Does it Rain in Your Dreams?

It is raining. 1

Not the spectacular, torrential rain that I like, but the prickly, misty rain that falls in low sweeps and almost feels like pins and needles. Walking in it isn't all that enjoyable, but I have boredom to encourage me. 2

Donning a warm cardigan and hugging jeans, I slip out into the dark afternoon. My garden path is slimy, a greasy streak of neat paving stones between pools of trimmed grass. My Dad likes gardening, and it shows in the tidy hedge and exotic plants bordering the yard. I walk carefully, my Skechers gripping the ground quite poorly. 3

I swing the iron-wrought gate closed, and look down into the long lane before me. Trees from either side of it knot into a dense web above my head, greying oak branches from across the way extending themselves to the youthful beech that stands in my garden. The path is swathed in a gloomy autumn light. For an October day, it is a surprisigly mild sort of warm. 4

Stones click under my shoes, slipping against each other just enough that I have to be careful where I walk. The path is fairly straight, but I know that there was a concealed fork a few hundred yards down. I think of nothing in particular while I walk. Occasionally a bird will say something, and I'll wonder what it was. Then the wind will pick up a little, and I will watch the leaves slap wetly against each other.5

There were times when I hated living so far away from anywhere, but on days like today - where it is just warm enough, and just cold enough, and the wildlife lets you creep up close - I can't be angry about it. 6

I come to the fork in the road, mostly obscured by low, overgrown tree branches and a thick hedge. I recognise it by the green darkness between the leaves, and the stretch of worn-down grass that disappears under them.7

Stroking aside the leaves, I find the narrow opening. I can stil remember how I'd come across this place by accident one day, and how I'd struggled to get in. Fortunately, I'd been small enough to crawl under the branches, killed by winter at the time. The older I got, the more the branches gave way to me pushing through them, and the easier it became to get in.8

I'm not going to pretend that I'm the only one who knows the path exists, but I'm the only one who uses it so frequently. In the drier summer months I can go for days on end and follow my own footprints. Now, my feet sinks into the mud, leaving deep trenches in the earth, but the heavy clouds above tell me they won't be there tomorrow.9

Where I expected the wet, fresh smell of damp earth, there is a more stagnant, bitter odor that swells around me. It appears to come from no particular place, and just manifests in the air. It isn't so unpleasant that I have to cover my mouth, and so press on. 10

The family of a friend of mine owns a farm, to which this path is a shortcut. Perhaps they are doing something on the farm to cause the smell. I decide, even if they aren't, that it will ease my boredom to call on my friend anyway.11

Ellie is the tallest of my group of friends, her overly long legs more a hindrance to her lovelife than a boon. She compensates by being an excellent horse-rider, and is sure to only talk to the handsome breeder while she is mounted, as if that is responsible for her height.12

It is a shame, because I know that she could be very pretty. Unfortunately, just as when beauty is dragged over weight, when it is pulled over height it begins to degrade. As such, she has outgrown her teenage beauty, and has yet to grow into her adult grace.13

As I think about her, and the best route to take when I reach the small crossroads, I fail to notice the stench steadily worsen. It passed the pickled egg sort of smell, into something more like rotten meat. It is only as it is getting to the you-can-taste-vomit sort of horror that I notice it, and promptly cover my mouth and nose with my sleeve. Either it will block the smell, or I will catch my breakfast.14

I try to press on, but soon even the wool of my cardigan is saturated with it. I can see the crossroads ahead, three vaguely straight roads branching from the one I stand on. A burning taste rises in my throat as I realise the smell has worsened. Assuming that it is in the hedge to my right, I quicken my pace, determined to leave it far behind me.15

The stones grow even slippier the further I go, this, added to the poor light, causes me to stumble and skid. I reach out with my spare hand to the trees on my left, but find them mossy and gross*. Wiping my hand on my jeans, I leave long, brown smears up my thigh, but barely take the time to notice. I continue with my left arm out to the side, so I can grab onto the trees if I desperately need to.16

It is a few minutes, even at my increased pace, until I am safe at the centre of the crossroads. My cardigan reeks, and I am certain that I do, too. It is probably in my hair, and up my nostrils, and will never wash off or fade away. Shaking my head, I try not to think about it. 17

Then, I am faced with a dilemma. I can continue to breathe through my sleeve, which smells repugnant, like my hand has died inside of it. Or, I could take it away and risk breathing in something far worse. I wait for a minute, taking the shallowest breaths, and only when absolutely necessary. Slowly, I bring my sleeve away, and drink in the air. 18

It smells of newly cut grass, and of cows. Sighing, I glance back at the alley behind me, as though I expect to see a smog of stench lurking there. Seeing nothing, I give an inexplicable shudder, and start down the path to my right.19

----20

The smell doesn't bother me again the entire walk to Ellie's house. The afternoon is almost ripe by the time I arrive, right on the cusp of lunchtime. I begin to feel bad that maybe I will be invading their dinner, but realise that Ellie should be in the middle of her riding lesson. This lessens the guilt, and some other that I have carried with me for a while - she is always inviting me to watch her ride, and I have never gone.21

Arriving at the paddock, I am just wandering up to the gate as she lands an impressive jump. The horse hits the ground with a grunt, but this is the only sign that it had taken any effort. Its muscles ripple under the sheet of its thick, chestnut fur as Ellie sees me and urges him towards me. 22

She slows to a trot at the gate, and greets me with a smile. I notice that the domed helmet doesn't flatter her long face, yet she looks slim and elegant atop the saddle. I return the smile.23

"What brings you 'ere?" Her regional accent sounds strong even to me, who has spent a good portion of my life there, though not all of it.24

I give a non-commital shrug.25

"Do I smell?" I ask bluntly, standing up on the fence and leaning over. She sniffs me, the saddle creaking as she extends herself towards me.26

"No, why?" She wraps the reins around her hands as the mare starts to fidget under her.27

"The road back there stank of something. I was scared some of it got on me." I reply, shrugging again. Sniffing my sleeve, it still carries the same odor, and I try to mask the spasm in my chest. Ellie watches with a frown, and shakes her head.28

"Sum'in's prob'ly marked a tree or sum'in'," she remarks, adding a shrug of her own. She starts to remove the helmet, which I am glad for as it is difficult to look at her and not smirk. "Some animals leave 'orrible smells in there."29

I hadn't considered that, and it seems logical.30

"Alrigh', I'm just glad I wasn' there when they did it, then." Ellie grins at me, and hops down off the horse.31

"Lemme put Ginger away, an' I'll get us some lunch, yeah?" 32

I nod, and watch her coax the horse away. I had been absently stroking her nose, and she seemed to like it. I have to put my hands behind my back and look at her sternly before she will let herself be dragged off.33

----34

I enjoyed my day with Ellie, which isn't something I can say all that often. She talks about boys too much, and not enough about anything else. Stars are blossoming by the time I stand up to leave, and, as her parents are away, she seems sad to lose the company.35

It being the holidays, I am able to promise a return the next day, which makes her happy. As I pull my cardigan on again, the sleeve of which doesn't smell at all now, I turn to her. 36

"Would I be okay to go back through the cut d'you think?" I ask, referring to the path I had come down. After a moment of thought, she reaches to a shelf - not that a girl with arms like that needs to reach very much - and hands me a torch.37

"If anythin' moves, cover the light with yer sleeve. Mos' animals'll scarper at the light, but there's the odd few - dangerous ones - who like it. Foxes, mostly." She informs me, before hugging me goodbye.38

It is much colder outside now, and my breath mists a little in front of me. I like it. I suck in a long, slow breath.39

And throw up.40

I don't understand how, but the house had preserved me from the smell. But it is back now, and with a vengence. It isn't exactly worse, it is just more. It not only swells, but sinks and weighs down the air, which should be cool and crisp. Old bacon soaked in urine, with the corpse of cheese thrown in for good measure. And it is everywhere, so much everywhere that I can almost see it in the darkness.41

I can see where the fork of the crossroads meets the field, and it is a good few hundred yards away. Determination flares in me, along with a flood of bile, as I resolve to find whatever is causing it.42

Cupping my hands over my nose, I try to breathe through my mouth. Vomit and the tangy taste of the smell mix in my throat, and I am very nearly sick again. Rallying myself, I jog across the field, my now unsensible choice of footwear slapping against the wet mud.43

I consider going back to get Ellie, so she could smell it, but that sounds strange and is probably pointless. With my hands still occupied, I pin the torch against me with my elbow, but the light isn't worth the hassle.44

It isn't long until I am at the middle of the crossroads again. The night folds around me slowly, and it starts to get a bit suffocating. It doesn't help that my breathing is short and infrequent - all I can do to avoid the smell. It is worse, here, which tells me the direction it is coming from. 45

I look towards my secret little entrance, which is completely swallowed by the inky black before me. Looking into it for too long makes me dizzy, and very claustrophobic, so I switch the torch on. 46

It highlights the alleyway for a moment, flickers, and dies. I smack the side of it, the grey light blinks at the trees a few more times, and fades again. A chill sweeps over me, though I am not cold. The smell is opressive, but it is the darkness that suffocates me. I shake the torch frantically, but it is completely dead. 47

I look back - Ellie's house has disappeared. There is a wall of hedge close behind me that I don't remember coming past. Reaching out, the darkness takes solid form around my hand as I touch the black leaves. I flinch away from it, and turn towards the path again. The only way I can go is onwards into the swelling gloom.48

I've never been afraid of the dark, never needed a night-light or for the door to be left open a crack. But this isn't just dark. This is nothing. This is an expanse of nothing between me and my house. 49

My mind strays to think of the other two lanes coming off the crossroads. To my right is an image too similar to the one in front of me: complete, unfettered darkness. Casting a chance glance to my left, my heart sinks as the sight repeats itself. I am just turning back to face forwards, when the smallest glint of something steals my attention to the left again.50

I peer into the abyss until my eyes start to hurt. Then two things happen at once. There is light, for a split second, piercing and determined in the night. And there is a noise, slow and steady and terrifying. Thuds, heavy yet brief, gradually growing louder.51

Someone is coming.52

"Hello?" I call out, my voice weak and shaking. I chide myself for being so stupid, though I even sound weak in my head.53

As the footsteps become louder and more frequent, panic flares deep in my stomach, and rises to my chest. A shape begins to form in the shadowed path that should have taken me home, blacker than the black around it. Without thinking, I turn and I run down the path to my left.54

All thought for the putrid stench has left me, but I am numbly aware of it growing worse as the shape approaches me. The thought boosts the rush of adrenaline. Soon, all I can hear is my own, ragged breath, and the blood thumping in my ears. My mind grows wild with fear, my imagination throwing nightmares into the endless night. What is the smell? What is the sound? What is the creature that is rapidly gaining on me? My head has answers for it all, each more terrible than the last.55

I am halfway down the path, and hadn't even realised it. The light appears rarely, yet grows larger as I approach it. It is more than a speck now, bar-shaped and long. 56

Just as I begin to recognise it, I feel hands grasp my shoulders.57

I am woken by my own screams.58

The darkness explodes into light, and the shift from black to white causes me to yelp. I try and shield my burning eyes, but the hands continue to press me down. I clench my eyes shut, only to have them painfully forced open again.59

The face before me is concerned. The man looks haggard and worn-out, his sad eyes looking deeply into mine. The kindness in them quietens my screams, and even though he looks sad, he gives a happy sigh.60

"It was just a dream, sweetie." He says, stroking my hair back. The warm dryness of his palms shocks me, and I realise that I am sweating.61

"Where am I?" I ask, fists clenched. He puts a cigarette in his mouth, yet doesn't light it and just sits chewing on the filter.62

"You were dreaming." He says again, and the answer annoys me.63

"Where the hell am I?" I scream, the urge to strike out at him is sudden and unrepessable. With no transaction between impulse and action, I lunge at him. It is almost as if he is used to this response, and he catches both of my hands. 64

"No, sweetie. None of that." His tone is kind and patient, but the anger in me surges again, and I try to wrestle my hands free. The grips on my wrists tighten, and I give a feral yell.65

It is as if I am watching myself act, and having no control over it. I watch me try to kick and bite at his hands, but he is too quick. The rage is like a drug, building the adrenaline until suddenly I have him pushed to the ground, and he is calling for help.66

The footsteps start again, hollow and haunting. As they advance, the anger is rapidly replaced with fear, and screams shred my throat. I squirm away from him, trying to clamber under my bed. The floor is cold through my nightdress, but I would bear it forever if it meant I could get away. 67

At once, a thousand hands are on my ankles, and dragging me. I desperately try to cling onto the ground, and am numb to the pain as my fingernails splinter and tear away from their beds. I watch my fingers paint red streaks across the tiles. As soon as they have me free, I am hauled up onto the bed. 68

Everything happens too quickly for me to take stock of it. Faces are a blur, and before I can blink I see the glint of metal, and a sharp pain in my arm. I yelp, and the bodies shrink away from me.69

My eyesight feels warm, and my body looks metres away from my head. I hear the kind man sigh again, and address someone who could be me. 70

"The delusions are getting worse." His voice glows, and the room begins to sway. The last thing I hear is his glittery voice. "I'm afraid the treatments aren't working anymore."71

There is darkness.72

It is raining.