The Beast Returns

I'm at the river again. The cool current of brown water rushes over my hands gently as I dip a rusted bucket down into the water. Across the water, the bank is steep and crumbling, the grass growing right up to the edge. The trees dance in the wind and the mountains loom over me.

It's bright out, but clouded over still with gray and silver shapes blocking the sun. Teal and white pebbles sparkle under the current, calling my name. My feet sink into the sand. Bird song fills the air. Curtis is behind me at camp, talking to our friends. The bucket is almost full when I move to rise.

Rippling from the water, a beast emerges, unfolding itself. Its hands, slender fingers with claws, seize my wrists and pull be closer. It rises from the water, a bleak form made of driftwood bones and decaying flesh adorned with teeth and fur. It is massive, hunched, and deerlike. But it has claws and bear teeth. Its hot grip holds me fast. The mud sucks at my boots.

I drop the bucket and yank to free myself. The beast growls, low and guttural. Its teeth drip with water. I struggle.

"It's okay, it's okay."

There are arms around me. It's dark. I'm in my bedroom. I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't think clearly. I heard the beast. I heard him. He's in the room with us.

I struggle for a moment more then strangle out, "Why would you make that sound?"

The growl that was so real, surely it came from the real world. My husband or something else made that sound and it entered my dreams. Turned the dream bad. While my mind has woke up, my logic has not. It sleeps somewhere deep in my mind.

"What sound?" Curtis asks.

"The growl." I'm breathing heavy, panting. I'm unable to calm myself. My eyes feel wet.

"I didn't," Curtis soothes. "It was a dream. It's okay, it's okay."

He holds me and I press into his shoulder, still feeling confused and unsure. Finally, I realize the growl can't be real. The beast can't be in the room with us. He's not standing in the corner, waiting to pounce. The house and night is calm, except for me. So, I settle back to sleep, held close in his arms. But the dreams are not over.

There's fire. Lots of fire, dancing around and behind me, but not close enough to burn. It must be torches to match the old houses. I've been accused, wrongly accused. Swamp birds rise in shrill screams. There are men, possession in their eyes, tying a noose around my neck. I'm at the gallows, weeping, crying, searching for a way out. A ghost of a women looms behind the men, jeering at me. Her black eyes are empty, and her smile cruel. She wears a black and white Victorian gown.

The rope is scratchy on my throat. It pulls tight. I drop and swing. My hands rush up and I claw at the rope. I can't breathe, but maybe I can work my fingers under. My neck didn't snap. I have minutes, seconds, before it's too late. I press the backs of my fingers tightly into my neck and push my fingertips up against the thick rope, trying to work them under it. I can't breathe. My neck burns. My fingers are so week. I work a couple under and began to tug the rope away, try to loosen it. But, I'm going to fail.

I gasp, awake in bed. My hands are scratching at my throat. I still can't move, as if I am trapped in the dream. I hear the creak of the rope I'm hanging from and look up. The women is there, holding me tight in the rope, looming over my bed. I blink. She's gone, and I'm free. I gasp.

I sit there for a moment, reminding myself it was a dream as my heart thunders in my ears. I did not awake my husband this time, and I do not move to. I snuggle down into my pillow and search for pleasant thoughts. It's been a while since I awoke still in my dreams, and it's jarring and unsettling. The longer I sit, the more reality seeps in, and eventually I am alright again. I calm back down, snuggle deeper into the blanket, and wait for the morning to come.