Standing right in front of him was Robert Bloom. He did not have the surrealistic almost comical figure of the other people Glen had seen popping up around the graveyard, and he was standing nearby rather than behind some headstone. He was dressed in the dark suit that was his usual courtroom attire as shown in the newspaper photos.
Although in dreams time is a difficult if not impossible thing to gauge, it seemed to Glen that he kept his face pressed firmly down into the moist soil for at least 15 minutes. Finally, he lifted his head to face what was in front of him. Bloom stood where he had before Glen buried his eyes. The killer was emotionless as well as motionless. After a moment, he shuffled closer to Glen and extended his hand as if to assist him in standing. Instead of taking the hand, the teacher pushed backward away from it. While still on his hands and knees, he turned to scurry away from the still extended hand attached to the serial killer of nine people. To anyone witnessing the strange scene, it would have appeared very similar to that of a fearful puppy about to be swatted with a newspaper by his master. In his dream as well as in his living room, Glen let out a series of whimpers and whines. This vignette continued with Glen scurrying away and the figure following until Bloom spoke in a loud, commanding voice.
“Okay, playtime is over.” He froze out of both shock and fear at the sound of Robert Bloom’s voice with its slight European accent. “Now sit still and listen to what I have to say.” The assertiveness of a teacher’s voice was easily recognized in his words. Glen turned to face Bloom.
As the two made eye contact, Robert Bloom said, “You are going to assist me in my final lesson.”
Before these words had had a chance to entirely sink into Glen’s mind, the telephone’s ring yanked him from the graveyard of his dream. He saw the empty glass was now on the floor next to the couch. The television was showing animation of some children playing in a schoolyard. The telephone rang again, and Glen tried to shake the gauze of his dream from his aching head. He stood slowly and moved to the kitchen to answer the call. The clock on the oven showed 12:40. The phone was on the far end of the counter. He answered it just as it began to ring once again.
Bloom’s Desk by Jeffrey Littorno is available at
http://amzn.to/1rF5pYG
Surviving When the Dead Have Risen Page 11