Other people’s dreams are boring, I know, but last night I had one of the most terrifying nightmares I have ever experienced.
I have a tendency towards vivid, coherent, realistic dreams, and once had one so complete that I turned it into a short story with barely any embellishment.
This one would also make a good short story.
I often dream of living in other houses, and also of water coming through the ceiling – this particular dream combines both.
I’m living in a big old house and my bedroom has two double beds with white sheets. The ceiling slopes down towards the windows, and in this slope, cracks have appeared, through which water is dripping. Luckily my neighbour Keith is big on DIY so I have invited him in to assess the damage and what needs to be done. Keith is a bit of a know-all, an inveterate mansplainer, but a good bloke at heart and has helped me sort out various things around the house over the years.
I leave him to look at the cracks whilst I go downstairs to make a cup of tea for us both. When I get back to the bedroom, he is grinning smugly at me.
‘So what’s the damage?’ I say glumly as I sip my tea.
‘We’ll get to that,’ he says, taking the mug and putting it down on the dresser without sampling the contents. ‘You’re not very observant, are you?’
‘What do you mean?’
He points at the tall-backed chair that sits between the two double beds. ‘That chair there is really three chairs!’
I know this – it’s three chairs stacked cleverly together that can be separated out into three chairs of different sizes. ‘I am aware of that,’ I say drily.
Keith frowns. ‘Well, I doubt you are aware of this.’ So saying he heaves one of the beds to one side, to reveal, on the floor below, that the carpet has been cut away to reveal the bare boards beneath. And what looks like a trapdoor.
My mouth goes dry. ‘No. I did not know that was there.’
Keith grunts as he bends down. ‘Want to see?’
Before I can answer he is already prising it open with his penknife. I get down beside him. The trapdoor opens with a protesting creak to reveal a dark space. As Keith gets out his pen-torch I notice a strange smell, like pickled onions. I suddenly want to slam the door and get out but something stops me. Keith leans into the hole and flashes his torch around. ‘Well well well!’
‘Let me see.’ I squeeze up beside him and look down. The first thing I see is the carpet – a swirly orange and brown design that looks like something from the 1970s. This forms the floor of a narrow corridor, that leads back into the house and disappears round a corner. This corridor is only three feet deep, and its walls are decorated with faded pink wallpaper with a pattern of yellow and blue flowers, that clashes horribly with the carpet.
Keith’s torch beam reveals that the corridor extends a few metres, then makes a right turn. The smell of pickled onions becomes even stronger.
I envisage a network of such corridors running all through the house, unseen and unknown until now. All this time, a secret world below me. I shudder.
Then I hear it. At first, a sound like a cat’s claws on a scratching post. Then a rhythmic grunting, like something struggling to breathe. It’s getting louder. Whatever is making it is getting nearer.
‘What the hell’s that?’ whispers Keith. He trains the torch beam at the point where the corridor turns the corner. I fancy I can see shadows.
I can’t move. I don’t want to see, but I can’t move. The scrabbling, the grunting, gets louder and louder.
And then, round the corner –
I wake up screaming MUUUM! MUUUM! and have to keep the light on for the rest of the night.