Dream: Porch Lights

I ride on a bike through my neighborhood in the evening. The sun sets and it soon becomes dark. The porch lights turn on. As I travel through the neighborhood, the only source of illumination is now the porch lights, which are all uniformly the same color and form. As I ride quickly from block to block, the hue of the lights changes slightly. In some areas, they are slightly blue. In others, they are tinted red. Others are yellow.

I soon realize that I am lost. Paranoia starts to creep up my mind. It’s not safe to be outside at night. I try to shake off the growing unease. I know I live in a safe neighborhood, besides, I hadn’t seen anyone ever since the lights tinted light purple… No cars parked in driveways. No yard decor. No yard signs. No decorative lights. This isn’t my neighborhood.

I am riding up a hill when I realize that I’m in a foreign neighborhood. It’s as I’m riding uphill, slowly moving the pedals despite the great effort I’m exerting that I see her. She stands in front of her house. She seems to be wearing a white sheet for clothes. Her head, arms, and legs are not as white as her clothes, so they are invisible in the darkness.

Despite my anxiety, I slow to a stop and dismount my bike. It’s so dark. I can’t bring myself to speak of the white-clothed silhouette standing as stiff as a marble pillar in front of her house, which I notice is the only house that doesn’t have a porch light. My eyes dart from side to side. There is no one else out. This is the perfect chance to get help without having to wake someone up.

Strands of black hair, like a wet mop, lie spread over her shoulders and down over her torso. I can’t bring myself to get any closer. I don’t dare step upon their lawn for fear of offending them. I understand that if I make any sudden moves I may scare them. Being a stranger approaching in the dark.

I call out weakly. “Um, hey there. I don’t mean to bother you.” I hesitate as she gives no reaction at all, no movement to acknowledge my presence, “I think I got turned around and it’s too dark to read the signs. What street am I on?” … Silence answers me. I feel a little embarrassed. It’s dark, and I can’t make out any limbs. I consider that I could be talking to no one at all. So I decide to get a closer look.

I set down my bike on the driveway and make my way up the lawn to where the woman stands. “Hello? Can you help me?” I ask. This time, I am only about ten feet away. It definitely appears to be a person. It could be a mannequin I suppose. But it has so much hair. That would have to be a really big wig.

…

I do not remember walking into the house. Nor do I remember the woman I saw ever moving. But the next memory I have after that scene is of me in the house with the woman. She isn't moving. But she has a butcher’s knife. It’s almost like a small machete. I don’t remember what happens here either, only the overwhelming dread and terror that convinces me that I am sure to die.

That’s when it happened. Death came. I saw him through the window, slowly approaching. The dark hooked cloaked figure walking into view. The only part I could see of him were his clothes. His handles did not reach beyond his sleeves. His cloak dragged along the ground, drowning his feet. And his head was lost in the ever-deepening cowl.

Like a banshee, he glided over the lawn towards the house, and I knew that this meant someone  was about to die. And judging by the knife in the woman’s cold, emotionless face, I knew who the reaper was coming for.

A terrible explosion reverberates through the house. The ceiling caves in. The blast must have hurt my head because I can’t remember what happened. How did I get trapped by debris? Why is there a hole where the wall should be? 3rd-person view, I see my body on the ground trapped underneath torn cement and splintered wood and fallen walls.

I look around, but Death is the only one still alive around here. The body of the woman lies on the floor, still gripping the knife. Just as motionless in death as she was in life. I ignore the woman and go for my body. I grab the hand that is poking out from beneath the rubble. I pull, but there is too much broken plaster weighing him down. I look to Death. “Help me get him out!”

I can’t see Death’s expression, but from the tilt of his head, I can discern confusion from him. He can’t understand what I’m doing. Finally, his deep voice smoothly rumbles from beneath his hood. “I am Death. You wouldn’t want me to touch him.” It occurs to me that Death’s very touch might be deadly. So I accept that I must remove the body from the rubble all by myself.

I pull bricks and strewn planks of wood off the pile. I eventually uncover my body from the wreckage. As I take a break from the exertion of digging out my body, I see that the woman’s corpse is still on the floor unmoving. I look to Death. “Aren’t you going to take her soul?” I ask. I can feel the grimace in his unseen face. And the embarrassment in his voice makes his sincerity genuine. “I’m… too scared to get close to her.” I know that she is dead, but I also get chills looking at her corpse. So I can understand Death’s hesitation. But Death shouldn’t be scared. Now that I have been reunited with my lost body, I decide to take things into my own hands. I walk towards the woman’s body. But as lean over the body, terrible terror overcomes my senses. My very core is driven by fear.

I can’t get any closer. But I also need to make sure that she’s dead. The terror wells up inside me. Bang! Her head explodes into splatter of blood on the ground, staining her shoulders. Some of her hair is still stuck to her shoulders. But now I know for sure that she won’t be able to trouble me anymore. Even so, my fear continues to grow. My legs move their own accord as hysteria runs me out through the hole in the wall, down the driveway to my bike. I mount my bike. I ride through the neighborhood just as hopelessly lost as before. But I am no longer trying to get home. I am simply trying to get away.

I have the sinking feeling that something is following me. I look behind myself several times as I ride, but I don’t see anything. The porch lights are the only lights, but I wish there were street lamps so that I could properly see the road.

I take another turn. Hmm. The porch lights in this area are dark red. The lights begin to flicker. All of them, simultaneously, in perfect synchronicity. The lighting of the road blinks between faint red light, barely enough to keep from crashing and complete darkness that makes me feel like I’m surrounded by my enemies.

Even though it is now even harder to see than before, I pedal harder. I go faster. I don’t care if I crash. At least that might release me from this hellish landscape. I am now taking turns based on estimation. A larger gap between porch lights than normal, I assume that’s a turn. I drive that way. I identify dead-ends by where porch lights end. I discern the layout of the road, intersections, curves, turns, sides based entirely on the spaces between the flickering, faint, now only barely visible dark red porch lights. On and off like a heartbeat.

But what is that in the distance? Light? Not the dark red, dim porch lights. No, it’s a property street lamp. And there it is! A true porch light of normal yellow-white color. It’s my home! It’s my driveway. And there is my brother out to greet me. I sigh in relief, a terrible burden released from me. I feel my anxiety and paranoia melt away. I slow to a stop on the edge of the road by the front yard.

But my brother doesn’t look happy to see me. He looks… scared? I follow his gaze. His eyes aren’t meeting mine. They’re aiming too high. The street light is behind me. I can see my shadow cast upon the ground in front of me. It isn’t the only shadow there. I turn around to see them. Four ghoulish creatures. They wear no clothes, but they wouldn’t need them. Wretched creatures of pale skin like a dead corpse. Eyes bulging out of their sockets, sightless and bloated. One of them is a woman that’s missing its head but has blood soaked shoulders. She is still wearing clothes. A white sheet, the top of which is stained red. They lift me off my bike and into the air. She still has the butcher’s knife. I struggle in their grip, finally managing to turn my head towards my brother to ask him for help.

He stands there. Motionless. Stiff. Possibly because there is no head on his blood-caked shoulders. That’s when the knife tears through my neck. But I don’t die. My head falls to the ground, face up. Through my eyes, I stare in horror as the four ghouls rip into my body. Blood must be staining my eyes because my vision throbs with a pulsing red tint.

Then my second alarm rings, waking me up from my nightmare. The pulsing blare of the first alarm synchronizes with the pulsing red vision and flickering red porch lights that I remember from my dream. Perhaps I should prepare a 3rd alarm just in case my 2nd alarm fails to wake me from these nightmares.