WHEN YOU FALL ASLEEP, do you dream of a fictional world? A fantasy? A traumatic incident? Do you dream of people? A loved one? Perhaps a memory?
As weird as it sounds, mine isn't ordinary. When I sleep, I usually dream of one thing. Only one. And as far as I know, people dream of different sorts of things when they're asleep. Either they dream of something that happened to them in real life or something their mind painted. If you ask what mine is, trust me, it's baffling.
Every time I sleep, the abyss always stretches out in all directions like an endless sea of black ink. But despite the unknown, there will always be one singular sight—a massive Victorian house. It is bewitching, with its gothic spires stretching out towards the sky. In fact, I'm currently experiencing my recurring dream. And in the milieu of it, I was alone.
Twigs snapped as I made my way towards the facade of the house. As I inched closer to it, I glared at its stone exterior. It had an asymmetrical facade, a witch's hat turret, a finial on top, and a conical roof. The porch was lined with dark, vivid colors and contrasting hues. The wall on the outer part was graced with embellished Victorian friezes and scale shingles. It had a balustraded stairway and a sunburst panel on high-peaked gables. One side of the exterior was covered with vines; the front and the rest had plaster scrollwork and indented coffered panels.
I have seen this massive house before in my own mind, strolled its hallways, and touched my fingers over its intricately carved designs. In fact, I've done it more than you can imagine. It is an eerie sight that creates both serenity and fear—a feeling of familiarity that makes me feel afraid even as my feet carry me towards the edifice.
In this dream, the massive house became the only thing to materialize in front of me, and I, unwillingly, became its viewer. I know in the depths of my mind how this dream is about to unravel, yet I feel the tug of a veiled puppeteer guiding me into the unknown.
And just like that, from the shaded portico of the Victorian house emerged the man who frequently appears in my dreams. He's around his mid-thirties, his hair a sparrow's wing, dropping just past his shoulders in a waterfall of untied waves. A newly shaven mustache distinctively frames his lips. Whoever he is, I have no idea. He never bothered telling me his name.
Then, as if summoned by an invisible signal, children appeared from behind him. They slowly rushed towards me with youthful innocence. I continued watching as this tableau unraveled before my eyes. There is a delicate quality to the scene, like an image wrapped in layers of cobwebs and starlight. But I know, as if I'd experienced it a thousand times, that this is just a dream. Weird, I know. But something about it feels distinct, I just don't know what.
Everything in my dreams is playing out as it usually does: the man standing, the kids in white clothes constantly laughing, and the massive mansion creating an eerie atmosphere. The man's stare occasionally shifts to meet mine. The first thing I needed was for my vision to finish, for the children's laughter to disappear, for the man to vanish back into the void, and for the massive house to crumble into dust.
My heart then started beating rapidly in my chest, echoing in my mind as I slowly stepped away from the events that were all too familiar in front of me. The man then looked at me as he smiled, the air suddenly drifting as if it were on cue. Just as I was about to step away, he spoke—a soothing, comforting voice that palliated the strain in my chest.
"Find your true self," he said. "Discover who you really are."
As his words echoed in my mind, the landscape changed. The once-united ocean of innocent laughter coming from the kids halted all at once. The deafening silence filled the air, like a tune of an unknown song coming to an end. Their silence echoed in the dreamy expanse of my subconscious, creating ripples of strangeness that spread across the horizon. And then, as if the conductor of an orchestra had abruptly signaled a pause, they shifted their glares at me.
All at once, a dozen pairs of eyes landed on me. Their gazes were piercing, their calm faces suddenly took on a peculiar seriousness. My heart started beating faster, and my chest was pounding like a wild pulse in my body. I knew what was about to happen. I mean, I dreamt of the same thing over and over again. Of course I know what's going to happen.
In a blink of an eye, they spoke in unison. Their voices were light, yet they carried a weight that seemed too heavy for their innocent faces.
"Come with us," they said in unison. Some of them reached out towards me, their hands small and imploring. I was scared, but I didn't move.
Among the voices, some broke away. I looked at the kids and they moved closer and closer. "Help us," some of them begged. The dream had changed into a strange tableau, with me at its center. The man who constantly appears in my dream, the children, and their cries all whirled around me, producing a kaleidoscope of emotions. I looked at the children, and then I looked at the man. And then the thing that I anticipated happened.
"You are our salvation," he said.
Then, as if it were on cue, the surreal scene faded away as I woke up—with the echo of the children's pleas slowly subsiding. I was back in my room, the familiar setting in stark contrast to the dream world.
Who was that man? Who were those kids? And why am I always dreaming about them? Should I pry?