/yesod

Author: T.M. Camp

  • on the way to bed

    10441532_10152677677358637_6430375996104631477_nConversation with my four-year-old daughter…

    “Time to sleep, sleep and dream.”

    “I don’t always remember my dreams.”

    “That’s okay. They remember you.”

    I think this might be the best thing I have ever said or ever will say.

  • passing by

    upstairs bathroom - the last houseIn the upstairs bathroom, I stand and wait for my youngest daughter to finish.

    My back is to the door. Given my history, that’s uncommon.

    As I help her down off the toilet, I catch a glimpse of someone passing behind me — walking through the hallway just beyond the door. I assume it’s my teenage daughter coming out of her room to head downstairs.

    But the hair was too dark, too long. And she did not stop to say goodnight to her sister.

    And there was something cold in her manner.

    While my wife puts our toddler to bed, I go downstairs. My middle daughter is there on the couch.

    “Have you been down here this whole time?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

    “Yeah, why?”

    I shrug. “Just wondering” I reply . . . though I am not really wondering.

  • morning visitation

    …and as I open the door leading from my office to the front of the house, I see a pale shape, not much more than the impression of a white dress moving through the light coming in the windows.

    IMG_9583.JPG

    It flows from right to left.

    I stop. I blink.

    It is gone.

  • beginning of the end

    …and my wife’s face contorts in pain, her brow furrowed. I ask her what’s wrong but, before she can answer, a wave of distortion ripples through the air like a mirage.

    “Something’s happened.” I look out the window and see a mushroom cloud rising in the distance.

    20140719-082223-30143388.jpg

    The television fills in the rest of the details: Every major city in the US is in chaos after multiple ‘dirty bomb’ attacks.

    The footage is terrifying. People flood the streets. Suddenly we are all refugees.

    Holding our daughter between us, my wife and I start making plans…

    …I wake in the pre-dawn dark, wondering if this dream was just that or something more: A precognition of something to come? Or just a byproduct of sleeping with a sword under my bed?

  • stench again

    That smell again. A warm, yellow smell of rotting fish.

    My youngest daughter and I are in the back hallway when it drifts past. It almost seems to stop and turn back, encircling us for a moment.

    20140720-132247-48167758.jpg

    I look down and see that my daughter has wrinkled her nose.

    After a moment, the stench dissipates.
    I can find nothing that might’ve been the source.

  • a sad girl

    …lying in bed this morning, I woke to the sound of the bedroom door opening.

    I hear my wife slowly close the door behind her. I hear her footsteps on the floorboards, approaching my side of the bed.

    I cannot move, cannot open my eyes.

    I feel a fingertip on my arm, just inside the hinge of my elbow.

    The footsteps move away. I struggle to rise, to grasp the her arm but my hand feels strange, tingling in the air where I reach for her, a moment’s resistance . . . then the woman pulls away and walks into a little alcove on the other side of the room.

    The woman is gone. It was not my wife. It was someone else, someone younger — her hair was longer, darker — and she had long scratches or cuts down her arms. And she was sad.

    I cannot confidently say whether or not this was a dream.

  • jump

    I dream of flight, from time to time. Even awake, it seems like the ability is just right there and all I have to do is…

  • doppelgänger

    IMG_0084…and as I walk back into my office, I see — or I think I see — a man standing to one side and looking through my filing cabinet.

    It is me, myself. I am the one standing there, dressed in the same clothes I am wearing today.

    I blink.

    He is gone.

    I am gone.

    Unnerved, I get back to work.

  • bath time

    “Will you check the tub in a minute?”

    My wife comes into the room, a little cross. We are getting our daughter ready for bed.

    20140512-203346.jpg

    “What’s wrong?”

    “There was almost no water in the tub and it was cold.”

    “Really?”

    She repeats this again. Unspoken is the rebuke — or, perhaps, the fear — that something odd has happened.

    It was full, I know. And warm. I checked it myself just a few minutes earlier.

  • ghost weather

    Early summer afternoon. Overcast skies.

    Waiting for storms.

    The house is gray. Quiet.

    Pale light from outside, dim within. The air still, dead.

    Every room feels empty and full at the same time. An unseen crowd gathers.

    Something around every corner.

    Watchful. Waiting.

    Patient.

  • the walking men

    Three or four times now, while I’ve been walking in the neighborhood with my youngest daughter, I’ve seen a man wearing a long black overcoat and a fedora.

    Three times now. Three different men. One of them is quite young, perhaps in his early twenties, with scraggly facial hair and glasses. Another is older, around my age. And another was a bit plump, balding. Unlike the others, he carried his hat in his hand. His face was shiny with sweat.

    They do not notice me, do not give off a feeling or “vibe” of any kind. Apart from their odd (at least for the season and area) apparel, there is nothing particularly interesting about them.

    They walk with purpose, always heading north.

    20140509-084042.jpg

    (Strangely, this coincides with some recent reading I came across about Walter Gibson and the odd sightings at his house on Gay Street.)

  • “Hey Dad?”

    Walking through the office I hear — or I think I hear — my son’s voice, very distinct and clear, call to me.

    I look back down the hallway but, of course, no one is there.

  • flake

    Packing up for the day, getting ready to head for home… I reach for my cell phone and watch in amazement as a bright flake of light, a translucent chip of yellow-white light about the size of my fingernail, floats up from the screen towards my face.

    I blink, shake my head. It is gone.

  • stench

    20140126-113404.jpg

    Over the holidays, there were a number of points when I noted a pungent smell in the little hallway at the back of our kitchen — a cloying stench, like rotting fish.

    (I do not care for this little hallway. It feels off to me, somehow. There is a mirror of it upstairs and the one gives me a vague sense of unease as well — though I have not noticed any phantom smells there.)

    More than once I looked everywhere trying to find the source of the smell — searching in the hallway as well as the adjoining rooms. But there was nothing. And, oddly enough, the smell seemed to fade away as I searched.

    Other times, most times, there was no smell at all.

    I mentioned it finally to my wife who said she’d had the same experience on numerous occasions but couldn’t find an explanation for the smell either.

    It was puzzling and — not surprising, given my usual temperament — a bit eerie.

    Late one evening as I was getting ready for bed, I was in the shower — the bathroom is located off of the little hallway — when the same rotting smell suddenly rose up around me, permeating the steam of the shower. I gagged, nearly vomiting from the sudden, overpowering stench.

    And, inexplicably, every hair on my body and scalp stood on end. I was chilled, despite the heat of the shower.

    After a few moments, it passed.

    After I got out of the shower, I checked the drains — the most likely source of the smell. Nothing.

    We have not experienced the smell since.

  • the short

    We’re in the back bedroom, my wife and I. Fucking.

    It’s hard sometimes to find the time, the moment. Children, work, day-to-day life — these things conspire and distract and exhaust.

    But we find the time, when we can. We find the moments, synchronized, together. And it is good. Perhaps it is too brief, too short. But we know each other so well now.

    Like tonight. Together in the bed in the back bedroom — my absent son’s bedroom converted to a guest room for the time being.

    The room sits in the relationship corner of our home, according to my understanding of feng shui. So, I suppose, it’s good that we don’t leave it empty. It’s good we fill it, from time to time, with each other.

    As we fuck, the window rattles — the expected ice storm has arrived.

    Reaching the end, of our short time — doing my best to hold out as long as I can, to stretch the moment and the movement as long as possible — I look up at my wife’s beautiful face shrouded in shadow. A moment later there is a flash of light and she laughs, suddenly visible.

    The bedside lamp has turned on by itself.

    It flickers, then goes dark.

    This happens, more or less, five or six times before we’re finished.

    It almost seems to be an accompaniment to my wife’s final burst of lovemaking, a response to her rising and falling.

    After she heads to the shower, I inspect the lamp. I try to find a reason for the erratic interruption. Nothing I do will replicate the odd flashing.

    I unplug it, just in case there is a short.

    For the rest of the evening, even now, I’m fighting the feeling that someone is just behind me — quiet, waiting.

    Outside, the ice storm seems to have passed. It is cold. My hair is on end. I do not know if I will sleep tonight.

  • a tornado, two corpses, and a leather sofa

    Inside the house, people are starting to panic. The sky outside is dark and green, the wind bending the trees to almost impossible angles. We can hear the sirens and, in a house this old, there is no safe place . . . every room has windows, the elderly frame flexes and creaks in the wind just like the trees outside.

    Women huddle with their children, people cover in corners and try to stay out of the way as pictures fall from walls, little knickknacks shatter to the floor.

    I can feel a pressure in the house, a suction that ebbs and flows as the storm overhead rages on. I move from room to room, peeking out of windows as I pass, making sure they stay open so that the suction won’t blow them out completely.

    Through one window, I watch as a massive trees outside comes down. The entire house shudders under the weight of it. People are screaming now.

    I look up to the mass of gray swirling in the sky, like ink in milk . . . funnel clouds dance around each other, like strands of barbed wire twisted together. I count five of them, shouting out to the people to take cover. The funnels move in.

    I head into another room and suddenly the house is vibrating, a low hum that slowly builds to unbelievable intensity. I can feel it in my eardrums, in my molars, in my gut.

    People are praying, people are crying.

    Looking back on it now, I am surprised I did not think of the gods.

    The ceiling of the room I am in begins to peel away, I move quickly to the other side of the house . . . Just in time to see something so odd, my eyes have trouble making sense of it at first.

    It is a rubble in the suddenly still air of the room, a wavering column of distortion that runs from floor to ceiling, as wide as a refrigerator and spinning. It moves across and through the opposite wall without leaving a trace of its passing.

    Then all is quiet once more — save for the sobs and cries from the other rooms.

    Later…

    The specific circumstances of it escape me now, but at some point I am helping out with a local theatre company in town. One of the actors has an old van that we need to pick up to haul props. I volunteer to go over to their house and collect it.

    They live in a seedy part of town, their house is a hoarder’s nightmare. Out back in the tall weed a is a rusty van, engine idling.

    I go to see if they’re inside, ready to go . . . only to find that while they are inside, they’ve already gone.

    Her face is bloated, her lank gray hair matted to her skull with sweat and vomit. There’s no way of telling how long she’s been this way.

    Repulsed, I back away.

    And later still…

    “I need to talk to you,” my son tells me. I nod and suggest we go out back where it is quieter and the people at the party won’t bother us.

    Why we are having the cast party in the dead woman’s house, I don’t know. It didn’t seem odd at the time, but I have a vague recollection of being worried that she might be discovered back there and somehow spoil things for everyone.

    On the rickety back porch, I see the van in the weeds — the engine has long since run out of gas — and I suddenly remember that I never called the police.

    My son is already down the steps, trying the side door of the van. I call to him to leave it be but he is curious. Something dark and vile has pooled at one corner in the grass below, running from the door frame like a faucet accidentally left on.

    He opens the door and I hear his disgust. He starts to move the body, to try and get her out but she’s become a liquid, gelatinous mess. I tell him to leave things as they are, otherwise the police might suspect him of trying to cover something up.

    He runs inside to call 911.

    Standing there in the dead grass, I turn my head to look down the broad alley at the back of the house. A few yards down there is a splintered wooden fence, leaning to one side. A large dead tree bends low over it, the skeletal boughs hanging over the alley.

    Caught in the boughs is the body of a small child.

    And just before I wake…

    My wife and I are walking through the house, we cannot believe that we are so lucky to have a place of our own at last. In the attic room we find an old leather sofa that the previous owners have left behind. I flop down on it in exhaustion. Under my hand, the dull surface gleams as I wipe the dust away.

    My wife stands at the gable window and looks out onto the street below. She turns and raises her blouse over her head, tosses it aside. Her jeans and panties follow. By the time she gets to me, I am ready for her.

    She straddles me and we begin to move, the old sofa creaking under us.

    Somewhere down below in the house, we hear a door slam. A woman calls out, we hear the voices of children, little feet running up the stairs…

  • dark ride

    I am surprised to see a Ferris wheel looming over the downtown district, pale against the darkening sky. As evening descends, we make our way towards the carnival.

    It is dark everywhere. There are no flickering lights, no music — just the mechanical clack and clank of the rides, the muted murmur of the crowds.

    (This seems ominous now, awake. But at the time, dreaming, it did not seem so.)

    Bright rings of neon dart overhead, flying saucers, small and almost toy-like. I remark to my companions that the adult rides are further down.

    We find ourselves in a queue, jostled by children at every side. At the front of the line I watch a kid climb into a small bucket-like car and rattle away on a track into the darkness.

    “It’s a ghost train!” I exclaim. “I love a good ghost train.”

    I realize I’m speaking in a British accent and make a conscious effort to drop the Doctor Who act.

    At the front of the line, two queues feed into the start of the ride. Everyone fumbles in the darkness, taking turns to climb into the little carts. I let one of my friends go ahead of me and then wait for a small child to take their turn.

    As I’m getting ready to take my turn, a fat middle aged couple shove ahead of me dragging their little pig-faces son with them.

    I step back and watch in amazement as they try to squeeze their combined bulk into the one-person cart. An impossibility, so the husband lays down over the cart and his impossibly bloated wife lays on top of him, her doughy face turned up to the sky. Their son scrambles on top of this quivering bulk and the cart spins off as they lie there like starfish with their limbs out for balance.

    My turn. I do my best to fit my lengthy legs into the next cart. It’s a bit cramped and I consider making a joke about having to fold myself in half but I realize that everyone is waiting for me. So I do my best and soon enough I’m off in my little cart.

    It’s a bit of a disappointment, too dark to see anythIng. I rattle along, vague shadows passing by.

    There is a little pause at a station, where a worker waits before sending me on through the last bit of the ride.

    This point in the ride is staffed by a young woman with long dark hair, her pale skin glows in the semi-dark and her soft voice has a light English accent.

    She flirts with me for a moment while we wait. I feel awkward and self-conscious all folded up in my little cart. And she’s too lovely, I can barely look her in the eye.

    It’s a relief when the ride moves on — the final sequence is a rolling section of track, a child-sized roller coaster. The ride opens up and the sky is lighter now. I coast through a landscape of unkempt hedges and stunted topiary animals as the ride comes to a stop…

    . . .

    The morning after the fair, I wake in a hotel suite overlooking downtown. The sky outside is pale and the light is cold, even harsh.

    The woman from the ride is there, wrapped in a thick white robe. As she passes by the bed on her way to the bathroom, I pull her down to me.

    She protests as my hands slide over her hips, exploring. “I have to take a shower,” she gasps as I slide my thumb into her. I feel her constrict around the base and she closes her eyes for a long moment.

    But then she pushes off of me and heads to the shower, leaving me there to throb with frustration.

  • the shadow project

    Over fifteen years ago I wanted to try a build a site that could collect dreams — the natural extension of my mild obsession to record my own for the past twenty years or so.

    Alas, my technical capabilities weren’t up to the challenge. But it’s very cool to see all these later that something like The Shadow Project isn’t just possible but actually becoming a reality.

    20131124-155956.jpg

    It’s also a big regret that I didn’t have the resources to participate in their Kickstarter campaign. But I’m looking forward to seeing the app when it’s ready and being a part of the “community of dreamers”.

  • kitchen door

    For some reason, I am holding a bottle of olive oil in my hand while my daughter and I take a walk around the block.

    (We are not at home, this is not the neighborhood where we live in the waking world. This is someplace else. I do not recognize it from either my dreams or the waking world.)

    Midway through the walk, she becomes scared and tries to hide between two hedges. Losing sight of her fills me with panic and I cast about, calling her name. Her whimpering draws me to her and I coax her out: “Let’s go home. We don’t need to finish this.”

    On the way back I notice that the olive oil is bubbling, almost boiling. The cap on the bottle is venting, spitting like a soda bottle that’s been shaken up.

    The house is dark inside, cheap paneling and shag carpet. The furnishings are mismatched and poorly constructed. My daughter runs through a low doorway looking for her mother. She is still terrified and I am starting to feel the same. There is an oppressive presence in the house.

    I feel it everywhere. For some reason my daughter hides under a low curved desk — a terribly tacky paneled affair with a curved return to one side. I try to climb below it to get her out but it is a maze of panels and pressboard beneath. I discover an electrical outlet bristling with jerry-rigged extension cords.

    The door to the kitchen opens before my hand can reach the knob. I attempt to pull it closed and I can feel the strength of an unseen hand pulling back against me.

    It is far stronger than I.

  • little girls

    Reported by my wife:

    A few days ago she and our daughter were in the back stairwell, getting ready to go for a walk. Once she got our daughter into her shoes, my wife sat down to put her own on. While she was doing this, our daughter went down the three steps to the back door.

    My wife could hear her down there.

    “Who are you talking to, honey?”

    “I’m talking to the little girl,” came the reply.

    “What little girl?”

    “The one right here.”

    A sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, my wife asked “What does the little girl look like?”

    “She looks like a sheet.”

  • a moment of moore

    Alan MooreOn my way through the park, I see a familiar figure heading in the opposite direction. He shambles, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun. His hair and beard are wild and ragged as the hem of his overcoat.

    I change my course somewhat to interest his. He looks up as I approach, a patient mix of puzzlement and annoyance creasing his brow.

    “Mr. Moore? I am sorry to bother you. I just wanted to say thank you. Your work has meant a great deal to me.”

    He nods politely and offers his hand, still walking.

    As I shake it, he gives me a quick look. “Have we met before?”

    I shake my head. “No sir, but I sent you one of my books a number of months ago. My photo is on the back.”

    “Did you?” He frowns, studying me. Then he shakes his head.

    “It was called Assam & Darjeeling, ” I offer.

    His shrug is eloquent and he turns to continue on. “Nice meeting you.”

    “It had a pomegranate on the cover,” I call after him, realizing that I have gone — in his eyes — from Polite Reader to Insane Fanboy Stalker in about ten seconds.

    He waves a hand over his shoulder, picking up his pace.

    I watch him go.

  • ragged

    Sitting on the toilet in the back bathroom, I hear a sound at the door — as through someone pressed against it from the outside, maybe one of the cats?

    But the door has nearly an inch gap at the bottom. I can see nothing outside.

    A few minutes later I am jolted into a panic by the sight of something coming quickly towards me — it is as if it passed through the door.

    It is white and ragged, trailing fluttering strips of cloth. I have an impression of gray hair, a wrinkled face . . . an old woman who vanishes just before she reaches me.

    I am startled. I am scared. My hair is standing on end. The akin on my arms feels prickled and tight, almost sunburnt.

    This was not a vague impression or an easily explained corner-of-the-eye episode. I saw something.

  • whisper

    As I come into the front room of our house, I hear man’s voice whisper something — a single phrase, very distinct but unintelligible.

    Cleaning up in the back bathroom, I hear voices pitched in an argument — just a few lines back and forth — again, distinctly audible but no words can be made out.

  • neighborhood watch

    …and when the neighbors show up at our front door, they demand entrance and will not leave. Too small to be a mob, but there are enough of them to force their way in.

    In the entryway, they shout that we are heathens and devil worshippers — they begin opening doors and ransacking the rooms. Books are thrown to the floor, pictures and knick knacks smashed, curtains pulled down.

    The ringleader is a middle aged blonde woman with the sinewy frame of someone burning away the calories with their fierce zealotry.

    She discovers “Lost Girls” on one of our shelves and shrieks her horror at “this filth and pornography” (which, admittedly, it is) corrupting the neighborhood.

    It goes downhill from there. I manage to trick them into not finding my office by use of a clever hinged double door — when it opens, it covers the office entrance completely…

    …I wake up, the sound of angry voices and slamming doors following me to the waking world.

  • footsteps again, of course

    Standing in the kitchen, I hear the sound of someone coming down the back stairs — slow, cautious . . . almost stealthy.

    But when I go to check, of course, no one is there.

    It takes a few minutes for the hair on my arms to lay back down again. My skin is electric, almost burning.