Monday, October 10, 2011

In Which I'll Let You Decide

A number of years ago I had this really weird dream. We were living in a lake house (the one where I had gassy landlords and the upstairs bedroom was possibly haunted), and every day when I went to work I drove by this old, abandoned house. I wanted to write something about it, and this dream I had put the bug in my ear. I wasn't sure if the world needs another haunted house story, so I didn't get very far. I stumbled across it this weekend, and thought it might be worth expanding. I'll let you be the judge.


Most people could pass by the Etheridge house and not think anything about it at all. To most it was just another home left to stand forgotten at the end of a bumpy country road. Had it been occupied, the Etheridge house probably would not have been scary at all, but even as a boy I knew that it was its vacancy that made it ominous. The rumors of it being haunted didn’t help, but I suppose no childhood would be complete without nightmares. 

I spent many nights of my childhood lying awake in fear of the Etheridge house. There was something about it that crept into my imagination just as I slid into unconsciousness, closing my eyes in sleep. In my mind, the Etheridge house was home to a horrible creature, badly disfigured and full of malice. The house emanated a sense of evil that I could almost smell. In these dreams I would be running to escape from his grasp, gasping and stumbling in front of him by mere inches. I could hear him roaring behind me, but instead of the noise echoing off the bare and crumbling plaster walls his voice sounds only in my head. He repeats his name over and over again in a guttural noise like rocks being ground together. 

Deermaker deermaker deermaker deermaker… 

Sometimes I can outrun him, but other times he catches me, pinning me down with his hands. The Deermaker’s leathery skin is cold and feels like the kelp tangling around your feet in the ocean. As his grip tightens and his talons dig into my arms I smell his breath, heavy with sweet-sour odor of decaying flesh. His teeth are razor sharp and drip with saliva that burns like acid into my skin. On the top of his head are two pointed horns that curve down around the sides of his face. He looks at me with eyes red like smoldering embers that brighten and flare. 

Dreams of the Deermaker followed me like a plague as I grew up. My parents always thought I'd grow out of my night terrors, and as far as they know I have. What they don't know, and what I haven't told them, is that sometimes dreams are real.


What do you think? Should I keep going?

Happy Monday, folks.


Marci said...

I think you have something going for you in this story, just keep building.

kristina said...


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