First published in Chill Mag Issue 4: Dreaming.
The Dreaming Dead
When the sun surrendered the day to the moon, all warm colors melted beneath the horizon, leaving the shining stars to paint the world below with a monochromatic palette. At the horizon’s edge, black trees performed a skeleton dance against their cosmic backdrop. A stiff wind rushed through their shadow branches, carrying the scent of pine across a nearby lake. Set back some distance from the water’s rhythmic lapping, a small fire glowed inside a cabin window, flickering a calm orange in protest of the all-encompassing night. Sitting in front of the dwindling flames, Finnegan dozed in his favorite chair.
A sudden thump roused the aged man.
“Hello?”
The word sank into the fire’s crackling embers and ceased to exist. Bewildered, Finnegan sat up straight and examined the room. A colorful painting of a scenic mountain village hung above the fireplace. On the wall to his right, a bookcase filled with the works of his favorite authors smiled at him with row after row of what he thought looked like colorful teeth. Only, one large tooth was missing like a hobo’s gapped grin. How strange, he thought.
Easing himself from the chair, he set off to inspect the imperfect smile. Before he could, his foot found the source of his dazed curiosity: face down at his feet lay a pristine leather-bound copy of The Count of Monte Cristo; he’d been reading it before falling asleep.
With an involuntary groan, he bent down and picked up the fallen folio. It had a considerable heft to it, and Finnegan wondered how the book had managed to slip free from his lap. Overcoming a yawn, he tucked the thought away and headed over to the bookcase, but when he reached the stacked shelves, his beloved books were no more. Instead, rows of gnashing teeth threatened to bite off the limb of anyone foolish enough to reach into one of the numerous mouths.
“My God!”
Finnegan stumbled backward, dropping The Count in disbelief. The ensuing thud stole his attention, and he was horrified to see a set of giant clattering teeth bouncing around where the book should’ve been.
A great pain seized the poor man’s chest and sent him reeling on his heels. Black spots filled in the edges of his vision, and he threw his arms out to grab hold of anything that would keep him from collapsing to the hardwood floor. He found his safety rope in the form of the mantel above the fireplace. It took all of his waning strength to hold onto the thin ledge. In doing so, his knuckles knocked a picture frame to the floor where it crashed at his feet. After several moments, the spots dissipated, and he caught his breath.
“What’s happening?” Finnegan wheezed.
“You can’t stay here.”
A lightning bolt shot down his left arm, fraying the nerves in his fingertips, instantly numbing them. The pain dropped him to his knees.
“Who said—” Sweat poured down his face and steamed up his glasses. “Who’s there?” he managed to say between gasps.
“Right here,” a woman’s muffled voice said from the floor.
Steadying himself, Finnegan moved from his knees to his side, and from his side, he was able to push himself up to a sitting position with his back leaning against the wall. It was slow going, but the pain subsided, and he got his breathing under control once more. He removed his glasses and wiped the lenses clean with his shirt sleeve. Shaking, he put his glasses back on and dared to look at the floor where the voice had come from. There, a broken picture frame lay. The photograph inside had escaped its rectangular prison and rested beneath a pile of busted glass.
His hand trembled as he reached for the photo. Would it transform as the book had? Impossible, he thought. Over the last year, he’d studied the photo countless times. Finnegan had memorized every detail. But how could he not? It was his wedding photo.
With a delicate touch, he lifted the photo from the jagged rubble. No teeth. He turned the photograph around—expecting to see him and his beautiful wife of 28 years smiling in wedded bliss—but he was the only one in the picture.
“Where—”
“I’m right here.”
Finnegan’s eyes darted up and landed on his wife, Maria, who was standing over him in her wedding dress. She was 26 years old again.
“Sweet Jesus,” he exclaimed. “I’m dead.”
“Not yet.”
“But …” His hand fumbled against the wall until he found a brick jutting out. Using it for support, he worked his way up to his feet. “If I’m not dead, how am I talking to you?” His wife’s eyes were as vibrant as he remembered. “I mean, you’re, you’re …” He choked up and couldn’t get the words out.
Her emerald irises sparkled as she spoke. “384 days.”
Bleary-eyed from welling tears, Finnegan stammered, “What?”
Maria reached out to him. “That’s how long I’ve been dead.”
“I don’t—” He began sobbing. “You’re not real?”
“I’m as real as you need me to be.”
“I’m scared. I don’t know what’s happening.”
She took his hand in hers. It felt like holding onto a cloud.
A loud crack spoiled their reunion. Finnegan turned to see that the tooth-filled bookcase had broken free from the wall and was stomping toward them.
“Oh, Mother in Heaven!”
He turned back right in time to dodge the red embers in the fireplace; they’d uncoiled like snakes and struck at his legs.
“You can’t stay here,” Maria said, her voice barely audible over the rampaging bookcase. “Follow me.” She headed for the cabin’s front door. “Quickly!”
Without a word of protest, he did as he was told. But with each step forward, his heart thumped harder and threatened to seize up any second. Though a short distance, with the smashing bookcase closing in behind and the fire snakes slithering after him, the door seemed miles away.
“Hurry,” Maria said in an ethereal voice.
While the toothcase snapped at the back of his neck and the serpent flames licked his heels, a rush of cool air suddenly pushed through Finnegan’s hair and clothes, easing the pain by unknotting his chest. They’d made it outside.
“It’s okay, the worst part is over.”
Finnegan gazed upon his wife; she was now the age he’d last remembered her being. No sight could ever be as lovely.
“What’s happen—”
Before he could finish, his mouth fell slack at the sight before him. Gone were the dark pine trees and the secluded lake. Instead, hundreds of picturesque cottages, painted in a rainbow coalition that dazzled beneath the bright blue sky, dotted the valley between the most beautiful green mountains Finnegan had ever seen.
“Remember this?”
“It’s—” he paused, trying to figure out if the scene was real, “your painting?”
Maria smiled. “You always liked that one, didn’t you? Guess that’s why you hung it above the fireplace”
“It makes me feel,” he fought back tears, “close to you.”
“Oh, Finny, I’ll always be here. Waiting for you just like I promised.”
A great pall stretched over the mountains, dulling the vibrant cottages. A peal of thunder let off and reverberated throughout the valley.
Maria glanced over her shoulder and frowned at the coming storm. “You can’t stay here, honey. You have to go now.”
“But I—” This time he lost the fight and the tears flowed freely. “I can’t lose you again.”
Maria smiled with all the warmth she’d shown in life. “You never lost me, Finny. I’ve been right here the whole time.”
“I don’t understand,” Finnegan said with some effort. “I don’t know where here is. Your painting?”
Maria took both of his hands. Her touch was like a summer breeze. “No, silly. Your dreams. Your memories.”
Another burst of thunder tore through the valley, bringing with it a torrential downpour.
“I’m dreaming now?”
Maria nodded. “But it’s time to wake up, okay?”
“But I want to stay with you,” he sniffled.
In slow motion, the valley flooded, and a raging river ripped through, destroying every colorful cottage in its path.
Maria pulled Finnegan in and embraced him. She smelled of autumn leaves. “I love you,” she whispered in his ear. “Please, wake up.”
“I don’t know how,” he cried.
“It’s easy. Just open your eyes.”
Her words turned into the raindrops of the incoming storm. A flash of lightning blinded the world. Then all went quiet.
When Finnegan woke in his chair, he sat up only long enough to be knocked back by a stabbing pain in his chest. His clothes were soaked in sweat.
“Maria,” he called in a hoarse voice.
No response.
It took a very long time, but Finnegan managed to call an ambulance. As he waited for its arrival, he lost himself in the painting over the fireplace. He swore he could see a woman’s smiling face in the clouds. There hadn’t been clouds before.
