Evil Dreams (12 page)

“I’ll add at this point, Jon, that if you can live with the dream, fine. Apparently you’ve not had any serious complications in your life because of it, and it certainly hasn’t prevented you from functioning in a normal manner.”

“How long do you think it’ll take to uncover the cause of the dream?” Jon asked, rubbing his elbow. His face contorted momentarily from pain before he stopped the impromptu massage.

“Something the matter with your elbow?” Sam asked, his eyes fixed on his patient.

“My elbow?” Jon snorted. First the doctor had been curious about his leg; now, his elbow. “There’s nothing the matter with it, Doctor,” he said tranquilly. “Why?”

“You were rubbing it quite vigorously just then. You seemed to be in pain,” Sam offered in a disconcerting manner, leaning forward in his chair once more.

“My elbow doesn’t hurt and I didn’t injure my leg,” Jon said, his voice tinged with anger. Checking his irritation, he forced a smile wondering what the doctor hoped to accomplish with this type of question.

The psychiatrist studied his note pad momentarily before looking up at Jon again. “You asked about the duration of time we’ll spend together. There’s no way of telling but I feel by using hypnosis, we’ll get to the solution much quicker.”

Jon sighed inaudibly.

Standing, Sam walked to the windows, closing the heavy drapes. The room, with its artificial nightlike mood, took on an ominous atmosphere. Shadows lurked in the far corners of the office, hugging the furniture and walls. He turned on a small desk lamp, filling the area with subdued half-light. The psychiatrist adjusted Jon’s chair to a forty-five degree angle.

“Just relax, Jon, and listen to my voice,” he said unhurriedly. “I’m going to turn on a strobe light and I want you to fix your eyes on some object you can see without turning your head.” He flicked a switch and the blinking white light of a strobe rhythmically mixed with the unobtrusive glow of the desk lamp.

Without turning his head, Jon mentally placed the strobe to his right and slightly behind him. He had noticed the fixture when he entered the room, recalling it appeared to be nothing more than a floor lamp with three lights extending from it. His eyes flitted about, seeking an object to concentrate on, as he had been instructed to do. A small statue on a table caught his attention. He studied the delicately formed alabaster figure of a ballerina, pirouetting on one leg, her arms held gracefully to either side.

“I want you to relax,” Sam continued in his quiet, steady voice, “and think of yourself as being on a comfortable bed. You’re exhausted from a day’s hard work and the bed feels very good, very soothing to your tired muscles. You realize how exhausted you actually are and welcome the ease with which you find yourself dropping off to sleep. You may clasp your hands together if you wish.”

Jon’s hands slowly came together, his fingers interlacing while he continued focusing his attention on the ballerina. As the doctor’s voice droned on, he felt his muscles sag until they felt like jelly. Sensing his body’s relaxation, he stared at the small statuette intently. Had it moved? Was the figure actually waving her arms up and down? He thought he detected a slight smile on her face and then—she winked. The statue evaporated from his sight.

“Your hands are together, Jon,” Sam continued, “but you cannot pull them apart. Would you like to try?”

Jon knotted his flaccid muscles attempting to separate his hands, but found the simple task impossible. He tried several times before stopping.

“How do you feel?”

“Foolish,” Jon answered in a flat, monotone voice.

“Explain that,” Sam ordered gently. “Why do you feel foolish?”

“I think I’m just humoring you, but I don’t want to hurt your feelings.” His eyes, although wide open, could not see the ballerina on which they were fixed, or anything else in the room.

Sam stood, moving to his side. He placed a hand over Jon’s open eyes, closing them, and returned to his chair. “You can separate your hands now.”

Jon effortlessly pulled his hands apart, letting them drop to his lap.

“I want you to remember the words
blue trees,”
Sam said softly. “From now on, whenever you hear the words,
blue trees,
you will automatically go into a deep trance.
Blue trees.
Now, Jon, my finger is extremely hot. It is as hot as a poker. My finger
is
a red hot poker.”

Reaching across the distance separating him from Jon, he moved his fingertip to within a fraction of an inch of his patient’s hand. Wincing at the suggested heat, Jon quickly drew his hand back, rubbing it with the untouched one.

Convinced Jon was in a deep state of hypnosis, the doctor said, “I want you to tell me about your dream, Jon. From the beginning to the point where you normally wake up. Do you understand?”

Nodding stiffly, Jon described the wild, tumultuous cheering, the screams of acclaim, how they grew in volume.

“Where are you, Jon?”

“At a big meeting of some sort—out of doors. There are thousands of people, wild with adulation.”

“Do you understand what is being shouted?”

Jon screwed up his face, listening intently. “No! It sounds like
Dee-hah! Dee-hah! Dee-hah!”

“For whom are they cheering, Jon?”

He didn’t answer immediately until a smug grin crossed his mouth. “Me!”

“Why?”

“I’m running now—all alone—alone—by myself.”

“Why are you alone all of a sudden?” Dayton asked, making a note of the unanswered question.

“Deserted. My friends have deserted me,” Jon said in the same dull tones he had used since entering the somnifacient state. But now his voice cracked emotionally, tears welling beneath his eyelids. “Trust nobody—all alone. Blackness all around me.”

“Where are you running, Jon?”

“In a forest. I’ll hide in this forest.”

“What forest is it? Does it have a name?”

“I don’t know. Ohhhh—”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s foggy and I fell.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“How did you fall?” Sam asked, carefully extracting each detail.

“I fell.”

“Did you trip?”

“No, I
was
tripped.”

“By whom? There’s no one around, is there?”

“No one.”

“Then who tripped you?”

“A tree tripped me.”

“Don’t you mean you tripped over a tree’s root?”

“No. The tree
tripped
me.”

“How?”

“A root jumped out of the ground and tripped me!”

“That’s not possible, is it?”

“I
didn’t
fall. The tree tripped me, on purpose,” Jon said, marked agitation creeping into each word.

“What’s happening now, Jon?”

“Oh, my God!” Jon’s voice whispered hoarsely. “The trees!”

“What about the trees?”

“They’re turning, changing, into—into people!”

“Trees can’t do that, can they, Jon?”

“I know! But these are,” he said, his voice trembling. “These are.”

“Who are they?”

“Don’t know—I don’t know! They hate me— they want to kill me!”

“Why? Why do they want to harm you, Jon?”

“I don’t know,” he moaned.

“Are you certain you don’t know?” Dayton asked.

Jon didn’t answer but the psychiatrist noted the expression on his patient’s face changing slightly from one of fearful concern to one of guilt. Apparently, Jon knew why the people wanted to harm him but was not about to reveal the reason.

“How are they dressed?” Sam asked.

“Dirty clothes—filthy. White and black— maybe gray—with black stripes.”

“Tell me about their faces, Jon. Can you describe them?”

“Horrible! Horrible! They’re filled with hatred! Loathing! Disgust!” he cried. His own face held firmly in an unmoving mask until white lines formed, cracking deeply into his countenance.

“Where—” Dayton began, but was cut off by Jon.

“What’s that?” he asked, his face brightening momentarily as he strained to hear something inaudible to the psychiatrist.

“What is it, Jon?”

“A call.”

“From whom?”

“The woman.”

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know,” he said, the same guilty expression crossing his face.

Despite the deep hypnotic state, Jon was somehow managing to evade certain questions.

“Have you ever seen her before?” Sam asked, making a note of the subterfuge.

“Only here—in this place.” His expression remained constant.

“Are you certain?” he persisted.

Jon didn’t respond, striving instead to place the face of the mysterious woman. After several minutes, he said, “I know her but I can’t say her name.”

“Try.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I DON’T WANT TO,” he said loudly. Convulsive sobs suddenly racked his body.

“Leave it, Jon. Relax for a moment. You’re very comfortable and happy. Nothing is bothering you now. Are you at ease?”

“Y—yes.” His face softening, the lines disappeared.

“When the woman called you, what name did she use? Does she call you by your name?”

His mouth set in a straight line again, Jon remained quiet.

Waiting for several minutes to see if his patient would speak, Sam watched Jon’s face with renewed interest during the silence imposed by his refusal to answer. Now his features alternately contorted and relaxed as though Jon were struggling with the decision to answer. When the muscles slackened, Sam felt he was about to answer only to have the grimace heave the facial structure into vivid motion again.

“Can you tell me why the people want her dead?” the doctor asked after consulting his notes. He was moving the dream further along without waiting for Jon to relate the incident.

“They hate her, too.”

“Too?”

“They hate me.”

“Why do they hate both of you?”

Jon paused as if searching for the reason. When he continued, he spoke tentatively. “She is associated with me.”

“What have you done?”

Again, the facial contortions told the doctor of his struggle to answer.

Jon brought his right hand up in front of him, clenching an imaginary pistol that he pointed toward the ballerina. He contracted the index finger against the non-existent trigger several times. He began weeping. “She’s dead.”

“Did you kill her, Jon?”

He sobbed. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Why did she die if you didn’t shoot her?”

“Something else killed her.”

“What killed her?”

No answer. Instead, he brought his right hand up toward his own temple.

“Why do you want to kill yourself?”

“I must. I cannot be taken prisoner.”

“Prisoner of whom—?”

“They’re burning up,” Jon said hollowly, lowering his hand. “Burning all up!”

“Do you know why they’re burning, Jon?”

Jon’s face agonizingly twisted in an attempt to answer, his mouth remaining a clamped, slash of white lips. The struggle within him subsiding, he again brought his hand, formed as though holding a pistol, up to his temple and pulled the dream weapon’s trigger.

Jon screamed long and loud.

“I’m going to bring you out of the hypnotic state now, Jon,” Dayton said firmly. “Remember, when you hear
blue trees
the next time, you will quickly go into a state of hypnosis. When I touch your shoulder with my hand, you will awaken, refreshed and relaxed. You will have no memory of what we talked about.” He stood, approaching Jon, his hand outstretched to touch him lightly on the shoulder.

Before the psychiatrist made contact, Jon continued speaking. “I’m floating up—up. I feel concussions. Explosions—”

Sam could not stop his hand when Jon continued speaking, and unable to check his motion, came in contact with his patient, breaking the hypnosis.

Jon opened his eyes, smiling up at the psychiatrist. “I don’t think it’ll work, Doctor.”

“You’re a very good subject, Jon,” Sam said, going to the window where he drew the curtains back. Both blinked at the sudden brightness.

“You mean—?” Jon asked and stopped.

“You went into a hypnotic state very easily. Look at your watch if you don’t believe me. What time was your appointment?” Sam asked, crossing the room to the tape recorder.

“Three,” Jon said, looking at his watch with disbelief. “It’s—it’s almost four-fifteen.” Bewildered, he shook his head.

Moving to his desk, Sam jotted down several items in his notebook.

“What did I say, Doctor? What’s causing the nightmare? What—”

“Wait a minute, Jon,” he said, holding his hand up to silence his patient. “Granted, I said hypnosis would help shorten the span of time needed to analyze your dream, but don’t expect a one-shot miracle. I’ll need time to go over the tape we made while you were under and get some direction as to how to conduct our next session. At this point, I know very little in addition to what we both knew before you were hypnotized.”

“But you do know something?” Jon asked excitedly.

“As I said, very little. One or two minor points came out but didn’t necessarily clear up anything. They’ll give us a little more material to work with, that’s all.”

“Such as?”

“I’m afraid our time is up, Jon. However, I’ll visit with you, if necessary, about today’s trance the next time you’re in.”

Jon stood, discovering he felt rested.

“How do you feel?” Sam asked.

“Surprisingly,” he answered, moving his shoulders, “very good. I feel as though I’ve had a long nap. Is that normal?”

“Absolutely. That should be your reaction each time.”

“Fantastic! I think I’m going to look forward to these sessions if this is any indication as to how I’ll feel,” Jon said walking toward the door.

“Make an appointment with Tory for next week. I’ll see you then, Jon.”

After making an appointment for the same time on Tuesday of the following week because of the Memorial Day observance, Jon light-heartedly rode the elevator to the ground level. Tomorrow, he’d be able to write without any trouble.

After Jon left his office, Sam went to the tape recorder to replay the last few minutes of the session. The high pitched babble of voices filled the room momentarily before stopping the machine. He restarted it.