by Taylor Kole
Marci answered with equal enthusiasm, “One of my favorites involved the chemist, Kekule, who claimed an angel came to him in a dream and revealed the Benzene ring. Amazing. Of course, today we know it wasn’t a devil or angel. These were subconscious communications interpreted as divine inspiration.”
“A non-believer,” Corey half-said, half-chuckled, to soften any potential bite Marci’s dismissal might have caused. Even in this age of pity for the wicked, and outrage at those who promoted order and asked to keep what they’d earned, blasphemy still offended a healthy percentage of the populace.
“I’m guessing the Benzene ring was a positive for humanity?” Walt said. “Then there was Rene Descartes, Alexander the Great, Charles Dickens, Salvador Dali, Anne Rice; all guided by their dreams to impact the world. That’s what I’d like to do. I’d like to use my dreams to uncover my purpose.”
Corey and Marci shared a look. Corey, whose job it was to keep them inside of the dream, saw no way to intuit a grand life plan. To kill some of his surprise, he said, “Before hearing that, I would have thought we could field any request.”
“And it isn’t that we can’t,” Marci added. “It’s only we’ve never considered anything so… non-specific.”
“Guiding the subconscious,” Walt said. “That’s the schtick here, right?”
Marci shrugged. “Given a few seconds for the idea to digest, I think it's doable.”
“Great, because that’s what I’m after, a kick to the groin of my subconscious. I feel like I’ve tiptoed around greatness my entire life.”
“We’ll do our best,” Corey said.
“We will definitely show you something grand,” Marci added.
Kendra and Cooper, Walt’s bodyguard, resisted the idea of leaving the suite for the duration of the Ride, but finally agreed. Once they left, Walt changed into pajamas and they entered the master suite. Marci administered the sleep agent.
Corey was so lost in his mind, he didn’t hear Marci calling his name until she snapped her fingers in front of his face.
“What?” Corey said before turning his head and meeting his wife’s gaze.
“What’s going on in your head?” Marci said.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Yeah, like deep Buddhist nothingness.”
“Well, get in the game.”
They moved the equipment out of the way. Instead of assuming position on her side of the bed, Marci dropped to her knees and crawled around the perimeter of the bed, tracing her fingers under its edge. She then inspected the nightstand, ran her fingers along the art, lifted and squeezed the folded clothes atop the dresser.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking for spy cams.”
“Good thinking.” He peered at the overhead light, which looked like an exploded star of glass; two dozen pointed stilettos gave dazzle to a normally routine amenity. Something about art calmed the soul. Knowing someone put that much of themselves into aesthetics justified art’s cost.
“This guy could have professional lenses hidden in anything,” Marci said. “We’re going to have to build some blinders we can take with us. Maybe check the internet for something that jams video signals.”
Five scrutinizing minutes later they declared the room free of spy gadgets and assumed their positions to either side of Walt.
Corey scanned the sleeping man atop the covers. He wore a two-piece pajama outfit, but Corey focused on the man’s sky blue socks. “He wanted to keep his socks on?”
“He said cashmere socks are more comfortable than air.”
Corey frowned. Marci shrugged. Considering their assignment, he asked, “Do you think we can do what he wants?”
“Sure. I plan to treat it like Janey and Mr. Labarge’s Rides. He’ll set the coordinates and I’ll steer him there. My advice for you: don’t get distracted by content. Uncovering the root desires of a rich, powerful man who suffers from night terrors might be… disturbing.” She leaned forward and held Walt’s wrist, his ankle above the socks, and bowed her head.
Corey grabbed the other wrist and ankle—cashmere was soft. That lifted his spirits, but they quickly dipped when he remembered they might experience a secondhand night terror.
They came-to in a grassy field at midday. Marci stood in front of a stone lectern. Corey’s balcony massive branch attached to a prehistoric-size tree complete with a knotted vine railing. The breeze was stronger in Walt’s dream. The emotional particles were more easily detected.
When they entered dreams, Corey could feel the dream’s resistance to them. A gentle pushing sensation as if asking them to leave. Once Corey “gripped” the dream’s dome, the resistance lessened.
Just for experimentation, Corey had loosened his grip on occasion in Janey’s dream and always felt the resistance push back. That force gained power as the dream progressed, but Corey could block the dreamers wish to wake up and keep them inside the dream.
The emotional winds in Mr. Labarge’s southern dirt road ushered sensations of peace, and the oneness of nature.
Walt Zimbardo’s habitat slanted toward the emotions of self-grandeur, dominance, and power. Apparently the persona Walt displayed in the hotel room was a front. These were not the emotions of a happy and content person.
With the dream version of sight—certainty of movement without visual confirmation—Marci turned to her husband. Her appreciation of their talents overrode the latent selfish vibe. He smiled at his wife. This was pretty damn cool.
By focusing on Walt’s arrival, Corey shared in the man’s reverence at this dream’s clarity.
Within seconds, or minutes—for dream time varied greatly from perceptual time—the ephemeral backdrop of the dream pulsed from a shaded infinity into a stone amphitheater. Walt stood at its head before a grotto illuminated by a midday sun. Roman diplomats and Senate members crowded the expanse. The area had been dubbed a Pantheon and everyone in attendance longed for a glimpse of Walt, or at least a whisper of his words.
Contrasting his subjects, Walt wore a trim black suit, buttoned around a tight frame. The toga-clad audience was all Asian, which added to the queerness often conjoined with dreams. Not that Asians didn’t throw the best toga parties; Corey simply hadn’t expected a uniform race.
The dream jumped to a cow pasture. Walt wore the same suit, yet stood surrounded by hundreds of African statesmen dressed in colorful dashikis. All were bunched in close to Walt, smiles glued in place, hands elevated as if to get a touch of him. Everyone laughed in unison when Walt spoke. They stayed in this setting long enough for Walt to absorb the praise before a dream hop, and then another, and another.
Varying crowds, different settings, same theme: worshiping Walt’s undefined success. The atmosphere reeked of arrogance, but it was presented with so much confidence, even Corey felt honored to be here, witnessing Walt’s amazement.
Corey always looked forward to losing himself in a dream. Even this egotistical one delivered a sense of wonder, but something was distracting him. A fog rolled in around his balcony. He checked Marci and saw no fog, but it continued overtaking the bottom of his branch.
He remembered Marci’s advice about ignoring distractions. Without him holding the dream together, it ended. He wanted to obey, but steering dreams kept Marci occupied.
A sense of foreboding leaked into the breeze. It added a cold humidity to the air. Corey’s hand trembled. He’d never been cold in a dream before.
He returned his attention to the dream, and tried to calm his mind, and focus on the service they were providing.
They didn’t need a dissatisfied customer this early in their venture.
He sensed Marci’s interest in the alteration, meaning she sensed it as well. As expected, Walt was oblivious to the changes, which were growing more ominous.
Corey saw movement on his balcony. A swirl formed in the mist. An outline continued to define until a person stood on his balcony, facing him. Corey had considered this space his al
one, even sacred. Seeing it violated was worse than coming home to find a stranger in the living room.
Fearing any movement would betray his position, Corey remained rigid, but the Being knew Corey was there. It turned and studied Marci.
The Being was hairless, sexless, and the color of mucus. Its body was ribbed as if stripped of skin and left coated in muscle. Slow moving sanguine whorls as round as baseballs traveled across its flesh. Its legs lacked the definition of knees and calves. They were two cylindrical limbs that ended in dream mist. The arms were more classical. Although as round as his, they possessed strength enough to yank Corey’s bone from his socket. The Being’s hands ended in vicious, jaundice colored claws. Seeing it there, Corey felt what an astronaut in deep space might feel when he saw his tether snap.
Corey felt Marci peer upward, and add her own shock and revulsion to the wind. She quickly returned her focus to Walt’s dream, which from the corner of his Corey’s eye, leapt to another setting: a park with women standing in business suits, horses mounted by famous actors, all eager to hear from their hero, Walt Zimbardo.
Disregarding the happily flowing ego ride, Corey adjusted his grip on their world and sought out the Being, who still watched Marci. What did it see in her? What was it thinking?
Corey first thought he was looking at an extra-terrestrial. An ancient Being, that, unable to cross the infinite cosmos through conventional means, identified a way to travel into the human mind, and became trapped. Perhaps, after years, even decades, of failing to communicate with its host, it now emitted frustration, which Corey interpreted as evil.
Then it turned toward him and Corey threw that bullshit diagnosis to the wind. Depravity stood before him. Ancient. Hate-filled.
When the Being squared to Corey, the whorls floating across the abominable skin distracted him from its face. When Corey reached that point, his grip on the dream world slipped, but he held on. Polished-ivory eyes double the expected size watched him. The rest of the body was still.
The two orbs studying him drained Corey’s confidence until he reached a sense of self-worth low enough to turn his head from the beast.
A field of flowers, scientists, surgeons on stage. Marci moving her arms; Walt basking in his ride, oblivious to the change.
Gathering the courage to look back, he found the Being waving its bile-yellow hand across its waistline like a game show model, Look what wonders await you behind this dark curtain.
A second later, an old wooden chest materialized between them.
With the lid parted, a sparkling light emanated from the opening. Intuition said an immense knowledge waited among the jewels. Corey only had to lift, and he’d receive revelations of magnitudes previously unknown to man.
As his hand crept forward, everything that constructed him screamed STOP. This creature wanted his destruction, or more accurately, his corruption.
Still, the treasure beckoned. Every gem and gold piece would hold an encyclopedic volume of information so tantalizing he’d be a fool not to touch one. A single coin could reveal the true beginning of existence, perhaps its end; maybe a secret to everlasting love for the world?
A moment to steel his nerves, then he moved his hand closer. This must be what Eve felt when reaching for the forbidden fruit. A light-headed wonder, a fear that this decision would end badly, but the momentary pleasure was too grand to resist. He glanced down, looking for a whisper that he shouldn’t do this. Finding none, he continued.
A familiar sensation paused him inches from his prize. Marci’s essence, detectable through the bond they shared, wedged between his spellbound hand and the jewels. Her intrusion caused the dream to jump, moving the chest one foot to the right. In that brief gap, his senses sharpened, leading him to believe opening that chest would be a catastrophic mistake—regardless of what he learned about the many layers of life.
But Corey was an academic at heart. Just thinking about learning deep life truths brought back his urge to know. Marci had granted him an opportunity to think. If they stayed here, Corey would grab a gem. He stopped himself the only way he could: by relinquishing his grip on the dream. He just hoped they’d exit like he’d predicted.
Corey felt himself slim into a smooth silk sheet, get pinched in the middle and lifted, funneling him toward the waking world.
He popped awake in the hotel.
His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his skin.
Marci gasped, released her grip on Walt, and dragged breaths.
Seeking the glass of water he left near the bed, Corey saw the time was 3:16. With oxygen filling his lungs, blood surging through his veins, and his mind reunited with his living body, the reality that some thing had tried to engage him in… something, sank in.
He shuddered and drank the water so fast he dribbled on his chin and down his chest. Clenching the glass, he leaned back until he met the wall, and slid down until his butt hit the floor.
“What the hell went on up there?” Marci said.
“You saw it.” He dabbed sweat from his brow, “Someone was up there with me.”
“Someone?” she chuckled. Coming around the bed, she added, “Keep your voice down.”
Walt rolled to his side, signifying he’d vacated REM sleep.
According to Marci, her concoction put clients out fast and kept them under for two to three hours. After that, natural sleep kept them in for whatever duration. Walt would now, because of their departure, be in the normal throes of sleep. As long as they stayed respectful, he’d complete his full cycle. Each time the couple exited Janey’s dream, same with Mr. Labarge, the dreamer woke within twenty to forty minutes after them—the time needed to cross the four levels of sleep.
Corey believed the dreamer expelled them so they could complete their sleep cycle. He considered the stages before waking to be the “wipe memory” stage so they woke with their dreams erased.
Wanting Walt asleep so they could talk, and more importantly, leave, Corey lowered his voice. “There was a dark presence up there, Marci. Don’t pretend you didn’t see or feel its evil.”
“I felt the guy’s ego. The dream was turning dark, sure, but only because he was thinking more base thoughts. I warned you about that. It’ll be safe now.” Marci grabbed Walt’s ankle. “Let’s go back.”
Standing, Corey smiled like a mad man. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going back in there. Did you see how close I came… to ruining myself.”
Dropping the ankle, she said, “Hey, the dude’s probably got some sick fantasies or memories. Whatever, I don’t doubt that, but this is the job.”
“The job!” He shook his head a half-dozen times before saying, more to himself, “What the hell was that thing?”
“There was no thing, only some part of Walt’s personality.”
“That was something from another place.”
“Oh my God.” She tucked her abracadabra necklace inside her shirt. “Another place? You need to compose yourself.”
Rather than give her dig attention—because he had lost his senses before—he nodded for them to exit the room. In the main area, with the door sealed, he spoke with more urgency. “That thing wasn’t part of Walt. It hated him. It hated me. It hated you most of all.”
“It could have been anything. Just part of the dream appearing offstage. Forty percent of dreams involve strangers.”
“That wasn’t a stranger!” Corey yelled.
“Keep your voice down.”
A knock followed, turning them toward the main entrance. A second rap, louder. Apparently Kendra had been literal when she said she’d be waiting right outside the room.
“Of course it was a stranger,” Marci said more rushed. “Dreams are wacky. You know this. Janey has talked with pregnant flowers.”
“You’re going to compare that beast to our daughter?” A third knock sent them back into the suite to reposition the speakers. Walt rolled on his side. Corey froze.
A few seconds later, Marci placed a hand on his arm. “Let’s take
some deep breaths. We need to be cool and professional when they come in.”
Meeting her eyes, he pursed his lips, and contained himself from saying, ‘You’d risk all of us to have more money.’ Instead, he followed her advice by breathing in through the nose, and out through the mouth. Think about the immediate— like where to place the speakers—not about evil Beings.
“It was odd,” Marci conceded as she moved their props around to appear as if they’d been used. A more intense series of knocks. The door handle rattled. “Unsettling even, but this is our chance to give our daughter a good life. To experience some of the finer things ourselves.” She nodded to the sleeping man, “He’s our ticket to high-end clients.”
Inspecting the man and contemplating multiple rides, Corey conjured a mucous green Being with ribbed flesh, and swallowed. “I’m not going back in that man’s mind, ever.”
The bangs subsided. “Come on.” She stormed out of the bedroom and into the suite.
At the door, Kendra sniped at someone outside to hurry. Corey tried to settle his racing thoughts.
Instincts told him to barge out the door the moment it cracked open and forget this entire venture. For Marci’s sake, he’d get through the next five minutes. Later, he’d decide if Dream Riding was a gift or a curse. It was definitely their best, perhaps only chance, of climbing out from suffocating debt.
Walt could easily be a multiplier to that end. Corey breathed in through the nose, out through the mouth as Marci unlatched the top door lock. At the same time, someone on the outside turned the lower deadbolt.
“What went wrong?” Kendra stormed toward the room’s master suite. Her speed pulled Marci into her tail, where she apologized about the delay, cited how they thought they heard someone knocking, but hadn’t been certain.
A man from hotel security assessed the situation. Walt’s redheaded bodyguard, Cooper, came at Corey from the peripheral, startling him. He pointed in Corey’s face. “You might as well back up.” Cooper was clean shaven with boyish features, red hair, and green eyes that seemed to carry the fight of the Irish people but none of their merriment.