The Oneironaut

I knew it was a dream the moment I opened my eyes. I almost always do. There’s nothing about the dreamscape that’s strange to me now, but that wasn’t always true. When I was a kid, I had terrible nightmares, the sort you can only escape by waking up—usually screaming. There’s a reason for that, of course. A dark and twisted reason which rational adults refuse to entertain. But then one day I learned how to take control, and I officially became a weaver of Oneiria: The plane of dreams and nightmares. Within it, I no longer have a reason to fear.

It isn’t lucid dreaming… not quite. Though I have toyed around with that at times. However, the danger of lucid dreaming ended my initial experiments. If a dream happens to slip into lucidity, that’s one thing. But I don’t go seeking it anymore. Not since the last time. For there are creatures in Oneiria which aren’t quite real, and aren’t entirely imaginary. Not all of them are friendly. So, I knew it was a dream. Vivid but not quite lucid, with just enough awareness to appreciate the detail and not enough to fall prey to it.

There are certain locations I’ve woven permanently here: My childhood church, my grandmother’s house, the farm I grew up on, the university I studied at... Nice places. Familiar places. Even if they never look quite the same from one dream to the next. They’re all places I’ve felt comfortable, safe; that a part of my soul recognizes as that ever-elusive home. So, when I opened my eyes and found myself in my new house, I was immediately delighted!

Oh, it didn’t look at all like the actual house. Nothing in Oneiria does. Immediately I set out to explore, eager to see what changes were made when it crossed over. It was bigger, of course. Almost everything is bigger here. I don’t think it’s bound by the same laws of physics. Places have room to stretch in Oneiria, to expand as our own awarenesses expand. That’s why nothing ever looks the same twice.

My mother was there, I think, my sister too. They were in another room chattering away. I ignored them because I wanted to impress every feature of my Oneirian house onto my waking mind. And because they weren’t real. Not every person encountered here is, you see. Most of them are shadows, figments that exist only in one’s mind and are reflected here like holograms. They’re usually harmless, mere manifestations of the emotions tied to that person. Sometimes they can even be informative or helpful, but largely they are merely plot devices used to drive events forward.

So, while they went about whatever they were doing, I greedily cataloged every niche and cranny, every variation however minor, contrasting it to my house in the waking world. A part of me twinged with envy at just how nice it was. Outside, the neighborhood was far richer, inside it was much more lavish. It got me thinking about all the improvements I’d like to make in its waking counterpart, and I started a list in my head to remember when I woke up.

Then it changed.

Rarely does Oneiria stay the same for long. It’s hard to hold onto ideas inside it, and I’m aware I’m in the lucky few for how long I can maintain a single cerebration here. But locations are usually exempt from that, or if they change it’s to slowly adapt to a developing scene. It’s not sudden. And it’s not within a single dream session. Yet here I was, still in my house—a different house, yet still… mine.

The shine had faded just as the day had. Outside it was suddenly dark, early evening if I was to guess it. My surroundings were still nice but not as lavish. Not quite as grand. My sister—or rather her figment—was still there, though the figment of my mother was not. There was also a harpy eagle? My sister’s pet apparently, perched on the back of a chair.

It’s the way of Oneiria to know things without knowing why you know them. My sister didn’t have to tell me the eagle was hers for me to recognize that. It’s probably because most dreamscapes are shaped by our own subconscious. Or, maybe it’s just a byproduct of the magic woven into the fabric of Oneiria.

A “friend” of ours was also there, a realtor who has no counterpart in the waking world. I dimly recognized her as a resident of this place. I don’t know much about those that live inside our dreams, though I have many theories. They’re easy enough to spot for you can never quite make out their faces. While I can control many things in Oneiria, I have limited power over them. They are nearly sentient, I think. Perhaps they are other dreamers wandering their own dreamscapes that have intersected with mine. Or maybe they’re like the creatures who haunt the place between the conscious and unconscious, existing here as we exist within the waking world. They’re rarely malicious, though.

This Oneirian who seemed to know me was inspecting my house as a realtor would. For the most part she admired it, commenting briefly on this aesthetic or that element. But as she wandered through the house that seemed so lovely before, flaws appeared to manifest in her wake. I was quite sure they weren’t there before she pointed them out. Cracks formed in walls that were initially smooth and webs grew in corners that were previously clean. Something felt off about her, a niggling worm in the back of my mind whispered caution.

It’s always wise to listen to your gut here. Those instincts were honed through thousands of years of human evolution by the survivors of Oneiria. So I slipped outside to gather my thoughts. But as I passed through what I thought was the front door, I found myself in an inner courtyard instead. It was lushly beautiful, exactly what I once pictured for my perfect house. Stone paths wound through verdant beds, a reflecting pool glinted with moonlight, and covered walkways lined both sides. It lured me in, and as I wandered through, running leafy fronds between my fingers, I reveled that it was mine.

Returning in a daze to my guests, I found the eagle swooping about while they conversed. No one paid me much attention, and I considered revisiting the garden until I noticed my cats entering the room. Animals are different here too. Sometimes they’re like the figments, sometimes they’re simply anxieties manifested, and on some rare occasions they are their actual selves. Cats are most adept at entering Oneiria, of course. Perhaps it’s because they already have one paw in Hell and one in Heaven. Or, maybe it’s just because they spend so much time sleeping. But when they showed up, I knew these were my real cats. I can always tell because they bring their spirit with them—not just their consciousness—when they cross over. Which is, incidentally, exactly what happens when lucid dreaming.

Immediately I stiffened, my eyes going to the eagle on its perch. There was no way for me to tell if this eagle was a harmless figment or a creature of Oneiria. I don’t know if the dreamscape can hurt you when you cross over completely, though my experience with lucid dreaming leads me to believe it can.

“We have to catch it,” I blurted out. Though what we were going to do with it once we had it was another matter. I briefly considered the courtyard and immediately dismissed it. This was my sister’s eagle, after all, and the courtyard had no roof. What if it flew away? What if it got hurt?

The Oneirian scoffed at my concerns. “What difference does it make?” she shrugged. “When you get tired of it, you’re just going to let it go anyway.”

I gaped at her in horror. In real life I’m a wildlife biologist, and I would never introduce an exotic species to the wild.

The house changed again.

Disoriented by the sudden shift, both in location and in time, I blinked in shock. It was day now, the sun high in a bright blue cloudless sky. All around me were figments of childhood friends I haven’t seen for years in the waking world. Here it was as if we’d never parted. The house was closer now to its actuality save for the big backyard that overlooked a ridge and a steep slope. The view opened out over rolling countryside instead of the roofs of my neighbors’ houses, while the yard sheltered a modest swimming pool—a luxury my childhood home possesses that I do not. Perched at the edge of that pool was a canopy gazebo, awkwardly crammed in between a tree house and a water slide.

I seemed to be throwing a party, my guests laughing together with drink cups in hand. Idly, I drifted over to the French doors that were a fine feature of this iteration, and gazed out at the yard. It was absolutely ideal, the perfect place to wile away an afternoon. Except the gazebo. It really didn’t belong where it was.

“Let’s move it,” my once-best-friend suggested.

This seemed a fine idea, and the eight of us made light work of shifting the gazebo to a stone patio built up against my storage shed. Still, something felt off. I frowned as I examined the layout, trying to discern the source of my unease. Staring at the storage shed, I realized it was wrong. It was tan here, with green trim. But I painted it Caribbean blue last year…

The house changed again, startling me out of the haze I’d almost slipped into. Did I think the dream was real?

I had. For a second I had, and anxiety pulsed through me when I recognized the danger of that. For there is no more dangerous a time to wander Oneiria than when your waking mind is present but subdued. That fragment of awareness draws the darker creatures to you, the ones that feed on pain and fear. The ones that fuel nightmares.

I tried to hold onto my awareness as the landscape changed around me, the pattern now terrifyingly familiar. Each cycle of this dream I’m in my house, every time the house is different. And I am never alone. Reality slipped from me, warping into the fantasy of Oneiria while I struggled to break free of the stupor that threatened to pull me under; aware with each passing moment of my fracturing psyche.

Still, I knew it was a dream. And now I knew I must escape.

There are tricks to this which I have learned. One can recruit omens to appear that revive the waking mind much as my storage shed had. I’ve held onto a few over the years, but as I became more adept with my control I’d no longer had the need to depend on them. Subsequently, I lost the skill to invoke them.

One can also entreat the friendlier spirits of Oneiria to assist. Many people do this without thinking. Caught in nightmares, they pray to whichever God or gods they worship. This is a powerful way to escape, but is only truly useful if you retain enough awareness to use it.

Of course, you can always solicit the darker spirits of Oneiria as well. This is the most dangerous way to set your mind free, for if you make a single error you can become its prisoner. I’ve used it only once, and then only by chance because to do so you must know the name of the creature you wish to command. And they guard their names most jealously.

I tried my truest method first, that of simply willing myself to wake. It’s rarely failed me in my maturity, and as I’ve always done, I wrenched myself out of sleep.

I made it halfway, languishing in that paralytic state between. It’s not safe to tarry in the between too long, however, not with the creatures that hunt there. Bit by bit I wrested my mind out of sleep, even as my body remained heavy with it. It’s not always easy to throw off the chains of Oneiria, and stray thoughts can pull you back under if you let them. And it’s certainly not safe to return to a dream that tries to hold you in thrall. So I focused on the dream, replaying the events in my mind’s eye to memorize it, to avoid it in the future.

My mind latched onto a song that had been playing. I vaguely recognized it and tried to recall its name. After several seconds I located the name of the band in my memories, and wanted to hear the song again if for nothing more than to flush it from my mind. I asked my virtual assistant to play something by the band, hoping to get lucky. Of course, I only asked it in my mind, still being half asleep as I was.

The song played.

The song played!

I woke with a jolt. Not to the waking world but to the realization that this wasn’t the waking world. And now the dreamscape reflected my house in its every minutia. I was trapped. I’ve never been trapped in a dream. Not even as a kid. That’s the safeguard built in to protect the living—the ability to wake up. And now I couldn’t.

The house around me changed, skipping time, skipping space, and it was just me and my mother’s figment this time. But no… I don’t believe that anymore. It isn’t my mother. But it also wasn’t a figment. We stood outside the house and I found myself explaining to it that in reality my house is in a suburb, not the rural landscape currently surrounding it.

Again, it changed, as if my acknowledgement of the dream was the trigger that changed it. My mother’s family filled the space now as they had when we got together for the holidays. The house was different too. It still bore the sense of being my house, but it looked more like my grandmother’s. Within Oneiria my grandmother’s house is an unassailable refuge, but this place possessed no such safety.

It’s a trick, I realized. A trap to lull my mind into complaisance.

I was being played with. Toyed with. Something was trying to sedate my awareness. The urge to escape thrilled through me. I passed through the kitchen at a run, looking for a door. If I could just get beyond the house I might break the spell binding me. But when I turned through the door that should lead into the garage, I found myself standing instead in a beautiful second kitchen.

Awe stole over me and I crept forward, running a hand over marble countertops, admiring state-of-the-art appliances. Everything was so shiny, so detailed and dazzling, so much like something I’d pick for myself if money was no object. My mind began to slip back into a daze. The Oneirians masquerading as my family surrounded me as if to lend credence to the illusion.

I resisted.

“No,” I said, “this is a garage.”

“It used to be,” they tried to persuade me. “Your uncle remodeled it.”

I looked at the man they’d indicated. That’s not my uncle. And even if it were, it was the wrong uncle to be remodeling. “No, it is a garage!”

That’s when the dream began to fall apart.

Literally.

“Oh, you did it now,” someone said just as the illusion split. All around, the house began to crumble. Sheets of dry rock flaked away, the beautiful kitchen reverted to a dingy garage. The floor beneath my feet shifted, and I rushed back into the house just as it fissured and fell into a void. Trapped now in the collapsing house, I hurried to escape, dodging beams and debris, leaping over gaping holes in the floor. The very fabric of reality was tearing apart around me.

Suddenly I was outside, standing on solid ground, no sucking black holes or piles of debris to be seen. My mom and dad were there, my siblings too and their kids. Confused, I gazed around, struggling to sort out what was and wasn’t real. We were playing in my backyard, right? I looked down at the ball in my hand. Catch. We’re playing catch. I pivoted to throw the ball to the next person, but when I turned, I saw my tan storage shed on a distant hill with the canopy gazebo beside it. Not real.

I blinked.

This time there was no house. My family was still with me, walking down a rural gravel road which wound through a rustic neighborhood. Several people were puttering about in their yards, and they all seemed nice enough as we walked by. My house, I thought distantly, I have to find the house. But I realized I didn’t know where it was.

Helpless, I kept walking, the others trailing behind me. The further we went, the shabbier the houses around us became. Finally, I flagged down a passing jeep and asked the driver where my address was.

He pointed down another road leading off into the trees, “It’s about a 4-minute drive that way.”

I glanced dubiously the way he’d indicated and tried to calculate what that would be if we walked it.

“I could give you a lift,” he offered.

Looking from the jeep to my family, I knew we wouldn’t all fit. But I still wasn’t sure I’d recognize my house when I saw it, so I asked him to leave something in the yard to let me know which one it was.

What a strange thing to ask for, my mind seemed to whisper. Shouldn’t you know your own house?

I should…

Abruptly I was in my bedroom again, a strange bedroom more reminiscent of what a troubled teen would have than a woman in her thirties. I was lying in my bed with my sister and some strange guy between us watching a TV that’s never existed. This is wrong. I wanted to be awake, to escape, but I couldn’t wake up and I knew now that these weren’t just figments of things I brought with me.

These were the creatures. The ones I’d run from, the ones I’d avoided since my last attempt at lucid dreaming. I’d escaped back then, invoking the name of the dark being that held me in thrall. It had been close. It nearly had me. Only luck, chance, or fate freed me back then.

I knew I wouldn’t be lucky twice.

The creatures turned on me, grinning wickedly around sharp fangs. I tried to flee, but the covers tangled around my ankles and before I could rush free, they’d pinned me down. The girl—not my sister—yanked my arm away from my side and closed her blunted fangs around it… gnawing. The man took my hand and bit into it with needle-like teeth. Pain, as real as any I’ve ever felt, lanced through me and I knew. I knew what these creatures truly were.

Demons.

As clear as if someone had drawn me a map, I saw what had happened. Each cycle of the dream funneled me down, down through the layers of Oneiria, down past where I had control. Down to the very doors of Hell.

That’s when I prayed.

Frantically, I murmured the words, memorized from childhood, repeated by rote in Sunday masses and on countless rosaries. This was why. Why those words were drilled into me from such a young age. Why they were repeated so many thousands of times until they were as natural as breathing. So that here, perched on the brink of damnation, mind fogged by whatever hellfire kept me spellbound, I could chant them without thinking, without needing to consciously form any syllable.

At once I was awake. Wide awake. I lay in my own bed inside my own body, panting and reeling from the reality I’d just escaped. But I escaped! Fates, what a dream that was. And I’ve had my share of fantastic dreams. Like when I was possessed by an angel. Or when I developed hellsight. Or when I received the prophecy of the coming ten-year tribulation a couple years ago.

I should tell my Mom.

She’s better at all this stuff than me. Far wiser, too, and in some ways more closely connected with the spiritual plane than I. Maybe she can make some sense of it, I wondered. Maybe she’ll let me sleep with her too.

Dread, cold and thick, seeped through my veins into the very marrow of my bones.

I live alone.

Bolting upright, I stared in horror at the door as a facsimile of my mother and sister walked in, both wearing outfits of royal blue. I wasn’t out. I wasn’t free.

Trepidation settled into the pit of my stomach. Maybe I had to play along with the farce to get out? The creatures posing as my family entreated me with wide smiles to, “Come on down and join everyone.”

Facing the inevitable, I climbed down off my bed and padded after them. Downstairs, (my waking house has no downstairs) I found a horde of strangers milling around all garbed in that same royal blue. It was a mansion now, still somehow holding the bones of my house. But I was no longer deceived by its opulence.

I stopped an elderly woman as she walked by, “What’s going on?”

“Oh, it’s a wake for a widow.”

I frowned. I might be dead, but I’d never been married.

“She lived next door, but we’re having the wake here because it’s empty,” the old woman helpfully explained. “And it’s not like the person who lived here meant anything anyway.”

Right, that’s it. I’d had enough. Stepping away from the woman, I raised my voice and called them out. “So you’re all demons?” My words echoed from the rafters.

The susurrus of quiet chatter died away and all activity ceased as every pair of eyes turned to me. One person smirked and chuckled, “Well now you know.”

It sounded a lot like checkmate.

For the span of a heartbeat, we just stared at each other: the demons that wanted my soul, and the woman who wasn’t going to let them take it easily. Then they closed on me.

All façade disappeared as they rushed in on bat-like wings, tearing at me with clawed hands and bloody fangs. If I was ever going to escape, this was my final chance. Eyes closed, I pled in three short words, “God save me.”

I had no idea if He could hear me here, if it even mattered anymore. Why else would I be dragged so deep if not because He’d looked away? Yet still I prayed.

Wings—my wings—wings I’ve flown on and fought with many times before in Oneiria, sprang from my shoulder blades. Up I flew, wrestling to escape as the demons tore at me from all sides. Over and again, I prayed those words. Simple words recited in faith or despair. The air around me was thick, too thick to pierce. It felt like I was trying to swim through syrup. I grappled on, wings straining against the effort it took to rise even a few inches.

Suddenly, on the breaking wave of epiphany I plunged through, rising over the demons, rising through the layers of this strange hell, rising past all the cycles of the dreamscape that had funneled me down into the devil’s trap. I surfaced in a stormy sea beneath a brilliant blue sky, but couldn’t break free of the waves. Stretching, I reached desperately toward the asylum of that distant sky.

And woke up.