge (my self) is not convinced.
…
Later still, in another place located well past the the margins of what any reasonable person would call “livable”—it’s an old refugee camp decommissioned after the Salamander Wars—the non trench-coat me is alone once again and I struggle with the boxes as I go up the dusty path to the corrugated iron shack where I live.
Next door, the neighbor’s dogs are whining and barking. One of them has been caught in some kind of snare—and not for the first time. The neighbor is always setting them, though if it’s to catch game or trespassers I don’t know. The dog dangles a few feet off the ground, whining like a violin while two other dogs bark up at it as though offering advice (or perhaps admonishing it for having gotten itself into this predicament).
The door opens and my neighbor’s sullen teenage spawn spill out to inspect the dog, but none of them try to get it out of the snare.
Above, the sky is flat and white. Featureless. There is no sun in this place and never has been.
I heft my boxes again and go inside.
This afternoon I was in the living room and looked up to see our cat Chet coming around the corner to sniff at our new cat’s scratching pad.
Odd thing is, Chet died last year.
My daughter is almost nine but we still use a monitor so that we can hear her if she wakes up in the middle of the night.
My wife has gone to bed and I am up late, doing some work I brought home from the office.
The monitor crackles and my daughter calls for me.
When I head upstairs, she is already out of bed, standing there in the semi-dark.
“What are you doing? Are you okay?”
She looks at me, eyes clear but confused. “She had to... she wasn’t...”
I try to lead her back to bed but she stays there, looking around the room.
“A lady was... she had to get up, her daughter... She won’t rest. She won’t rest.”
I help her back into bed, make sure she’s settled, and head back downstairs.