Short Story - The Scary Dream
“Mr. Morris! So good to see you today. How are you feeling?”
“Well, obviously, I haven’t been too good, or else I wouldn’t be seeing a psychiatrist.” Mr. Henry Morris sat himself wearily on the futon, as the psychiatrist, Dr. Marrow, wrote something insidious on a file sandwiched in a manila folder.
Dr. Marrow then raised his thick glasses to the bridge of his large nose, and gave Morris a hard stare. Most psychiatrists were all soft and likeable, but Dr. Marrow was known for scaring his patients.
However, Mr. Morris hardly seemed afraid – in fact, he looked agitated, and seemed to want to leave in a hurry. And indeed, that was exactly correct, as substantiated by Mr. Morris.
“I’m in a hurry,” he said, “So I kinda want your professional opinion quick.”
“Oh, you’re in a rush. Is that so?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you can get up and go right now. Otherwise, I will not be rushed.”
“But I need to be free at five o’clock! I have a date!”
“Then why the hell did you schedule an appointment at four?”
“Well, I – .”
“No. You will stay for the session. If you have a problem, let me deal with it in my own fashion.”
“Then it looks like I got two problems,” said Mr. Morris, settling down into the futon.
“Then let’s get started.” Dr. Marrow stared out the window in his place of work to calm himself down, and Mr. Morris told him his problem.
“I’m a sane man,” he said, staring at the psychiatrist intently, “but as of late, I’m having insane dreams.”
“Then stop eating cheese before bed.”
“No! No, it’s not that! It’s the same dream over and over again.”
“The same exact dream?”
“Well… the same type of dream.”
“And what type is that?”
“Well… scary. Sort of.”
“Oh. So a nightmare? That’s what we call a scary dream.”
“Well… No. No, not a nightmare. Some of it is. But other parts are like, oh, I don’t know, waking up with someone you don’t know, or walking through a strange room that you don’t recall but know for a fact is your home. Things like that. Not nightmarish; just… scary.”
“Well. Tell me the dream.”
“Dreams,” corrected Morris.
“Go on. Tell me. You said you’re in a hurry.”
“Yeah. Right.” Mr. Morris looked up at the ceiling, lying back, and said, “Oh, where do I start?”
“From the beginning.”
“But that’s just the thing! I don’t know when the beginning is! They’ve all merged into one consciousness; one dream. But I know I’ve been dreaming this for the last two years. And you see, that’s what’s so scary about it. I sometimes forget that my dreams are just dreams, and at night, I lock all my doors and keep all the lights on just so they can’t catch me. I even bought a gun!”
“Who’s they? Never mind; I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough. Tell me, what is it that you dream?”
“Well, I dream that I’m some sort of soldier, and I’m fighting in a war.”
“Okay; I’ve seen that before. You must have something unaddressed in your life. Or maybe you subconsciously want to join the Navy.”
“I don’t think so. Because in my dream, I’m fighting in some sort of desert – .”
“The Middle East?”
“No; it’s like a small Italian village, but the sand comes from ripped up sandbags. The sky is red, and the weather cold.”
“You mean temperature. So who are you fighting?”
“You mean what,” corrected Mr. Morris. Then he turned and layer himself down across the futon.
“Don’t lie down on that. Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
“Then what is this couch for?!” exclaimed Mr. Morris, sitting up on the futon angrily.
“It’s for whatever I want it to be for. Now, tell me, what were you fighting?”
“Zombies.”
“Of course.”
“Decaying zombies. Moaning, groaning zombies. Zombies all around, trying to eat us, trying to get into our village. It’s horrible.”
“Alright. So you’re fighting off zombies in a messy sand hill. Is that it? Because that might just be fantasizing about something other than your boring life.”
Morris shook his head. “It’s not fantasizing. It’s horrible, and I’ve never liked stuff like this. Plus, I’m just another face in the crowd. I’m no outstanding hero or anything. I fire my gun and hit nothing.”
“I see. Well, is that all?”
“What? Oh, no. Not at all. I sometimes dream that I’m just lying down in a metal bunker, or patrolling at night. Nothing happens then. I almost fall asleep in my dream, it’s so boring! But in this dream land of mine, I’m married to a stranger lady. Her name’s something along the lines of Loota, or Lemands, or something.”
“Now those are some pretty stupid names. Care to explain how you’ve come up with them?”
“I – I don’t know. I just know that her name sounds like that.”
“Well maybe it’s Lily.”
“No, it’s not Lily.”
“Well, that sounds a lot more like a name than all the other gibberish you just gave me.”
“Well, it’s not, okay? Anyway, I hate the place, but keep dreaming I’m in it.”
“So, let me make sure I have this all down. You are a soldier in a village fighting off zombies, and are married to someone named Loota. Correct?”
“Yes; I believe so.”
“Well, that does indeed sound like a nightmare to me.”
“Well, I know I hate it, that’s for sure. Now can you explain to me what all this means?”
“Hmmm… did you eat any cheese before you went to bed?”
“No!”
“Does any of this feel familiar in your real life?”
“No. I’ve never seen any zombies.”
“And I’m sure you’ve never seen any other women. Well, to me, it sounds like you can’t recall a great deal of detail. Why is the sky red? Why are zombies attacking? Who shot the holes in the sandbags? Why is your dream wife’s name so stupid? Do you have any answers for the said questions?”
“Ah…. None.”
“Hmph. Well, I’m afraid I’ll have to hypnotize you.”
Mr. Morris jumped back in alarm. “Hypnotize me?! Confound you!”
“Shut it, kid. It’s a normal procedure… at least in my sessions. But to find the answers to the questions I have asked, you must submit to me hypnotizing you.”
“Well, I feel awfully suspicious of all this hocus pocus.” Morris rubbed his arms. “Will I feel anything?”
“No; not a thing. Here, take this drink.” Morris accepted the drink and downed it. Then he felt sleepy. “Hey, what is this stuff?”
“I drugged it.”
“What?! And you didn’t feel the need to tell me?”
“I assumed you would put two and two together. It’s how I hypnotize my patients.”
“Don’t you have to… have to use a… a watch?”
His speech had begun to slur.
“No; I don’t got those skills. Now you may lie down on the futon.”
Mr. Morris complied, and a few seconds later, he fell fast asleep. Dr. Marrow lifted his eyelids to check for any signs of consciousness, then opened his folder and began to ask him questions.
“Mr. Morris, you will answer the questions I ask you. Now repeat that to me.”
“Mr. Morris, you will answer the questions I ask you.”
“Hmph. Got a cocky attitude even when subconscious, eh? You will now give me some answers. Alright, you beached whale. Tell me. Why is the sky red in your dream?”
“The sky is littered with blood particles.”
“That’s impossible. But I guess it’s a dream.”
“It is possible; it is a reality. The zombies’ blood works not as a liquid.”
“Ugh. Too much information in these dreams. Alright, then; why are zombies attacking?”
“Because they want to eat us.”
“Look, I’m about to smack you. What are they doing there?”
“They are trying to eat us.”
“I’m getting nowhere with this. Okay. Alright. Fine. Why did you shoot your own sandbag? Do the zombies have guns?”
“Anti-war demonstrators wanted to make peace with the zombies. They wanted to hinder the war.”
“So a bunch of hippies shot your sandbags. What happened?”
“They were eaten.”
“Hmph. Figures. I never really liked hippies. I don’t like motorcycle gangs, either, but I’m not going to be the one to tell them that. But why do you even have sandbags?”
“To strengthen the barrier that divides us and the starving dead.”
“ So who is your dream wife?”
“My wife is named Lolita. She is my wife. She is good.”
“Do you know why you are dreaming these things?”
“I have these dreams regularly. I do not know their origin.”
“Can you tell me anything else?”
“I can tell you anything else.”
“Then do so.” There was silence. “Okay, fine. What country are you in? In your dream, I mean.”
“I live in Lunderon. I serve Lunderon.”
“Where is Lunderon, might I ask?”
“It is where I live.”
“Yeah, I know; you just said that. But – okay, let me rephrase this. What country is it next to?”
“There is no neighboring country.”
“So then you’re on an island?”
“No.”
“Then what surrounds it?”
“Zombies.”
“Alright. Okay. This is all just a fantasy. Right?”
There was no response. Dr. Marrow looked at his silver watch, then said, “Well, this is getting nowhere. Alright, you may leave your hypnotized state.” And he snapped.
Mr. Morris jumped up, rubbed his head, then checked his wallet. After a brief moment of addlepated staring, he looked up and asked, “What did I say?”
“Not much,” said Dr. Marrow, looking at his scanty notes with a curious eye. “To be honest, you’re just as smart hypnotized as you are conscious.”
“Then why the absence of information?”
“Look, Mr. Morris, all I got out of you was that you lived in Lunderon, some stupid fantasy land, and your country was surrounded by zombies. That’s all I know. Oh, and your wife’s name is Lolita.”
“Oh, yeah… that’s right.” He paused deliberately, then said, “I might have an idea of what this means.”
“Well, wise guy, if you know what this means, why’d you come to me?”
“To see if there was any other explanation. Now, earlier this week, I went to a psychic, and she said – .”
“A psychic?! You went to a psychic before seeing me, a trained professional?”
“Well, I have to be open to all possibilities; and besides, psychiatry isn’t really an actual science. You know?”
After a well-earned glare, Mr. Morris continued talking about his supernatural session. “She looked at my hands and felt my energy and said that I am a prophet, and my dreams are a vision of the near future.”
“I don’t see this happening in the near future.”
“Yeah, well, you never do. Maybe there will be a zombie uprising – .”
“Zombies aren’t real.”
“Nukes once weren’t.”
“It’s not the same thing though!”
“Never say never.”
“I didn’t!”
“Well, close enough. Any who, maybe the zombies will kill a lot of people, and we will all band together in one population to fight them off, and I’m a soldier of that war.”
“Or maybe you’re just having crazy dreams. You don’t do drugs, do you?”
“Would that effect anything? Eh, it doesn’t matter. I don’t do drugs. So what’s your diagnosis? Inexplicable or prophecy?”
“Stupidity. You’re not even listening to me.”
“There’s nothing to listen to. I’m a prophet; that’s all there is to it. Boy, am I gonna need that gun I bought last week.”
“Well, don’t build your doomsday bunker too soon.”
“Only fools don’t prepare.”
“Well, since it’s the end of the world, may I have your wallet?” Mr. Morris glanced at his wallet, then shook his head. Sighing, Dr. Marrow replied, “Even at the end of the world, a man will not be parted with his money.”
“Look, I already paid you, alright? Now what do you say?”
“I think your dreams are the result of you running away from something; something that you’re afraid of but have to accomplish.”
“No, that’s not it. I think I’ll trust the experts on this one. Thanks for your opinion though.” And with that, Mr. Morris got up and left Dr. Marrow’s office.
*****
Mr. Morris woke up, all stiff and tired, and saw that it was still dark out. There were loud noises outside his humble abode, but he was used to that by now. It was his shift, and so he crawled out of bed, slipped into his jacket, and looked fondly at his sleeping wife Lolita. Then he grabbed his shot gun and headed out the door.
There were little fires in the potholes along the street, due to the use of dynamite, and groups of soldiers walked briskly along the streets, not caring to have their feet scorched. Loud grumbling could be heard in the distance, and Mr. Morris assumed it was the zombies waiting outside the walls. He hurried into the sandier districts of Lunderon, then met his pal Lumage over at the wall.
“How is it?” asked Mrs. Morris, upset that he might have to fight the zombies at this hour of the night. The sky was a deep maroon, and there was a cruel, cold wind sweeping the streets. Morris hugged his jacket closer to his skin.
“I don’t know,” said Lumage, replying to his question. “They’re not doing anything yet. Did you dream again last night?”
“It’s still night,” Mr. Morris replied. “But yes; I did dream.”
“Same type?”
“Yes; same type. I was going to a psychiatrist in the dream. It was weird. I was telling him about my life – my real life – and then he drugged me.”
“Well, you know dreams. They’re always weird.”
“Yeah, I know, but I keep dreaming of this life. I’m starting to think something’s wrong with me.”
“Don’t think like that. Everyone here is a little messed up. You just want a better life, so you dreamed of one. That’s all.”
“Yeah,” admitted Mr. Morris, dejected, still thinking about his odd dream of him at the doctors. Why he kept dreaming this, he had no idea, but it must be important, or else he wouldn’t dream it every other day.
“Well, obviously, I haven’t been too good, or else I wouldn’t be seeing a psychiatrist.” Mr. Henry Morris sat himself wearily on the futon, as the psychiatrist, Dr. Marrow, wrote something insidious on a file sandwiched in a manila folder.
Dr. Marrow then raised his thick glasses to the bridge of his large nose, and gave Morris a hard stare. Most psychiatrists were all soft and likeable, but Dr. Marrow was known for scaring his patients.
However, Mr. Morris hardly seemed afraid – in fact, he looked agitated, and seemed to want to leave in a hurry. And indeed, that was exactly correct, as substantiated by Mr. Morris.
“I’m in a hurry,” he said, “So I kinda want your professional opinion quick.”
“Oh, you’re in a rush. Is that so?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you can get up and go right now. Otherwise, I will not be rushed.”
“But I need to be free at five o’clock! I have a date!”
“Then why the hell did you schedule an appointment at four?”
“Well, I – .”
“No. You will stay for the session. If you have a problem, let me deal with it in my own fashion.”
“Then it looks like I got two problems,” said Mr. Morris, settling down into the futon.
“Then let’s get started.” Dr. Marrow stared out the window in his place of work to calm himself down, and Mr. Morris told him his problem.
“I’m a sane man,” he said, staring at the psychiatrist intently, “but as of late, I’m having insane dreams.”
“Then stop eating cheese before bed.”
“No! No, it’s not that! It’s the same dream over and over again.”
“The same exact dream?”
“Well… the same type of dream.”
“And what type is that?”
“Well… scary. Sort of.”
“Oh. So a nightmare? That’s what we call a scary dream.”
“Well… No. No, not a nightmare. Some of it is. But other parts are like, oh, I don’t know, waking up with someone you don’t know, or walking through a strange room that you don’t recall but know for a fact is your home. Things like that. Not nightmarish; just… scary.”
“Well. Tell me the dream.”
“Dreams,” corrected Morris.
“Go on. Tell me. You said you’re in a hurry.”
“Yeah. Right.” Mr. Morris looked up at the ceiling, lying back, and said, “Oh, where do I start?”
“From the beginning.”
“But that’s just the thing! I don’t know when the beginning is! They’ve all merged into one consciousness; one dream. But I know I’ve been dreaming this for the last two years. And you see, that’s what’s so scary about it. I sometimes forget that my dreams are just dreams, and at night, I lock all my doors and keep all the lights on just so they can’t catch me. I even bought a gun!”
“Who’s they? Never mind; I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough. Tell me, what is it that you dream?”
“Well, I dream that I’m some sort of soldier, and I’m fighting in a war.”
“Okay; I’ve seen that before. You must have something unaddressed in your life. Or maybe you subconsciously want to join the Navy.”
“I don’t think so. Because in my dream, I’m fighting in some sort of desert – .”
“The Middle East?”
“No; it’s like a small Italian village, but the sand comes from ripped up sandbags. The sky is red, and the weather cold.”
“You mean temperature. So who are you fighting?”
“You mean what,” corrected Mr. Morris. Then he turned and layer himself down across the futon.
“Don’t lie down on that. Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
“Then what is this couch for?!” exclaimed Mr. Morris, sitting up on the futon angrily.
“It’s for whatever I want it to be for. Now, tell me, what were you fighting?”
“Zombies.”
“Of course.”
“Decaying zombies. Moaning, groaning zombies. Zombies all around, trying to eat us, trying to get into our village. It’s horrible.”
“Alright. So you’re fighting off zombies in a messy sand hill. Is that it? Because that might just be fantasizing about something other than your boring life.”
Morris shook his head. “It’s not fantasizing. It’s horrible, and I’ve never liked stuff like this. Plus, I’m just another face in the crowd. I’m no outstanding hero or anything. I fire my gun and hit nothing.”
“I see. Well, is that all?”
“What? Oh, no. Not at all. I sometimes dream that I’m just lying down in a metal bunker, or patrolling at night. Nothing happens then. I almost fall asleep in my dream, it’s so boring! But in this dream land of mine, I’m married to a stranger lady. Her name’s something along the lines of Loota, or Lemands, or something.”
“Now those are some pretty stupid names. Care to explain how you’ve come up with them?”
“I – I don’t know. I just know that her name sounds like that.”
“Well maybe it’s Lily.”
“No, it’s not Lily.”
“Well, that sounds a lot more like a name than all the other gibberish you just gave me.”
“Well, it’s not, okay? Anyway, I hate the place, but keep dreaming I’m in it.”
“So, let me make sure I have this all down. You are a soldier in a village fighting off zombies, and are married to someone named Loota. Correct?”
“Yes; I believe so.”
“Well, that does indeed sound like a nightmare to me.”
“Well, I know I hate it, that’s for sure. Now can you explain to me what all this means?”
“Hmmm… did you eat any cheese before you went to bed?”
“No!”
“Does any of this feel familiar in your real life?”
“No. I’ve never seen any zombies.”
“And I’m sure you’ve never seen any other women. Well, to me, it sounds like you can’t recall a great deal of detail. Why is the sky red? Why are zombies attacking? Who shot the holes in the sandbags? Why is your dream wife’s name so stupid? Do you have any answers for the said questions?”
“Ah…. None.”
“Hmph. Well, I’m afraid I’ll have to hypnotize you.”
Mr. Morris jumped back in alarm. “Hypnotize me?! Confound you!”
“Shut it, kid. It’s a normal procedure… at least in my sessions. But to find the answers to the questions I have asked, you must submit to me hypnotizing you.”
“Well, I feel awfully suspicious of all this hocus pocus.” Morris rubbed his arms. “Will I feel anything?”
“No; not a thing. Here, take this drink.” Morris accepted the drink and downed it. Then he felt sleepy. “Hey, what is this stuff?”
“I drugged it.”
“What?! And you didn’t feel the need to tell me?”
“I assumed you would put two and two together. It’s how I hypnotize my patients.”
“Don’t you have to… have to use a… a watch?”
His speech had begun to slur.
“No; I don’t got those skills. Now you may lie down on the futon.”
Mr. Morris complied, and a few seconds later, he fell fast asleep. Dr. Marrow lifted his eyelids to check for any signs of consciousness, then opened his folder and began to ask him questions.
“Mr. Morris, you will answer the questions I ask you. Now repeat that to me.”
“Mr. Morris, you will answer the questions I ask you.”
“Hmph. Got a cocky attitude even when subconscious, eh? You will now give me some answers. Alright, you beached whale. Tell me. Why is the sky red in your dream?”
“The sky is littered with blood particles.”
“That’s impossible. But I guess it’s a dream.”
“It is possible; it is a reality. The zombies’ blood works not as a liquid.”
“Ugh. Too much information in these dreams. Alright, then; why are zombies attacking?”
“Because they want to eat us.”
“Look, I’m about to smack you. What are they doing there?”
“They are trying to eat us.”
“I’m getting nowhere with this. Okay. Alright. Fine. Why did you shoot your own sandbag? Do the zombies have guns?”
“Anti-war demonstrators wanted to make peace with the zombies. They wanted to hinder the war.”
“So a bunch of hippies shot your sandbags. What happened?”
“They were eaten.”
“Hmph. Figures. I never really liked hippies. I don’t like motorcycle gangs, either, but I’m not going to be the one to tell them that. But why do you even have sandbags?”
“To strengthen the barrier that divides us and the starving dead.”
“ So who is your dream wife?”
“My wife is named Lolita. She is my wife. She is good.”
“Do you know why you are dreaming these things?”
“I have these dreams regularly. I do not know their origin.”
“Can you tell me anything else?”
“I can tell you anything else.”
“Then do so.” There was silence. “Okay, fine. What country are you in? In your dream, I mean.”
“I live in Lunderon. I serve Lunderon.”
“Where is Lunderon, might I ask?”
“It is where I live.”
“Yeah, I know; you just said that. But – okay, let me rephrase this. What country is it next to?”
“There is no neighboring country.”
“So then you’re on an island?”
“No.”
“Then what surrounds it?”
“Zombies.”
“Alright. Okay. This is all just a fantasy. Right?”
There was no response. Dr. Marrow looked at his silver watch, then said, “Well, this is getting nowhere. Alright, you may leave your hypnotized state.” And he snapped.
Mr. Morris jumped up, rubbed his head, then checked his wallet. After a brief moment of addlepated staring, he looked up and asked, “What did I say?”
“Not much,” said Dr. Marrow, looking at his scanty notes with a curious eye. “To be honest, you’re just as smart hypnotized as you are conscious.”
“Then why the absence of information?”
“Look, Mr. Morris, all I got out of you was that you lived in Lunderon, some stupid fantasy land, and your country was surrounded by zombies. That’s all I know. Oh, and your wife’s name is Lolita.”
“Oh, yeah… that’s right.” He paused deliberately, then said, “I might have an idea of what this means.”
“Well, wise guy, if you know what this means, why’d you come to me?”
“To see if there was any other explanation. Now, earlier this week, I went to a psychic, and she said – .”
“A psychic?! You went to a psychic before seeing me, a trained professional?”
“Well, I have to be open to all possibilities; and besides, psychiatry isn’t really an actual science. You know?”
After a well-earned glare, Mr. Morris continued talking about his supernatural session. “She looked at my hands and felt my energy and said that I am a prophet, and my dreams are a vision of the near future.”
“I don’t see this happening in the near future.”
“Yeah, well, you never do. Maybe there will be a zombie uprising – .”
“Zombies aren’t real.”
“Nukes once weren’t.”
“It’s not the same thing though!”
“Never say never.”
“I didn’t!”
“Well, close enough. Any who, maybe the zombies will kill a lot of people, and we will all band together in one population to fight them off, and I’m a soldier of that war.”
“Or maybe you’re just having crazy dreams. You don’t do drugs, do you?”
“Would that effect anything? Eh, it doesn’t matter. I don’t do drugs. So what’s your diagnosis? Inexplicable or prophecy?”
“Stupidity. You’re not even listening to me.”
“There’s nothing to listen to. I’m a prophet; that’s all there is to it. Boy, am I gonna need that gun I bought last week.”
“Well, don’t build your doomsday bunker too soon.”
“Only fools don’t prepare.”
“Well, since it’s the end of the world, may I have your wallet?” Mr. Morris glanced at his wallet, then shook his head. Sighing, Dr. Marrow replied, “Even at the end of the world, a man will not be parted with his money.”
“Look, I already paid you, alright? Now what do you say?”
“I think your dreams are the result of you running away from something; something that you’re afraid of but have to accomplish.”
“No, that’s not it. I think I’ll trust the experts on this one. Thanks for your opinion though.” And with that, Mr. Morris got up and left Dr. Marrow’s office.
*****
Mr. Morris woke up, all stiff and tired, and saw that it was still dark out. There were loud noises outside his humble abode, but he was used to that by now. It was his shift, and so he crawled out of bed, slipped into his jacket, and looked fondly at his sleeping wife Lolita. Then he grabbed his shot gun and headed out the door.
There were little fires in the potholes along the street, due to the use of dynamite, and groups of soldiers walked briskly along the streets, not caring to have their feet scorched. Loud grumbling could be heard in the distance, and Mr. Morris assumed it was the zombies waiting outside the walls. He hurried into the sandier districts of Lunderon, then met his pal Lumage over at the wall.
“How is it?” asked Mrs. Morris, upset that he might have to fight the zombies at this hour of the night. The sky was a deep maroon, and there was a cruel, cold wind sweeping the streets. Morris hugged his jacket closer to his skin.
“I don’t know,” said Lumage, replying to his question. “They’re not doing anything yet. Did you dream again last night?”
“It’s still night,” Mr. Morris replied. “But yes; I did dream.”
“Same type?”
“Yes; same type. I was going to a psychiatrist in the dream. It was weird. I was telling him about my life – my real life – and then he drugged me.”
“Well, you know dreams. They’re always weird.”
“Yeah, I know, but I keep dreaming of this life. I’m starting to think something’s wrong with me.”
“Don’t think like that. Everyone here is a little messed up. You just want a better life, so you dreamed of one. That’s all.”
“Yeah,” admitted Mr. Morris, dejected, still thinking about his odd dream of him at the doctors. Why he kept dreaming this, he had no idea, but it must be important, or else he wouldn’t dream it every other day.
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