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  Dreams

  Wesley McBride

  Austin Macauley Publishers

  Dreams

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Copyright © Wesley McBride (2019)

  About the Author

  Born in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, Canada, Wesley grew up in the small town of Marshall, Saskatchewan. After graduating from the University of Regina in 2013 with a degree in History, he worked in the entertainment industry for four years before penning his first work, Dreams. He currently resides in Regina, Saskatchewan.

  About the Book

  A man wakes up to his mundane life to find that things have changed. What seems like bad luck at first progresses throughout a week, as a dark force desperately tries to show him a path he does not want to see. Is it insanity that is driving his nightmares or is it supernatural? It may be too late for him to change his path.

  Dedication

  For my family.

  Copyright © Wesley McBride (2019)

  The right of Wesley McBride to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781788786959 (Paperback)

  ISBN 9781788786966 (Hardback)

  ISBN 9781528955911 (ePub e-book)

  www.austinmacauley.com

  First Published (2019)

  Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

  25 Canada Square

  Canary Wharf

  London

  E14 5LQ

  He was dizzy and breathing heavily. He stood, gripping the railing bolted to the eroded concrete in front of the door. His hand tremored as he weakly gripped the handle and fell inside. A crack. It was dark. On his knees now. Slowly moving forward. Something hard against my head. His eyes were closed now but he kept a hand on the wall that was guiding him. It was the longest wall. So long. Too many turns. Now gone. He felt softness on his face, though he could no longer describe that sensation. A camera still rolling but no film.

  It was a Friday. Faint noises of traffic drifting down the alleyway and through the slanted wooden door and the slow drip of a faucet. A steel coffee pot with Frisbees of green and grey surfing on black inside. A stolen newspaper box too full of garbage in the corner, a flag hung above it. A refrigerator with no magnets or flyers or coupons or photos. A table, one leg relying mostly on the others, green bottles against the wall underneath, two chairs, one with a tear in the orange padding. A toaster burnt from years of use. An open drawer and a large rat slumped still on its back on the counter next to a sink filled with dishes and a grey stained rag. He opened his eyes. Sleep blurred. The plastic, filthy blinds obscured the light. He took a shallow breath, coughed and closed them, rolling onto his back and craning his head to the right against the small stove, an ashtray tilting, wrapping the brown throw rug around himself as he went. A silent stream of sun slowly crept across the floor throughout the morning. As it reached his eyes, they watered and opened again, revealing the seven green bottles under the table whose leg he could not remember how he broke. He had been on the linoleum for the morning and part of the night before. Taking shaggy comfort on the brown carpet. He tried to close his eyes again. His eyelids throbbed in rhythm with his pulse, fast, made worse when he closed them tighter, clenched them. It was hot. He kicked the carpet until it was at his feet and rolled over again. He had no remnants of dreams left from his sleep and no memories from the night before quite yet, just confusion. He rolled and got to all fours, steadying himself, arm stretched should he fall towards the stove. A few heavy breaths and he was to his feet, looking across the yellow floor towards the short bathroom hallway. He stuffed his hand into his awkwardly folded pocket. No cigarettes but a lighter. He looked back at the ashtray on the floor and saw the cigarette butts. Collected, he lit the longest one and headed to the bathroom, unsure footing down the one stair. Briefly looking into the mirror, he turned on cold water after setting the lighter and three butts on the counter. He splashed some water into his mouth with his free hand and backed into the toilet and sat down, rubbed his eyes and pissed, dropping the cigarette butt between his legs. He lit another butt. Done, he stood up and threw the filter. There were seven filters floating in the toilet that was black with mold at the waterline. He turned towards the mirror. He didn’t like it. His eyes were clear, given the night before, but his skin was haggard. Red hue over even redder lines on his cheeks and nose under the lines beside his eyes. Redness around the corners of his nose. A few red dots. A scar just below his hairline from where he had collided with a steering wheel years ago. He didn’t remember how he got this old looking. He didn’t remember how he got the cut on his cheek just above his beard. More of a deep scratch. He picked up the tube and folded toothpaste into his mouth, his hands under the cold water again shovelling into his mouth, swishing and onto his face. He spit and looked back towards the mirror. Something was smeared on his sweater. Vomit? It looked shiny. He unzipped it too fast and it caught, and he zipped an inch upwards and down again. Caught. He peeled it over his head in frustration, throwing it into the corner, and re-examined the mirror. Eye bags purple, hair matted with sweat yet wild tufts sprouting. He turned away towards the hallway.

  He kept one eye open, the other closed, to see correctly. Slowly. He surveyed his surroundings. This was his place, the one he had rented for some time now, but he had never considered it his real home. More habit than anything else, he entered the kitchen. He noticed the bottle on the counter and instinctively took a drink, a strike against the headache that would surely be coming. He saw the glass that he had used the night before. Ashes inside but no butts. He rinsed it in the sink and wiped it with the brown rag, but then decided against it and took a cleaner one from the cupboard above. He poured from the green bottle, almost half a glass, and began to drink when he noticed the large black rat lying on his counter, it’s bared front teeth yellowed, arms and legs curled. He coughed into the drink, splashing the whiskey into his nose and eyes, dropping the glass. He jumped backward. Shards burst outward while the base of the glass, spotty fangs upwards, ricocheted against the fridge and bounced behind his left foot just as he stepped downward. Panicked, he kicked his foot out in order to dislodge the glass that had pierced him but found it stuck for the first kick, caught in his sock, the second sending the remains of the glass into the stove. He dropped onto his back then up to his butt and looked at the sudden damage. The whiskey was burning the half inch long cut in the bottom of his foot. The cut didn’t seem deep but started painfully at the crevice between his big and second toes, cutting the webbing and twisted around the side. He sat, holding his foot.

  He rocked there, his foot wrapped in his bath towel, the other still draped in the grey sock he slept in, the other bloodied on the floor, at the edge of the tub. He tried to think of how long he’d been sitting there, blood still bubbling out. Had he been out of it? Sitting there, he began to realize how hot it was. And dry. He eventually rose and put pressure on his foot, the pain not as bad as he braced for. He opened the cabinet door under the sink. He found a clean cloth and the tensor bandage he had kept for years and bandaged his foot awkwardly, a tongue sticking out on either side of his big toe. He was sweating now. Alcohol and heat pouring out. He stood and mad
e his way back to the kitchen, careful not to put too much pressure on his foot. Around the corner, he looked to his sink. There lay the rat. He went to the stolen newspaper box and opened it. The garbage can inside was full. He pulled it out, took the bag out of the office style garbage can and brought it to the door leading to the alley. Open. He noticed that the hinge had come loose again. Two months prior the hinge had been pulled out of the frame in frustration and he had used longer screws to reattach it. Now it had come loose again straining the bottom hinge enough that the crease in the metal was significantly lighter than the rest of the hinge. He threw the bag down the concrete steps and slammed the door. It didn’t latch. Angrily, he pushed harder, reopened the door and re-slammed it causing one of the screws to drive back into the frame a bit and the other to pop out of the hinge nearly entirely. As he made his way back to the kitchen, he saw that he had left a sponged trail of blood to the bathroom and to the kitchen and to the door. Propping himself up on his left heel, he rubbed the floor with his foot. He spit on the floor and rubbed again, following his trail all the way back to the garbage can that occupied the center of his kitchen floor. He picked up the garbage can and went back to the rat on his counter. They weren’t uncommon in the alley but he’d never had one in the house. Avoiding the glass, he pulled a dirty plate out of the sink, tilted the garbage can under the ledge of the counter and began to drag the rat towards the ledge. Suddenly, the rat squirmed onto its stomach, bouncing onto its hind legs. Again, he stumbled back in shock, nearly stepping onto another fractured slice. He steadied himself against the fridge and stared at the rat. He didn’t run, just breathed, his body swelling unnaturally large with each inhale. The rat fell onto all fours, then hopped onto the floor and made its way towards him. Uncaring, un-nervously. He backed into the refrigerator as far as he could to give the rat a wide corridor in which to pass. It walked leisurely around the corner. He followed it as it made its way to the still open door that he was sure had latched, it turned around, stared again at him with its red eyes, no one, just a hole where the other should be. He walked towards the door as the rat jumped down the step but it was gone by the time he reached the doorway. He closed his eyes and shook his head to himself, shuffling back to sweep the glass.

  There had been a fire burning far away from the city for a few weeks now, though today was one of the first days that the sky was noticeably greyer and smoky. Smoky enough to grey out the sun like a thin cloud. There was no breeze, just the intense heat of summer devoid of any direct sunlight now that it was overcast. His wrapped foot barely fit inside his shoe though the pressure made it feel better than it had before. He picked up the bag of garbage from earlier in the day. Hours had passed since then. He had felt worse than he had even after finishing the rest of the bottle. He walked down the alley. Between the white door to the garage he spent most of the previous night in and the brown door leading to the kitchen of the diner next to his apartment. He tossed the bag he held by the knot at the red dumpster clumsily and it ripped against the rusty side, spilling its contents against the side of the building. Mostly bottles, a bunch of wet ashes and cigarette butts, unopened envelopes, coffee grounds, pill bottle, an empty cracker sleeve. He said nothing. He continued to walk down the alley towards the street. It smelled awful. Ashes and liquor. Something else he couldn’t place. Something cooking, or even burning? Not the fire, not wood. Something else. He finally looked at his phone. He had noticed several unanswered texts and calls on his phone earlier but chose not to investigate. As he turned the corner out of the alley and down the street, he pressed the red numbers. Two calls were from his work. Two texts labelled Mom from the night before. Are you still coming tomorrow? And Call your mother please! He walked.

  Yes ill be ther.

  Not quite a block from the end of the alley, he entered the shop and bought two packs of cigarettes. Further down the street, the sign read ‘Blues’. He lit a cigarette and took his phone out once again, picked a place to sit on the red brick ledge that had less burn and ash marks on it than the rest, against the window and pressed messages.

  Hey…just wondering where you are; it’s 8:20 already and we needed you today okaaaaaaaay, just, lemme know I guess.

  To delete this message, press 7.

  Oookaaay…you know what? Don’t even bother coming in…thanks for the help today. I’ll see you Monday.

  He stood up and stepped towards the door but spun around. Thinking bullshit. He sat back down. It’s at least 6; there is no way anybody is still there. Missed calls. A call back.

  Hey it’s me, I did not mean to screw you over today… I actually ended up in the hospital last night and I just left give me a call I guess if you are still there…sorry man.

  The blue carpet he walked on after entering hadn’t been new since the ’70s and stuck slightly to his feet, if it could still be called carpet as the fibres had long since stood at the intended cushioning stance. The bar was vinyl and looked green with a white swirling pattern but had at one point been blue as well, now worn and polished from years of hands and elbows and foreheads and sleeves. He sat on a bar stool farthest from the door and ordered his drinks from the bartender he knew, though on this night he had acted like he didn’t, hostile.

  You look like shit, the bartender told him as he stepped to the back bar.

  He faked a laugh. A single ha.

  You can fuck yourself, you know that right? He slurred a little back.

  The bartender gave no response, not verbal not facial, just poured the shot from the green bottle and a pint, spilling the pint slightly as he put the glass down, keeping his eyes on him and missing the coaster slightly offsetting the glass. He drank. The beer was warm. The television showing highlights waved and filtered downward with static. An older couple was sitting at a table near the window where he had sat. Out of the corner of his eye he thought they were staring at him.

  It was around ten when he finally left. As he entered alley, the sky was darker than normal he thought, but the lights above the doorways lining the alley seemed brighter to him. He became preoccupied as he walked, with the bottle he had bought in his hand and a cigarette in the other that was carefully unscrewing the cap. Drunk and focused on the bottle, he never noticed the man who sat leaning against the brick facade.

  Sir, can you spare any coin for an old guy, young brother?

  Startled, he looked around before noticing the man a few feet to his left, completely visible in the alley lights yet camouflaged amongst the garbage that lined the alley. He wore dirty jeans that had holes in both knees and what appeared to be a grey sweater under a green winter jacket under a flannel autumn coat. He noticed that the man’s shoes looked like his, only filthy and tattered, and that he hadn’t shaved in what seemed like months, skin grey in the limited light. There appeared to be a dog cuddled under his arm only he couldn’t see the dog’s head. He squinted and tried to focus. There was something odd about his face he thought. Something very familiar. Normally, he was a talkative happy drunk, if not goofy, but lately, tonight, he had other things on his mind, he was angry.

  Leave me alone, I got nothing, he told the man.

  How about a smoke?

  How about fuck off, he said louder, flicking the butt at his filthy shoes and dropping the lid to the bottle of whiskey in the process. The man said nothing, just watched him walk away. Disappointed look. He kept stumbling on down the alley towards his apartment, past the back door of the diner, past the filthy dumpster. The garbage from earlier was still scattered against the wall. He noticed the smell again, though stronger now. He wondered briefly if it was him. Past the garage that his rusted truck was stored in. He stopped and looked at the garage. He tried to think of the night before. Did I try to drive? He hadn’t thought about it but now he had a feeling that he did something stupid. A feeling he would regret something. A feeling he was familiar with. He lifted the bottle to his lips but paused and instead turned away. He walked up the concrete steps; he saw that his door still wasn’t
properly shut, although again he thought he had closed it tightly. Maybe. He wasn’t sure anymore. Without turning the knob, he pushed on the door heavily with his foot. It swung open easily and crashed into the wall behind it. He lifted the bottle halfway to his mouth, again to drink, but dropped it down again, almost letting it slip. It was dark inside. As he took a step in, he reached up to the left where he knew the light switch would be, where it had always been Pushing his hand slowly across the wall with his head down, his fingers felt the ridge of the plastic switch cover and leading to a bumpy surface. Not a switch. Too many ridges. Bony? His head jerked upwards and he recoiled as he recognized what he was rubbing were the knuckles on the back of someone’s hand covering the switch. His head swelled as if he stood up too fast, a pulse of darkness. He felt the hand grab at his, trying to pull him into the darkness, snag his finger as he tugged, long nails scratching out at him as he screamed and twisted out of the door and down a stair, keeping his eyes fixed on the darkness as he retreated. Nothing. Blackness. He backed down the step, nearly falling, and into the alley never taking his eyes off of the doorway, trying to look inside using the light from the alley. There was no one there. He didn’t move for a few seconds before going to the garage. He entered the code on the keypad on the wall, failing once before it began to open causing the lights above the door to automatically flicker then turn on. Peering through the window, under the throw he used as a curtain, it appeared that the living room was clear. He backed away, back into the light and looked at his hand. No scratches. Was he that drunk? He slowly made his way back up the stairs scanning as he went. He was more focused now and widened his eyes as if to clear any fog, opening his mouth as he did. He screamed.

  Get the fuck out of my house!

  Nothing once more. He stared again, hesitating a bit. Lighting his lighter as he stood in the doorway of the house, he could now see the switch, lunging at it to his left while ready at his right. His living room was clear. There was nowhere to hide in there. A single couch, a single chair, a wooden stand and a TV still surrounded by months of dust. A laptop on top of the coffee table that was badly damaged due to numerous spills. A blanket on the floor, a pillow on the couch. He walked quickly to the far wall and flipped on another switch. From there, he could see into the small bathroom. No one, the bathtub curtain was flipped over the curtain rod, a habit he had developed because of a former girlfriend. The door to the bedroom off of the living room also open. It looked empty. A little bit of light bounced through the living room into the bedroom and some light faded in from the other side of the apartment through the window. He slowly, quietly made his way around the corner, his stealth betrayed by groan of the floor. He held the bottle upright by his side, ready to use as a club if necessary, jumping into the kitchen, ready. There was no one there. Did I actually imagine that? he thought and quickly shuffled back around to the living room and into his bedroom doorway, noticing his torn foot as he did and using his heel the last few steps. His closet was open. He dropped to his hands and knees from a distance. Nothing under the bed except a shoebox and some sandals and some dirt. He got up and walked to the door again. Closed the garage door and went back up the concrete steps. Cautious still. He thought he heard laughter coming from the alley behind him. Maybe it was the bum watching behind him. He lit a cigarette and entered his home slamming the door closed behind him. Check the bathroom again. Nothing. There couldn’t be he thought, unless someone stood in his sink. He went back to the kitchen and quickly grabbed a glass off of the counter and turned towards the living room. He looked at the glass, noticing it was the same one he had tried to wipe ash from in the morning, some still smeared around the inside of the base. He poured himself a finger as he sat on the couch, turning on the TV that only got basic cable. He didn’t watch closely. He thought he heard a woman say something growly about fire. He noticed he was shaking some. He pulled the blanket over his lap and stared forward and sipped. He noticed the ash the whiskey tried to hide as it flaked towards his mouth