Victorian Nightmares

In a cluttered victorian home with dark carved wood furniture and smoky mirrors. A thin pale woman in an extravagant yellow dress whispers, ‘stay in the light.’ I examine her: gray hair, glassy eyes, powder skin. She raises her arms and moves toward me, her hands and arms pink at the joints. I set my back against the door to my room, where I know the sun waits, streaming through parted curtains. I turn the knob and set the door slightly ajar and return to face her. Her hands nearly on me. I push her arms aside and strike her in the chin, twisting her around me to place her back against the door to my room. As she struggles, I kick the door behind her and thrust her into my room.

I pull the door shut and turn around: she is face-to-face with me again. That the door to my bedroom silently opens behind me, revealing darkness. As we stare at each other, eyes locked, arms violently pull me into the darkness, the door slamming behind me.

I kick the covers off as I awaken.

Woman in a victorian house. Gold and black wallpaper, fleur-de-lis; vertical pinstripe texture.

She’s putting stuff in a closet, looks up and notices a skull shaped vent; thin opening, like the skull cutout is moving back into the wall. She looks through the vent and out of another skull vent in another room.

Father, mother, woman argue. Father determines the only way to keep her under control is to lock her in a cauldron in the basement.

Basement, cauldron bubbling with milk inside. He tells her she’ll be able to drink and eat the milk to survive. She’s inside now, something keeping her down but she may be able to squeeze out. Outside the cauldron is a foundry; small rivulets of molten metal poured into molds. She’s about to push her body out of the milky cauldron and into the molten iron in order to escape.

I am laying in bed; a victorian bedroom, red velvet, gilded gold furniture, a large oval mirror. And, a stage in the corner; the room goes dark when I see it, everything blackened. The curtains part and two women wearing burlesque lingerie stand there; corsets, stockings, hats with lace. They stand, legs folded and hands on hips. A voice says, “He prepares them to do this.” Suddenly, they are next to me — one closest in a long black dress, the hat, again the victorian style with a corset in the center. Her face is a mass of scribbles and she reaches toward me, arms sliding across the bed. Next to her, the other woman is emaciated and sunken, white and chalky and slowly collapsing into her blue overall dress, white long sleeve shirt sleeves beginning to coil up.

My wife is in bed behind me. I get angry and try to grab scribble-face, I try to alert my wife, ‘Look, I told you!’ I am upset and want to hold onto this woman so my wife can see.

I am in a strange room with a businessman. He explains to me that he had given my wife the wrong prescription. Instead of headache medicine it produces an effect where she becomes congested and stuffy, it gives her a cold. It has side-effects as well; I was exposed to a hallucinogen that was causing my nightmares.

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