Momnesia

Mad Crazy Dreams

April 8, 2005

I had a terribly realistic and yet completely implausible nightmare last night. It creeped me out like no other dream.

In the dream, Scott and I were going to Utica, Ecuador (is there even such a place) to visit Natalya because she was getting married. We packed a simple red Eddie Bauer travelcase with a black handle and wheels (we don't own such a thing), packed up Emerson (who was standing, but not yet walking), and loaded up the car. We were driving to the airport in Atlanta, and debating whether or not it would be more likely to catch a direct flight to Utica from upstate New York. Along the way, we drove past a lovely old salmon-colored Spanish-style house surrounded by oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. It was such a lovely house that I asked Scott to stop to speak to the owners. He huffed and puffed but pulled over, and we crossed the quiet two-lane road to the house. The door closest to us was under a carport of sorts, designed to allow cars to pull up and let passengers out without bothering with weather conditions. It was a storm door, black, and Emerson stood with her hands braced against the bottom half, babbling to herseld. The lady who lived there was obviously not expecting visitors, and we saw her stop at her kitchen utensil holder and grab a giant metal whisk for protection. When she saw Emerson, she smiled, lowered the whisk, and said, "Yes?"

I smiled in what I hoped was an appeasing way, and said, "We're so sorry to bother you, but we were driving by and saw your beautiful home. It must be historic. Would you mind too much if we peeked inside?" (I would never do that)

The lady, petite and elderly with short but chic grey hair, smiled and said, "We get that question all the time. Come on in and I'll give you a quick tour."

We followed her around the aging but still beautiful house, which we learned was three stories not including the finished basement. Dark wood accented the doorways and windows, and a man who was obviously her husband sat at a large rectangular dining room table, puttering over some documents. She led us up to the second floor - bedrooms, etc. and then said, "There's nothing on the third floor but books." I was very excited to see what their library looked like, and said, "We're readers," which she responded to with a smile and, "Well, come on!"

On the third floor, we were surrounded by huge mahogany bookcases stuffed with books and papers. A man in a colonial costume and brown curly long wig met us. "Well, hello!" I don't remember the conversation, but I recall he seemed warm, friendly, and funny, but that Emerson hid behind me. I turned back to look at Scott, and he whispered in my ear, "That man is a ghost." I frowned at him and said, "Stop it!" But the man laughed and said, "No, he's right. ____________'s my name," (I didn't catch it) and held out his hand. I reached out to shake it - and my hand passed right through his. I was kind of freaked out, but the lady shook her head, smiled indulgently, and chastised him. We thanked him for the information, and followed her back downstairs, where she invited us to join her and her husband for dinner. We thanked her, declined, and explained our trip. As we were leaving, a lovely black couple was crossing the street to the house. "Is this your house?" the lady asked. "No, we just couldn't resist asking for a tour," I replied. "That's exactly what we're coming to do," she said. We wished them well, and made our way to the car. A train was passing on the nearby tracks. When we got to the car, Scott's face turned grey. "What's the matter?" I asked. In a deadly voice he said, "They have the baby." "What?" I said, and looked at the car seat he was lifting. It was empty. "Where is she?" "I'm telling you that they have her," he said. We ran across the street towards the house. As we did, the air crackled with static electricity, the landscape shimmered, and the house changed from a majestic monument to bygone architecture to a delapidated and broken-down old house. We burst into the front door. The nice elderly couple we thought we had met were ghosts flying around the room, screaming like banshees, daggers for teeth and trailing inky black smoke. The colonial man, eyes now glowing red, stood nearby and laughed maniacally. I whirled around, looking for any sign of Emerson, and saw the black couple lying dead in a heap on the floor near the front door, bloody and broken.

That's when I woke up, terrified.