I had a pretty weird dream last night. I’ve talked to my friends about it, and they don’t know what to make of it. Since this talk was over a chat client, and I don’t feel like typing it up again, I’m just going to copy/paste (with some editing for spelling errors and removing usernames and timestamps, and changing the format from chatlog to paragraph. Besides these edits, the words have been left unchanged.). So my dream starts like this:
I’m in my room. It’s night. I look out the window, and for some reason, my neighbourhood has been replaced by a forest. Deciduous trees, bare of leaves. I think there’s snow on the ground, so it must be winter; that explains the lack of leaves on the trees. I can pick out faint roads, so perhaps my neighbourhood isn’t completely gone. There are no lights, save the moon, which is full and bright. I hear a wolf howl. I can see shapes. Shapes in the trees. Moving.
I realize that the downstairs back door isn’t locked. I dress and go downstairs. I can see out the back through the doors. My backyard is gone. There is perhaps ten yards of bare, snowy ground between my house and the trees. I think I can see eyes just beyond the treeline. A shape. Perhaps a man? Crouched? More. Most of them on all fours. And the legs are wrong… So is the shape of the head… I lock the door. I’m backing away when I hear the howl again. The shapes start moving towards the house. The first one breaks from the treeline. I can see fur, fangs, claws. It’s digitigrade. Definitely canine. Dark brown fur, dark eyes. Pupils dilated; they’re huge. I can’t see it clearly; the branches and moonlight are creating crossed, confused shadows. I can only see half of the thing at a time. But it’s definitely too big to be a common wolf. And it’s moving towards the house. I can hear my own heartbeat. I’m suddenly aware of blood rushing through my temples. Yes, there’s fur. Yes, fangs. Large, eyes, almost all dilated pupil. But this is no wolf. It’s digitigrade… but the way it moves… it’s wrong.
And then it stands. It stands and it howls. And the rest of the shapes break cover. I turn and I run. I pound back up the stairs. I almost try to hide, but then I have a desperate thought. I open the door to my bedroom. There’s no time to think. I rush to the closet. It’s dark, but a little light comes through the window at the back of the room. My hands fall on a gray-green metal shape. The gun safe. The key, the key, where’s the key? I search through my room. I can hear the things attacking the doors. They’ll be through any moment now. I open the key box on my dresser. So many keys, so many. But this one is different. It’s shaped differently, made of polished steel. I tear it from the hook in the box and stick it in the lock on the safe. I can hear the things. They’re almost through. I turn the handle of the gun safe, but it won’t open. Why won’t it open? The second lock. Above the first. If it needs a different key, I’ll be dead before I can find it. I put the key in and hope.
The key turns. The safe is unlocked. I open it. There are several guns inside, but I know what I’m looking for. My great-grandfather’s shotgun. I pull the Model 1897 from behind a Mossberg. Alright. I’m armed. Now I need ammunition. I know my gun safety. I wouldn’t keep the ammunition in the same place as the guns. I leave the gun on the bed and search. I don’t have to look far. There, a small box next to the gun safe. I open it. There are smaller boxes inside. I scrabble through them. Finally, I find what I’m looking for: 12-Gauge, 2&1/2 inches, 00 Buck. I take the top off the box and dump the shells on the bed. From below, I hear shattering glass. They’re in. I grab shells by the handful off of the bed, feeding them into the magazine. A few slip through my fingers back onto the bed. No matter. One shell, two shells, three shells four, five shells, six shells, seven shells more… I can hear them moving downstairs. I don’t have much time. I pump the shotgun. I have eight shells. Seven in the tube, one in the chamber. Hammer cocked. Gun shouldered. I’m ready. I can hear them on the stairs. They’re coming.
Fangs in the hallway. I can see the moonlight reflecting off of enamel. The creature draws back. Then it’s through the door, leaping through the air. I can see matted brown fur, almost black, fanged maw opened wide, black eyes, all pupil, and claws. Claws on hands. Hands with opposable thumbs. At this point, I don’t care if it shouldn’t exist. I pull the trigger. Suddenly, it doesn’t look so frightening with a hole in it’s chest. But I’m not doing so well either. The corpse lands on top of me, pinning the shotgun between the stinking thing and me. I fall backwards. My shoulder hurts. I think I was holding the shotgun about an inch from my shoulder when I fired. The recoil must have rammed the stock into it.
I shove the corpse off of me. That’s when I see the second… werewolf? Is that what these things are? Can’t be. They don’t exist. But then again, I wouldn’t care if it was the devil himself in front of me. I can barely stand in time before the thing tries to gut me. I hit the thing’s arm as hard as I can with the stock of the gun. It lunges. I pull the trigger just before I realize I haven’t pumped the shotgun.
I woke up then.
I wonder what this says about my mental state.