Woke from dream/nightmare. Sat up in bed, heart beating. Breathes coming short and fast.
Groped for the light. Grabbed journal and fumbled with pen. Had to write down those dire dream fragments before I lost them.
vellichor of Mr. Briggs book shop
wearing my well-worn corduroy pants, the intricate, lacy silver necklace and earrings. (note to self: don’t go there about jewelry; not a good idea)
when I open door, Emily Jane the cat bristled at me ‘til recognition; then ran up for her usual ear scratching
singing song that popped into head helped with book choice
maybe one of my classics – Illusions or something Sherlockian
Pulled out The Turn of the Screw ; wondered if really in mood for gothic ghost story.
Noticed bombinate sound bubbled up thru floorboards
loudest behind case of rear books
trap door, stairs down to gas-lit tunnel
“Mr. Briggs? Mr. Briggs?”
humming sound hypnotizes
begin to explore, feet echo off ceramic tiled walls
art deco designs of mosaics
floor slants downward
reach clear water pool set into the floor
lean over to look deeper
fall (or am I pushed?)
cold water numbs me
reach for the edge of the cement and stone pool
As I push up, feel dragged or held down.
I put down my pen and journal. A hard dream to shake. The room is turning ruby from the sunrise.
Might as well get up and make coffee, I thought, yawning and scuffling towards the kitchen.
I stopped. On the coat hook by the door, was the dress I was wearing in the dream. The dripping water formed a pool underneath.
© phylor 2015