The House: An Excerpt

As I have written before, dreams turned into literary works are usually the most boring pieces of fiction a person can read. Therefore, I use my nightly wanderings to inspire my writing, not dictate it. The subjective archetypes and symbols of a private dream world must be made universal to be understood. 

So here's a little something for your amusement, an adaption of a dream escapade I had that may turn into something bigger. Maybe.

The House

by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

"This house ain't haunted," the woman said. "It's possessed!"

She stood on the front porch of my new home, and I had no idea what to say. I knew two days after I moved in that the house had something wrong with it, but I had no desire to talk to a stranger about it — especially one wearing a housecoat and smelling of age and old cigarettes.

"Uh," I managed to say. "Okay. Thanks."

She looked at me as if I had just told her the Easter Bunny wasn't real and with an incredulous shake of her head she turned and walked down my front steps. I watched her cross the road and disappear into the dilapidated house standing there. 

It took the lady five days after moving into my new home for her to introduce herself and that to give me some ominous Grade-B movie warning. It only confirmed that as an introvert, my reaching out to anybody in the neighborhood served as a good idea.

I shut the door and walked into the living room, sat back down on the couch and turned the volume back up on the television. 

I heard the footsteps start on the stairs again. They always began on the ground floor and went up to the second. After the first two days of moving in, I learned to ignore them. The stairs would be empty as they always were and I had no idea on how to make it stop. I had stood on the stairs for hours on the second day, but my invisible guest never made an appearance. I could only hear the footsteps when I occupied another room.

I also got used to waking up with every door of the house wide open as well as the muffled sounds of yelling from the basement. And no way was I going down there. I've seen too many movies. Anyway, other than the tour the real estate agent gave me, I've never been to the basement again, and since I own very little, there's nothing I need to store down there.

You have no idea of the hatred I have for basements.

You have no idea of the hatred I have for basements.

So, here I sit, shy, depressed, and wealthy enough from my online business I can even eat fast food twice a week as long as I have a coupon and can stick to the dollar menu.

I look at it this way. It leaves me alone, and I leave it alone. We can haunt the house together as far as I care.

#WIPJOY #22

Today's WIPJOY challenge asks me if I have ever dreamed about my current work in progress. Oh, I wish I have, but sadly I have not. However, read on.

H. P. Lovecraft and I share two characteristics in common:

1. An interest in the macabre
2. Rich dream lives

I dream in color with extensive plots and I revisit plots and settings continually, However, none of my stories are dreams revisited because dreams use symbols and archetypes that only have meaning to the reamer. Hearing about somebody else's dream as a straight fiction piece can never have an impact on the reader as much as it has had on the dreamer.

However, I have written profusely on dreams and how they affect my literary work. Here are some links fellow dreamers may find intriguing:

1. I Dream of a Cat at a Parisian Bistro
2. Of Lucid Dreamscapes and Cat Wives (Yeah, I do dream a lot about anthropomorphic cats. Weird, huh?)
3. The Writer and Nocturnal Wanderings of the Dreaming Mind
4. Alan Loewen vs. The Oak Fairy: A True Story (Actually a hallucination, but it still came from my subconscious.)
5. A Win-Win Situation (Not all dreams are worth reporting.)
6. A Dream That Would Shake the Foundations of the Literary World (Ever hear of keeping a dream diary? I tried it. Once.)
7. Conversation With A Dying Unicorn (Not my dream, but a dream/waking vision my co-writer, Ken Pick, had that had a profound impact on his life and was the instigation of my friendship with him.)

People ask me how to increase the number and intensity of their dreams. There is only one method I know of. Minutes before you go to bed, take a Vitamin B supplement that carries all the different types of Vitamin B. Other than the fact it will turn your urine a brilliant golden yellow in the morning (I write this only so you're not freaked out the next morning), a Vitamin B supplement is harmless. Nonetheless, check with your family doctor, especially if you have kidney or liver challenges).

Interesting factoid: "Kubla Khan; or, A Vision in a Dream: A Fragment" is a poem written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge while in an opium-induced dream. I do not recommend in any manner the use of illegal substances, but the poem remains an example of a historic literary piece inspired by a dream.

I Dream of a Cat at a Parisian Bistro

9/25/2017 Addendum: Due to requests, I added on some more to my little tale of a feline alien beauty meeting a detective in a Parisian cafe. Also, this post is pulling in a lot of new visitors. WELCOME! Please visit me at Amazon.com and make sure you peruse the rest of my blog!

Dreams are innately boring to everybody except for the dreamer. Their symbols strike an intimate chord that resonates only with the person who has dreamed the dream. Yet, there are a number of authors who have written stories and poems based on their dreams: H. P. Lovecraft, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and others.

Two nights ago, I dreamed of meeting an anthropomorphic cat in a Parisian bistro. To simply relate the dream would have you yawning in moments, but I took the seed of my nightly excursion and ran with it.

I dream of pretty humanoid cats drinking tea. What do you dream about?

Erma Felna, by artist Steve Gallacci

Felidae
by Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Just as I had instructed her over the phone, she was sitting outside Le Saint Régis on the Rue Des Barres. Her back was turned to me giving me a moment for a quick study. Regally ignoring the stares from the human diners around her, she sat, straight and elegant, drinking what I assumed would be an herbal tea. Caffeine was toxic to Felidae.

Her long golden blonde hair could not conceal the golden-furred tail and furred, pyramidal ears or else from the rear she could easily have been taken for a human. She wore a pale yellow lightweight handkerchief mini dress with a halter neckline, somewhat loose as tight clothing is uncomfortable when your body is covered with fur. It was cut low in the back, below her waist to make provision for her tail. She would be, if anything, one of the more exotic specimens of Felidae, feminine with every move one of controlled grace, but I was immune to their charms. To me, she was nothing more than just an overgrown cat in human form.

When the Felidae invaded on October 12, 1939, H. G. Wells’ novel, The War of the Worlds, prophesied how it would all turn out. A simple soil bacteria, one that had no effect on humanity, decimated the invading army and it was carried back by accident to their homeworld. A very few survived courtesy of a natural immunity, but with so few survivors, they traded in their weapons for lessons in diplomacy. However, by that time, they had decimated a good chunk of Europe ending the start of what was already shaping up into a rather nasty conflict.

But we humans are forgiving, especially since the Felidae opened up the universe to us. Now here in the Year of Our Lord, 1989, those war memories are far gone and forgiven, especially since they rebuilt the Eiffel Tower.

As we humans played with our new technology and introduced ourselves to the cosmos, we discovered that evolution was actually not as creative as originally thought. All of the intelligent species we were introduced to were bipedal with two arms, one nose, one mouth, two eyes, and two ears. None of them looked like humans, but they all mirrored, sometimes quite loosely, animal counterparts here on earth. We had growing, stable yet feisty galactic civilizations of what could be easily referred to as Terran examples of mice, cats, dogs, raccoons, lions, and tigers and bears and others. A stroll through any of Earth's cosmopolitan centers now felt like a walk through a Beatrix Potter fever dream.

It was just the bloody rabbits you had to really beware of. Unspeakably violent, they were beaten back centuries ago by a combined effort of the major galactic empires to one solitary planet in the backwaters of the galaxy. Orbiting military hardware around that planet makes sure they stay on their dirtball.

The galaxy still had some rabbits running loose and I saw one once, chemically sedated and lobotomized and kept as a pet by one of the wealthier aliens slumming on Earth. The creature still snapped at anybody who came near it.

I angled my walk as I approached my new client as one does not approach the Felidae from the rear and our eyes locked as I drew near her table. I bowed my head slightly. “Bon après-midi, mademoiselle.”

She was walking gold. Even her slitted eyes matched the color of her fur and she had the body of a ballerina.

She held out the back of her hand and I took it in my own, bowed, and kissed it. I hate the custom, but the Felidae are proud. Her fur gave off the aroma of cinnamon, but I didn’t know if that was her natural aroma or some version of Felidae perfume.

“I speak English,” she said. Of course, with non-human lips it came out as “I thee Enthlish,” but I've hung around enough Felidae to catch their drift.

“May I sit?” I asked. She nodded. I motioned for the waiter as I took my seat and pointed to my client’s cup of chamomile tea. Serveurs on the Rue Des Barres are smart and not as arrogant as other Parisian waiters. In moments, I had my own steaming cup.

“How may I be of service?” I asked.

My new client paused for a moment, her unblinking eyes taking me in. “I need an armed escort and word in Paris is that you’re the best.”

“It is one of my many skills,” I said. “I can see why you would need an escort. I’m surprised by the way you appear you don’t have humans approaching you hourly.”

“I am beautiful,” she said with typical Felidae candor. “Even among my own people I am considered...how do you say it in English? I am exquisite.”

“And far too humble,” I said with a slight smile. As Felidae have no concept of sarcasm, I knew she’d take it as a compliment that she had not flattered herself enough. “My fee is two hundred francs a day with expenses. I include 24-hour coverage which means I also stay in your accommodations at night, separate rooms of course. When would you like me to start?”

She pointed behind me. “Immediately.”

I turned to see two large humans walking toward us, their stern faces clearly focused on my client. I sighed with annoyance. I didn’t even yet know my new client’s full name.

Fortunately, I had chosen the Le Saint Régis for a reason. Owned by a local boxe française club, each of the waiters is actually well-trained in savate, using the cafe as a means of employment while they studied French kickboxing, their one true love.

I motioned for our waiter and then pointed to our two unwanted visitors.

One of the thugs made eye contact with me and pulled a Filipino Balisong out of his pocket, flipping the knife open in a casual gesture meant to make me think twice about attacking him.

I waited until he was in range and other cafe customers not in any angle of danger when I threw my cup of hot chamomile tea in his face. It stunned him enough that it required no effort to trap his hand and make him drop the knife. I then spun about--not for show, but to build up kinetic energy--to drive my left elbow into his temple. He dropped to the ground.

By that time, the other thug was down, the sole of a Bolvaint Verrocchio Tassel Loafer prominently imprinted on the front of his face. The waiter threw me a thumbs up and I turned to my new client.

“We must leave, mademoiselle. It appears we have made a scene.” And, true to my words, the other customers began to react to the sudden show.

“Please relax, Mesdames et Messieurs,” I said to the crowd in my best French. “The show is over.”

My client had not reacted at all. She overlooked the scene without emotion on her feline face as if watching one of the new reality shows that were becoming all the rage. “Mademoiselle,” I said firmly, “We must go.”

“Are you not going to interrogate them?” she asked.

I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her from the chair as she hissed in indignation. “You are touching me!” she said. “How dare you!”

“They are not alone,” I said, pulling her down the street. “There is a black Renault across the street with more men. They have been watching us since I sat down.”

That quieted her down for a few precious moments as I dragged her into a hat boutique and hurriedly made my way to the back door. Ignoring the protests from both my client and the shop owner, I burst through the back storage room and into an alleyway. As the Renault was headed east on Rue Des Barres, I turned west, came out onto a side street and quickly motioned for a taxi.

With a jerk, she pulled her arm free. I opened the taxi door for her and with a prominent air of injured pride, she got into the back seat. Running around to the other side, I threw myself into the seat beside her and gave directions to the driver to my office.

“No,” the Felidae said. “I want to go to my hotel room.”

“Too dangerous,” I said. “There would be men there waiting for you.” I turned to her. “By the bye, what is your full name?”

“In English, it would be Goldstar, daughter of Eellight, First Female of the First Litter.”

“And why the interest from whoever it is trying to get to you.”

She struck a theatrical pose showing off her profile. “It is because I am beautiful.”

Well, it’s certainly not for your common sense, I thought.

She looked down and suddenly hissed under her breath. “I soiled my slipper in that filthy alley!”



(Note: The above graphic is Steve Gallachi's well known comic book character, Erma Felna. His Amazon profile and marketplace are located here.)

Of Lucid Dreamscapes and Cat Wives

Artist: Kishibe

As I have stated before, I have always been a vivid dreamer and now that I take a Vitamin B Complex capsule before bed, my dreams have become even more so. Something about the combination of the various vitamins in the B family trigger vivid dreams and any of these dreams has become a seedbed for future stories. However, I advocate caution. Dreamscapes are inherently boring for readers as the power and symbolism are highly subjective. To use a dream as an idea for a tale is to invite massive revision with a heavy emphasis on plot and character. Very few writers can communicate the visceral punch of a dream as the dreamer experienced it.

Last night I had a rare lucid dream where for the first opening scenes, I actually knew I was dreaming.

It was a dream city I had visited many times before. The street I knew the best contained a number of quaint shops, bistros, and bed and breakfasts, delightful destinations for a nocturnal wanderer, but I had not revisited this locale in many years. I was well aware that I was dreaming and the certainty of my destination and the joy of seeing again a place where I had idled away many a night brought me both joy and fond memories.

The sun had set and a gentle snow had started to fall when I finally reached my destination. I looked forward to food and rest, but the landscape had changed over the years. The street was deserted, the shops were all closed, windows were dark and boarded up, and some buildings had actually been torn down. My sorrow at my loss became so great, at this point, I lost the power of lucid dreaming and became trapped in the flow of the story unable to affect its outcome.

With great sadness, I turned and walked away from the deserted street, now determined to find some other form of shelter from the snowstorm. A payphone must surely exist somewhere. A block away I found a public playground where children, bundled against the snow, were enjoying a final frolic before heading home for the night.

I approached one small child, a pretty little thing of around 12 years of age. Dressed all in white, she was shielded from the cold by a little white cap, a woolen dress that came to her knees, and warm white tights that protected her legs. Dainty white leather boots completed the picture.

She told me she did not know where a payphone was, but instead, she would introduce me to her parents who could certainly help me.

Her parents sat nearby on a bench, her father nothing more than a typical stereotype of an English laborer: unimaginative, typically phlegmatic, and totally practical.

Her mother wore a close-fitting black cape with a hood. However, she was an anthropomorphic cat, some five feet tall, her eyes a bright blue that complimented the brilliant white fur that made up the gentle feline face, the only part of her body visible.

I followed them to their home where the husband told me that I could use their phone and we walked a block or two making it to their front door as the snowfall increased in volume.

The house was in shambles. The foyer actually had drifting snow on the floor as well as snow coming through gaps in the ceiling, but the house proper was warm, cozy, and dry though a jumbled mess of bric-a-brac and worthless junk.

The husband discovered his old rotary phone was not operable and he instructed his wife to walk me down the block to the home of an acquaintance in hopes I could find a working phone there. That was when I noticed that at no time had the cat wife ever spoken, nor had she taken off her shawl. Even inside, she kept it on with the hood pulled tightly around her face.

We walked back into the ever-deepening snow. Taking her arm in mine, together we made it safely to their friends' house some blocks away. By this time, many of the row homes stood dark, but without even knocking, my silent companion opened the front door and led me inside to a home that was neat and tidy. It was immediately clear nobody was home and I was concerned that with the deepening snow we would be trapped for the night, unable to return to my companion’s residence. At that point, I awoke leaving my furry companion behind for a more mundane waking world.

You might want to try my Vitamin B experiment for some nocturnal adventures of your own, but I make no guarantees as to the subject of your dreams. One's subconscious can be quite fickle in its affections.

My Subconscious Decides to Make A Superfluous Point

Last night I dreamt I lived in a steampunk version of Victorian England that would have been cool in and of itself, but my nightly excursion was evidently not for my own enjoyment, but to teach me a bully pulpit message with all the subtlety of a baseball bat.

Yes, I could have wandered a steampunk vision of Victorian England, but why should I have any fun? So points to Carl Jung and let us continue.

And a warning to special snowflakes. This post is politically incorrect and gravid with triggers. Proceed at your own caution.

I dreamt that in this fascinating world, a lecturer had made himself famous by setting forth some rather odd and stringent rules about diet. Because his theories were so nebulous, I decided to attend one of his lectures just to hear what the man had to say for himself.

I traveled to the hotel where he was lecturing to discover he and his followers had basically taken the establishment over and were in the process of turning it into a commune.

The place was packed with humanity and I did not realize at first the audience was completely composed of women and children. Not only were there no adult men present, I was the only adult man present.

As I wandered among the crowd, I was basically ignored, but there were two middle aged women off by themselves and I took it upon myself to strike up a conversation. "I look forward to the doctor's lecture," I said.

The two ladies rolled their eyes at each other and one with a voice dripping with contempt said to her companion, "Oh, he wants to hear the doctor's lecture."

"Well," I said, determined to remain civil, "What word would you use instead?"

"Yes," the other woman said to her companion, pointedly ignoring me, "he wants to hear the doctor's speech."

The other woman snickered. "Yes, he wants to hear the doctor's talk."

Turning my back on them, I walked away to discover there was to be a communal breakfast so I wandered into the dining room. With at least two hundred women and children in attendance, I took my place at the first seat at one of the tables.

A large platter of blueberry pancakes, a carafe of syrup, and a large bowl of butter was placed in front of me, but before I could help myself, the child sitting next to me, grabbed the food, took his share, and passed everything on. I stared as the child wolfed down his food as fast as he could, barely pausing to chew, and then saw to my surprise everybody following suit. I learned that one of the doctor's dietary rules was to serve yourself and eat as rapidly as possible. Within a few scant minutes everybody in the room had gobbled down their food and were leaving to go to the lecture room.

I walked down to the end of the table to see if there might be any food left, but the leftovers were so filthy and in such terrible shape, nothing edible could be saved.

I turned to discover that a group of young girls had gathered behind me. "We don't need you," the one child said, her voice dripping with contempt.

"Yes," said another. "I am never getting married."

"No?" I asked in some surprise. "Never?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "No need. Say a man asked me out on a golfing date? After dinner and playing a few holes, it's 'piff, poff, poof'' and I'm done."

I was shocked to hear that from a young girl barely 8 years old. "And then you just move onto another?" But her response was lost when the phone beside my bed rang to wake me from a sound sleep.

When I hung up the phone, I mused about the oddity of my dream, a world marked by wanton promiscuity and weird theories where the 'old ways' were held in contempt for momentary trends, where youthful innocence was destroyed as soon as possible, and where immediate pleasure was prized over commitment.

I am so very glad I don't live in a world like that today.

A Dream That Would Shake the Foundations of the Literary World

Some year ago, I read that you should keep a dream journal by your bed and since a goodly number of my stories find their seeds in my dreams, I thought that sounded like a rather good idea. Like most people, I have these incredible dreams, but I can barely remember them at all upon awakening.

Last night I awoke from a dream so profound and so exquisitely moving, I grabbed the notebook and, in the dark, hurriedly wrote down the dream particulars.

This morning, I eagerly grabbed the notebook to remind myself of what was going to be a future story that would momentously move the hearts and minds of my readers and I read,

Lady of the

Mirror

2 rules

Only when visited

Could take

nothing with her

She sought to understand

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd... I got nothing. Sorry. Mind's a total blank. 

Return to the Vicarage

For those who have read my short collection, Come Into My Cellar: Darker Tales From A Cerebral Vault, you were introduced to the Vicarage, a recurring nightmare I have suffered from for years:

All my life I have enjoyed the experience of being a dreamer. At night, I wander dreams flowing with color, rich in plot, and often stay with me upon awakening. Yet, no other dreamer has ever mentioned one aspect of my daily nocturnal wanderings. My subconscious, much like a Grade-B film director, has for six decades repeatedly used the same sets as if the budget for backdrops and scenery had vanished. One place I always return to is the Vicarage.

I have been dreaming about the Vicarage for almost four decades now, a setting so commonplace I can actually draw the floor plans for you.

Well, last night I returned to the Vicarage and it felt like I was there all night long. However, unlike other nights spent avoiding the unholy, otherworldly, and invisible Presence that walks its halls "primal and serene," I met a young lady of about 14 who is as much trapped in the house as I am, but she never leaves simply because she can't.

Looking at her oddly dated clothes, a strange thought came to me and I asked her what year it was. "Oh, it's 1897."

Poor child.

So, when I awoke, a full-blown story popped into my mind, a story about a young child trapped in a nightmarish mansion that others visit in their dreams, a Vicarage that holds a primal terror that walks its halls and, if it finds you, it will kill you, but only if it's in a merciful mood.

(sigh) I'm busy as it is, but as the cliche goes, you strike while the iron is hot.

I'll keep you abreast of my travelogue as I plumb the mysteries of the Vicarage and try to save a young girl who has been trapped inside its walls for almost 120 years.

I've got a gut feeling this is NOT going to end well.