Posted: Sun Jul 19, 2009 2:23 PM CST
Traumatic heartache
I think this time it's over. I fell in love - so briefly. All the petals have fallen to the floor and they lie there, their dieing veins withering away...
I still see him, still feel those eyes upon me, those glimmering emerald jewels. I walk and I feel his presence about me - if I turned, I might see him there, behind me, trying to catch up.
How is it there is a cord between us still? Some invisible chain just about to break apart? I have not spoken to him in several days, just lingering in silence, held back against my will. Don't contact him, my mind says, and my heart quakes for this, afraid one tug and the cord might be severed forever. Just wait, I'm told, and I suffer the darkness of my pathos mingled with the bruises of jelousy, imagined or real.
Be happy should he move on, I say. This will make the permanence solid and not a ground made of glass; this would be the point of recovery built after the embitterment, crushed ego, and devistation. It would be a gift of selfless love to accept him happy in the arms of another, and it would be poinient, all those hours when the petals were still upon that rose, only falling one by one without my even realizing til there were only a few left. And I clung to them even as they gently fluttered away, escaping my fingers, wafting in the rising breezes of change.
I did love him. And I wanted to love him. He very nearly loved me; for a moment. Even now? No way to know. No way to understand. Just silence and the very last ounce of life draining from those petals at my feet. One more second or two; one more day.
Yes, be happy then. He will find comfort and life in another's eyes, in another's voice. Be glad. The possibilities have been washed away with what will not be known and only linger as the thoughts of that rose.
Posted: Thu Jul 16, 2009 10:31 AM CST
Eerie Theater...
Deer Mountain...continued...
..."That's how I know they are coming again..."
Ted and George exchanged a quick glance, then George wrote something down in a notebook on his lap while Ted returned his attention to Jane. "Does this person speak to you ever? Does he have a name?"
"He is not a person, exactly."
"What do you mean?"
"He is not an angel, but he seems ethereal somehow. I never see him apart from the dreams."
"He doesn't speak?"
"No. He only appears in my dream at the same moment."
"When?"
"At a moment when my survival is at stake."
"Do you mean that these dreams are about him saving you from death?"
She thought for a long moment, then nodded her head slowly. "It does seem that way."
"What other situations appear in those dreams specifically?"
Again she contemplated. In the hall, the light was on again.
"George," Ted elbowed his partner, speaking in a low voice. "Go and check out the hall. See where that light is coming from."
George looked at him increduously. "Me?" he gasped.
Ted blinked at him. "Yes."
"It's from the kitchen," Jane commented. "Down the hall to the right."
George handed his notebook to Ted with a sour expression. He rose slowly, smiled politely at Jane and headed for the door. From the hall where he had disappeared to, he let out a sharp cry which was followed by the yelp of a cat. One moment later, as George's voice could be heard uttering profanity, Chester dashed into the room, leapt up on Jane's lap where he arched his back, and began to purr loudly beneath her nose. She scratched his head appreciatively as he settled down into a small grey ball. She glanced up at Ted suddenly uneasy. He smiled back amiably.
In the background the clock chimed ten times softly from the mantle above the hearth. Outside, the wind pushed up against the window more aggressively as thunder rolled in the distance, long and low. In the back of her mind she heard the words 'I'm coming...'
She glanced toward the blue curtains in the corner where the window sat and it seemed very dark just then.
Suddenly, from a bookshelf to the left and behind the setee, a heavy paperback fell making a loud thud as it hit the floor. The two of them glared at it in horror, Ted twisting in his seat to see it. "My God," he whispered, shaken. He looked at Jane. "Have you told anyone else about this?"
Thanks for checking in on todays excerp of Deer Mountain.
Next time - the strange black dog makes another appearance...
Posted: Wed Jul 15, 2009 11:05 AM CST
Eerie Theater
Welcome to the next installment of 'Deer Mountain'....
...I had a dream last night...
Ted watched her carefully, the hair still upright on the back of his neck. It took a great deal of courage not to jump out of his seat. "What kind of dream?"
Jane gazed over her companions quietly, then suddenly her eyes drifted away. "I was seven years old when I fell through the ice of a pond back in Minnesota. I remember how cold it was, and that I hit my head as I went under. I remember closing my eyes like I was somehow watching it from a distance. I remember my hair swirreling about my face, my hands searching through the water for something tangible. I remember the necklace around my neck, a locket I had gotten from my mother before she died, falling away and down into the murky depths. I remember watching it falling slowly, like a film being scrutenized for detail. It felt like the pond had no bottom, like I was hovering at the highest point of a great abyss. Soon the necklace disappeared and I glanced up toward a bright light. I assumed it was the sunlight and I reached up toward it. When I woke up the next morning, I was in my own bed, blankets heavy upon me. My father came into the room some time later and asked how I was. When I told him of the icy waters he seemed concerned. He said I was nowhere near the pond, which was frozen over completely, as it was only about the depth of three feet, and that they had found me sitting near a snow covered garden deep in a kind of trance and petting a large black dog which got up, bristled it hair, and then fled as they approached.
"Last night I dreamt of that. I dreamed of floating in that water, of its deep blue thickness, its icy cold body wrapped about my limbs..."
"Is that it?" George asked after a long pause. "Was that the whole dream?"
Jane's eyes came to again and they seemed hazy; fatigued. There were wrinkles on her brow. "No. In my dream when I reached up for the light, I was pulled up by a ghastly white hand. Long fingers..." She was looking through them now, somewhere far away. "The eyes had no color. They were like large neutral pools. Deep inside, they appeared to be 'moving'". Now her face grew pale once more, her weary eyes growing darker as she focused on her companions again. She seemed almost appologetic somehow.
"What else is so unusual about this figure?" Ted's face showed genuine interest and concern and Jane felt immediately relieved by the question. It would feel good to say it out loud, she thought. Finally.
"It is the same person in every dream, that is how I know they are coming again..."
Thanks again for tuning into this episode of Eerie Theater...
Posted: Thu Jul 9, 2009 9:00 AM CST
Eerie Theater...
...Continued...
"Strangers," George asked.
"Yes, I suppose. I come into a room, and then I see them, and then they are gone."
Thunder rolled long across the evening skies, threatening with its growing might a tremendous storm at its heels. Jane glanced toward the window, covered completely over by the thick blue drapery. She gazed at it helplessly as though it might suddenly blow open until the light flickered in the hall again.
"Does that sort of thing happen often here, Jane?" Ted asked softly, drawing her attention.
Her face had gone pale. "Y-Yes. All the time."
"And what else?"
She studied him, partially in awe. He had an easy, scholarly manner, not prone to excitement. He behaved as though nothing she could say would surprise him in the least. There was great comfort in that. She had begun to believe she might be going mad.
"I live alone, but often I hear noises in different rooms. I keep a cat, Chester, and sometimes he runs from these rooms where there is nothing visible. A-And then I turn around, and there will be someone standing there, and I blink, and he is gone. I can remember only bits and pieces of him, like his black hair. He has opaque eyes, green, very light like a pastel coat of paint. There are others, they are tall, thin, blond. I see them all the time, in streets, at work, around the yard. I see them often, and yet I cannot tell you anything more about them."
"Do they realize you see them?"
"Sometimes."
"What do you mean 'sometimes'?"
"Sometimes when I see them, they are in the middle of some act. I cannot explain it. Like if you opened a door and caught me putting a jar of peas in the cupboard, and then when you stepped into the room, I simply disappeared. Imagine that, only without the jar of peas and the cupboard. It would appear bizaar, but that is how it seems, when they are not looking directly at me." She glanced at the clock. Nine-forty-two. My God, she thought; had that much time elapsed?
Ted noticed her distraction. He paused to watch her minutely, then glanced down to the tape recorder on his lap. It was moving, the reels rolling to record as planned. He glanced up again. Suddenly his breath caught in his chest. With great reserve of strength he looked intensely at Jane.
"Jane," his voice was deep, implicative...
She glanced at him warily, her blond hair falling across a portion of her round face and hiding one of her hazel eyes. She brushed it aside without thinking. Her short nails were painted yellow, almost the same color as her hair.
"Jane," he said again. Beside him George was speechless. "There is a great black dog in the doorway. Its hair is bristled. Do you own a dog, Jane?"
"No." She looked tired now.
"Don't turn around," Ted commanded quietly, his voice deliberately low. When all three were still enough and the dog had yet to move, however, its eyes as yet blazing, its teeth bared, he added: "Does anyone you know own this dog, or seen it before? It's some kind of mastiff."
"No," she repeated. Quickly, before Ted could complain, she turned in her chair to glance at the doorway. The dog looked at her strangely, its hair settling back down. It seemed to cower slightly, backing down. Then it turned its tail and scampered away, its heavy body making no sound. From the kitchen, no lights shone in the hall anymore.
"Jane?" Ted's voice echoed in the stillness.
She had turned back around in her chair, her eyes downcast with a weighted expression. "I had a dream last night," she replied weakly. Her voice felt weak. In the very back of her mind she heard herself again: I had a dream last night...
Thanks again for tuning in to...Eerie Theater.
Posted: Wed Jul 8, 2009 7:53 AM CST
Welcome to Eerie Theater...
Deer Mountain
Outside the sitting room window, which was heavily draped in dark blue fabric, the wind leaned and moaned against the glass. Haunted sounds drifted through the trees creating an eerie whistling and creaking in the awkward silence Jane shared with her two visitors.
Above a brick mantle, resting meticulously over a deep-set hearth with an iron grate, an antique clock chimed the hour. Nine p.m...
Jane glanced toward one of the gentlemen seated across from her on an old-style burgundy velvet setee. His brown eyes and sandy blond hair cut short, slight side-burns, she though made him attractive. He was tall and thin. Strong-looking. She shifted in her chair uncomfortably, her eyes wandering to his companion, George, a medium height, average-looking man with black hair and green eyes, a sallow expression and pale skin. They were both in their thirties.
She glanced away, toward the small lamp on a nearby table. Hard to begin. Hard to find the right opening lines. And they were waiting. She HAD called them, hadn' she? She had called the West Virginian psychologist Jack Landers, and he had told her to call these two men, Ted Travers and George Franz of a small school for parapsychology in northern Ohio, about two hours away from her own back-hills home in the secluded woods of Deer Mountain. They had agreed to visit her in her own home, and here they were...
Somewhere in the distance, thunder cracked against the sky. She flinched without realizing it. From the kitchen down the hall a light flickered several times.
"It starts with a dream," she said suddenly, as though sparked to say it. "It always starts with a dream." She cleared her throat; suddenly thick.
George had been glancing into the hallway, now his eyes rested fully upon his host. They were wide as they took her in, a darker green than they had been only a moment before. Beside him, Ted's brown eyes were quiet and reflective. "What does," he asked somberly.
She hesitated, then found that the words came easier than she thought they might. "The visitations."
Thanks for attending today's clip of Deer Mountain. Please tune in tomorrow for another peek at Eerie Theater.