All these short stories are giving me short nightmares

Double Vision with Charlie Adley

As if someone had clapped their hands an inch above my face, I wake up fast, my back arched, muscles gripped.

I’m alone in a small single bed, tucked in tight by a dark brown hessian blanket. The room is sparse and tiny, dusty bare floorboards leading to a door not two foot from the end of the bed.

My first waking breath brings the stench of death. Gripped by terror, with no idea where I am, I feel a primal need to locate the Snapper; make sure she’s safe.

Trouble is, I can’t get out of bed. This heavy hairy blanket is holding me down as if it has a life of its own.  Taking a deep breath, I rip the bedclothes off me and in one movement rise from the bed and open the door.

A vile cocktail of putrid smells engulfs me. There’s a short landing leading to a staircase, all dusty bare floorboards, ingrained with faded white paint stains.

So profound is my fear my legs fail to move. I call out for help.

Louder, again. Help!

Again. Somebody! Help me, please!

I wake up.

Phew. That was a nasty one. Hope I don’t go back to that little number.

Generally I dream about  three times a night, often revisiting the last dream after waking, which can be lovely, but after a nightmare like that, well, I hope it’s nearly dawn.

01:32.

Going off to the loo I find the house still awake. The Snapper’s watching TV, Lady is getting belly tickles beside her. All is well with the world.

“Blimey, love, nasty nightmare!”

“Oh you poor thing!”

In much the same way that suppressed memories of childhood horrors filter up through more confident adult psyches, I’ve noticed over the years that nightmares visit me when my brain feels safe, and we’d just returned from a three day holiday that was several days too short.

“It’s probably my brain dumping pooh on me because it thinks I’m still on holiday.”

Back to bed, straight to sleep.

I’m standing in the rambling overgrown garden of a huge white house. Although it’s in the countryside, it resembles a dilapidated and shabby version of Washington DC’s own, marbled by swathes of dark green ivy.

On the gravel driveway is parked an old Bedford van, the like which of I haven’t seen since Ford introduced the Transit.

The huge black front door of the house opens and a couple of 1960s Disney/Enid Blyton criminals run out carrying sacks, jump into the van, and drive off at high speed, rear wheels spinning a cloud of grit and gravel.

For more, read this week’s Galway City Tribune.