Old school nightmare last night. Like, super old school. Can’t even remember the last time I had one of those, but here we are.
Setting: an apartment or house. Recently moved in or maybe just staying there AirBnB-style. Something about the furniture.
The livingroom is like the one on Westgate Dr, sofa against the wall, another chair to the right, like a recliner, but green, almost turquoise. Then a doorway and a long hallway to the right like the one in the house in El Granada, running forward and back, the livingroom its left branch, like the old library.
Physical orientation is fixed, (livingroom) facing the sofa against the wall, or (hallway) with the sense of another room BACK and to the right.
Room at the end of the hallway. Illumination growing more scarce, sensed rather than seen, because it’s BEHIND. Remoteness = uneasiness. Door is shut. Problem room.
The room is full of things/furniture (still) needing to be sorted. Know this intuitively. Also know that the light won’t work and that something waits within. Old school. The unseen, intangible, but anticipated menace.
Discussing the problem with someone or multiple someones. I’m more annoyed with the situation than afraid. There’s lucidity about the nature of the dream. I know how it wants to play out, I know how it ends. I know that I’ll try the lights, and they won’t respond, and something will rush out of the darkness too fast to be seen, simply a force, and grab me. Or grabbing is wrong, implies arms or limbs. It’s incorporeal, more like it will rush, engulfing me, its substance violently filling the voids between my cellular structure. Doesn’t matter. I’ll wake with heart racing. Unpleasant. No thank you. Don’t want to play out that old script. Try to avoid it, explore alternatives, shift the narrative. But the dream keeps funneling me back to the hallway, to the room.
Hostility. Ok fine. I go to the room where the door is now cracked, darkness within. I slip my hand inside for the lightswitch. Unresponsive. Of course. Darkness, heaviness of objects/furniture inside. A subtle whooshing, as air moving into the room from outside, as if a great sucking void awaits. Maybe it does. I respond with volume and anger, yelling and slamming the door repeatedly as if to scare off some threatening creature. Wuff of air moving in the wake of the action. Darkness, heaviness, and is that a subtle physical resistance behind the door, like something trying to encourage the door to open wider with my movements? It’s going to happen. Steeling myself.
At the same time, I’m filled with anger. I refuse to be attacked (but attacked is the wrong word). React with violent internal struggle to wake myself, physically FIGHTING, ascending/descending through layers of inky moist black sediment threaded through with fine gold filament. Propelled by purest rage. I’ll exit this nightmare on my own terms.
—and it works!