The Dreamer of No Dreams

[Published in Planet Prozak]


Whenever strangers meet, a certain curiosity prevails within those minds involved. The unexpected is commonplace in such circumstances, and as the minutes pass during these initial meetings both parties discover many things. Certain hidden characteristics, certain undesirable traits, certain revealing secrets - and certain things which turn out to be more curious than unexpected.
I absolutely refuse to be held responsible for what happened to Drake. Yes, I do admit that I was present at the time, but as a mere observer. And I insist that I could have done nothing - precisely nothing - to prevent such an awesome fate. Yet I am consumed by a horrible guilt, and I simply cannot relinquish this from my troubled mind. It all began with an encounter so innocent that I find the ensuing horror hard to believe.
I had not lived in this street for long when Drake chose to make my acquaintance. I was grateful for this, because I was feeling quite alone at that time, having left my sweetheart in the heart of London until after the wedding proceedings had passed by. I was rather excited at the prospect of marriage, and admit to spending many an evening on the telephone conversing with Josephine
for what seemed like hours. I was missing her so much that I would have offered anything to have been able to dream of her during my sleep. However, this was not possible, for I happen to be one of those unique individuals who do not dream. Such images refuse to enter into my subconscious brain, and as much as I strive to experience these mysterious and magical pictures, I simply cannot.
I now digress, which I ought not to do. This is an important and unique tale I have to relate, and so I must proceed without hindrance nor diversion. Drake knocked politely at my door, which I did not really mind, for I was extremely appreciative of his friendliness and neighbourly behaviour. He lived just three houses from mine, and as I was hideously lacking in the comforts of home at that time, he invited me for a welcome refreshment in the confines of his own house. I accepted, having no prior engagement that evening, and so we walked those few short steps to his front door and entered into his abode.
He was a tall, thickset fellow of indeterminable age, and possessed a jovial demeanour. To begin with I felt rather shy in his presence, but following the consumption of some excellent-tasting cognac I started to make myself at home, as the saying goes. I do not normally take to strangers very well, and so my nervousness was understandable, with Drake being no exception to this habit of mine. As the evening progressed I got to like the man, and indeed regarded his pleasantness and hospitality with great appreciation.
Before a roaring log fire we spoke at length, the conversation drifting from one topic to another. I must admit that Drake tended to monopolise the proceedings, as he appeared to be quite a talkative fellow. My face became rather hot and flushed, mainly due to our closeness to the leaping flames of the fire, and partly through the enjoyable intake of alcohol. I looked around that vast room, and the most noticeable items on hand were the impressive trophies from Drake's adventures in the darkest jungles, for he claimed to be a great lover of hunting wild beasts.
"I see you are admiring my souvenirs," he said, as my gaze fell upon the head of a snarling tiger which hung above the fireplace. "That particular chap is my pride and joy, my biggest prize so far."
"You must be quite brave to have faced such ferocious animals," I told him.
"I suppose I am. I've hunted all kinds of beasts, and I've got the better of them all." He then paused. "All except one, that is."
He appeared very enthusiastic with regard to this hunting business, and indeed I fancied he took it extremely seriously. I guessed that he held no fear at all for any of God's creatures, no matter how wild and fierce they might be. So his closing words were rather curious, I thought.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
He then hesitated, and I noticed that for the first time during our meeting he seemed quite disturbed. Then after a few seconds he replied.
"The monster in my cellar," he said, "I've had no luck in catching him at all."
This statement baffled me to a large degree. I indeed thought it to be quite a peculiar thing to say, and pillaged my brain for some understanding of his words.
The alcohol prevented me from thinking clearly, but in the end I decided to enquire further regarding his strange words.
"Monster in your cellar?" I said.
"That's right. It's a beauty all right. A real devil of a brute. But it just won't take a bullet. The damned beast!"
I had never heard such an extraordinary thing, and because I was unsure of how to react I merely stared at him in a wild manner. I detected no signs of madness in him, no clues to tell me that he was suffering from some insane disease of the mind.
"The funny thing is," he continued, "I have nightmares about the creature. It appears in my sleep, closing in on me, surrounded by darkness. Night after night I have the same dream. In fact, I'm certain that the thing appeared in my nightmares before it came to my cellar."
"Are you sure?" I asked, uncertain of what more to say, for as soon as he started to speak about dreams I was lost to the conversation.
"Yes," he muttered. And then I saw that he was looking at me in a curious fashion, as if he was studying my reaction to his words. His next question confirmed this. "You don't believe me, do you?"
"It's not a question of believing you..." I began - but I was unable to complete the statement.
"I'll show you," he said, and proceeded to lift himself out of the armchair. "Follow me."
I did not want to go. Some part of my brain was instructing me to remain in that room, before that log fire and with that glass of cognac in my hand. Yet this other portion of my brain was urging me to go with him, to encounter this monster in the cellar. It was rather weird. Did I believe him? Or did I not believe him? It seemed that the only way to discover the truth was to accompany him to the cellar in question.
He beckoned for me to go with him into the sizeable kitchen of his house, where we came face to face with a heavy door of some ancient-smelling wood. My mind was confused at this point, and it is true that I was quivering in fright. Presumably this entrance led to his cellar, and the monster of which he spoke. I learnt that this idea was correct, as he turned the key and lifted the latch, the door sliding open with an enforced tug. An icy draft welcomed us to the darkness within, and a quaint odour found its way into my nostrils.
"Come with me," Drake commanded, and I saw that he was holding a large shotgun in one hand. He grabbed a nearby lantern, and then ventured down those wooden steps, and reluctantly I followed. At first I observed nothing, until we reached the final step, and then it appeared - and I became overwhelmed with dread.
The thing that drifted into view was the most evil-looking creature I have ever laid eyes upon. It was mightily huge, almost touching the dark ceiling, and
possessed a yawning void of a mouth which contained a loose, viscous fluid of a greenish yellow colour. The sharpness of its large teeth frightened me, and I huddled closely to the cold wall behind me, fearing that I might become a victim of those loathsome molars. Its ugly flesh hung loosely from its ghastly form, and I noticed that it possessed three hands, each consisting of a set of four gruesome-looking claws. And when I looked into those hideous reddish eyes, I became engulfed in anguish, and leapt up those stairs, eventually staggering into the kitchen accompanied by heavy breathing and a weakened heart.
I was naturally relieved when Drake appeared from out of the thick blackness, and proceeded to lock and bolt that door behind him. He showed concern for my suffering, and escorted me back into the lounge, offering me a further tipple of his excellent cognac. This I gulped down in one go, and flopped into the armchair I had previously occupied. And as the darting flames blazed in the nearby hearth, I spoke to Drake in a shaking voice.
"Where did that thing come from?"
"Ah -- now you ask," he answered, "as I mentioned, the monster appears in my nightmares. It is the exact image of what I see during my sleep. Do you ever see such monsters in your nightmares?"
A pang of guilt then arrived to my heart, and I knew that I was about to disappoint and confound my new friend. Dreams may claim to be exclusive to the human mind, but the human mind does not always experience such subconscious moving images. And in particular, this refers to my own dormant brain.
"I do not dream," I told him, and awaited his reaction.
"What? You do not dream? Impossible! Every person has dreams, and even more have nightmares. How can this be?"
"It is true. I do not dream, and never have done."
"Aha!" he then said, and raised his forefinger to emphasise his next point. "Perhaps you do dream, but you do not remember these dreams. This is quite common with some people."
I was insistent. "No, I am certain that I have never dreamt during the whole of my lifetime."
"But that's so strange!"
"Strange but true," I said, and then I suddenly felt quite ill, and asked Drake to excuse me, for I wished to go back to my home to rest.
"Of course," he said, and then offered to escort me. He was so insistent that in the end I relented, and so it was that he came with me to my house. But even then, the proceedings were to become quite precarious, although I had no inkling of this at the time.
The words that I had spoken contained nothing but the truth. I do not regard myself as a dreamer, and sometimes during my life I have regretted this, and have yearned for those picturesque illusions, those enchanting and delightful images that the majority of mankind experiences. However, this is totally beyond my control. I believe that I am destined to be a non-dreamer, a man who dwells only in the real world, for when I go to sleep my mind is filled with - nothing.
We got into the house, and Drake assisted me in entering the kitchen. It was cold, and I was shivering. He gave me a glass of water, which was most welcome, and then I watched his actions, as he curiously looked around the room. I noticed that his eyes had come to rest on the locked door to my own cellar. And then he cast his gaze in my direction, and somehow I became aware of his intentions.
"I cannot capture the monster in my cellar," he said, "but what if there is one in yours?"
"There is nothing down there," I protested.
"Have you looked?"
I cannot lie, for I have been brought up on the truth. And so I shook my head, and I saw that his eyes were gleaming. During the brief time that I had been in his company I had come to learn that he was one who thrived on danger and intrigue, and that he did not fear any creature, therefore I resigned myself to the fact that he was about to enter into that mysterious place below the floorboards.
I reckoned him to be filled with an inquisitive and dangerous eagerness to confront whatever did lurk beneath my house, although I was sure that there
was nothing untoward down there. I reckoned that inside that dark realm there was definitely not a gruesome creature similar to the one inside his own cellar. Of course, Drake had other ideas, and was intent on proving my thoughts to be incorrect. And so I unlocked that door, and lifted the latch, and with a gentle creak pulled it open.
Drake was insatiable, and certainly held no fear, for he immediately poked his head through the entrance, observing the eerie darkness that prevailed all around, and indeed I could feel the coldness that existed down there.
"Hand me a lantern," he insisted, "it's so dark."
And so I did, but even then we could not see very much. Just a mysterious gloom that caused a chill upon my spine. Drake offered to investigate further, for which I was grateful, because I had become extremely fearful and uneasy after listening to his talk of monsters. He placed his foot upon the cold, stone steps that led downwards, and slowly entered into the blackness.
Not much could be seen beyond that threshold, and the immediate area around the light of the lantern only succeeded in turning the darkness to an absurd greyness, which itself I found to be quite peculiar and haunting.
"There doesn't seem to be much down here," said Drake, his words reverberating oddly within that cold space.
And then he must have reached the bottom step, because I heard him cry out, and I guessed that he had slipped. But then his feeble cries turned into a loud and pitiful scream, and I was simply amazed to hear that plaintive sound become quieter and quieter, and his voice seemed to vanish into the distance, as if he were falling into a deep, bottomless pit.
I am certain that no creature exists in my cellar. If it did, it would have surely appeared, and would not be content to conceal itself in that darkness. Drake did not appear from within that strange place, and I have not seen him since. I believe that the creature beneath his floorboards had drifted from out of his nightmares and into his cellar. I did tell him that I did not have nightmares, and that my dreams were of nothing. I cannot hear him any more, but I do believe that he is still screaming -- falling forever into a silent abyss of nothingness.