I AM TRYING TO TELL YOU A DREAM

A horror vignette

Cover image from W. E. B. Du Bois’ Hand-Drawn Infographics of African-American Life (1900), public domain

I AM TRYING TO TELL YOU A DREAM

Eileen sputters, bucks, and finally dies in front of a squat, single level building near Braxton. Dirty white paint flakes like rust. Windows barred, kudzu fingers tracing its patched roof, dusty porch, broken lattice skirting. A thousand square feet that belong to the forest already, just don’t know it yet. Not abandoned though. The maroon sign dripping above the door was too fresh.

GENERAL STORE

A stroke of luck, then.

I step from the car, all eight cylinders of iron muscle in the Pontiac’s loins made flaccid without gas to drink. Christ, I could use a drink too. A little ethanol for Eileen, a little for Tommy boy. Humidity assaults my entire fucking being. It’s in my ears, up my nose, at the back of my eyes before I can say no thanks, I prefer to drink my water. How did nature make this place so damn hateful?

Wind chimes echo in the trees all around. Big and hollow and unseen. Weird spot. Too sunbright and too shadecast. Too full of vibrant green life but empty and desolate all the same. I spit into the dirt and feel tough for a moment, then embarrassed. I’m a city boy driving a perfectly restored ‘79 Trans Am in the backwoods of Mississippi.

I do not belong here.

The shop door opens with the chiming of bells and creaking of hinges. From inside, I hear a work song beat to the ring of hammers.

A man built like they come down here steps out, porch creaking under 250 pounds of Americana. Farmer jeans, tucked in Sunday best plaid, sweat-stained Ole Miss cap pulled low. Stares at me, black beady eyed fucker. Spits in the dirt.

“Howdy.” I start, sounding stupid as hell in my Midwest nice. “Any chance you have some gas? My car seems to—”

“Where you from boy?”

“Oh. The suburbs of Chicago?”

“That’s devil country up there.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You a Christian?”

“Sure, I mean, I don’t know man.” Fidgeting, staring at the ground. “I’m just looking for some gas. You got any, or—” I point down the highway “—know how far it is to somewhere that does?

He stares at me.

One.

Two.

Three seconds pass.

“Wait here now. I’ll be right back.”

Creaking hinges, jingling bells, and the slamming of a door take him back inside the store. Hair on end. Spine shivers. Quiet. Wind chimes in a humid breeze. The purple bloom of kudzu flowers an imitation-grape fragrance I can taste.

At the edge of the towering forest, a beige rabbit eats. Its foot toes the dappled border of sunlight. Half an ear missing, scar on its hide. It shoves greenery in its mouth and chews vigorously, a blue metal tag shaking in rhythm around its neck. I see you left comfort behind too, friend. Abyssal onyx eyes hold me, pull me in. We recognize each other, we two things that don’t belong here.

The sun cradles my leather jacket, cooking me inside it like a microwave. My soul aches for the air conditioning of the Trans Am. Going to be hell to walk in this. Roads stretch longer here, entire countries of distance in between the buildings. It’s like one of those mirrored rooms that look bigger on the inside than the outside. An entire state built to deceive you. Can I actually reach a gas station, or will I always just be halfway there? Can I actually reach Biloxi, or is it a mythical place where only angels and demons tread?

From a tree branch above the rabbit, a four foot snake plummets. A brown mosaic missile that strikes before I can even think to move. Fangs in neck, the rabbit thrashes and the serpent curls around it. Holds on as it writhes and kicks, blood foam flying from its mouth. Noiseless but for the stamping of green things. I’m rooted. Unable to move or think beyond the shock.

WHAM!

The door explodes open. White robed steeple hooded beast fills the frame noose in hand eyes black tar. It roars with arms wide fingers exploding into foot long claws, hood blossoming, unfurling like a meat flower of blood and teeth. It falls on all fours, feet and hands stretching until its poised on paws like a wolf. Like something built to chase and destroy. Flower mouth unfolds into five petals lined with sharp porcelain hooks, blood and viscera sprays out as it roars again and charges.

Fuckfuckfuckwhatthefuck.

Fuck!

I bolt for the trees, boots slipping in the dirt, beast pounding hooves against the ground at my heels. The branches echo cavernous and dead and I look up.

Bones.

Everywhere.

Strung all around.

I run through woods where a hundred men hang, teeth chattering hollow as the branches shake. Skin hanging to crevices, their ropes creak and black eyes follow me from above. That thing right behind. A crashing tornado of limbs ripping through the kudzu. Bark snarl and gnashing of teeth. I turn and see its maw wide, saliva dripping, white robes turned skin folded out into wings.

Heart in my throat blood in my ears.

Breath heaving.

It lunges.

Wings beating a cicada screech through the thick air.

I leap sideways.

The monster lands behind me in the arms of a noosed man. Bone limbs spring on it with the mechanical lock of a rat trap. Chittering joy, it flies upwards on its rope mantle into the foliage.

A piercing screech.

And then.

Nothing.

Bloody chunks drop down from the canopy in squelchy thumps. They burn without fire and turn to black ash at my feet.

When I walk back out of that forest, the skeletons in the trees sing a work song. It reverberates in the overgrowth like wind through bone.

We gotta ring em all together

Let your hammer ring

Yeah we gotta ring em all together

Let your hammer ring

Well every Monday morning

When the bluebirds sing

You can hear John Henry’s hammer

Hear his hammer ring

We gotta ring em all together

Let your hammer—

I slam the door to my Pontiac, slap the locks down, and breathe. What the fuck are you, Mississippi? What the fuck is this place?

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This is a vignette of a much wider story I plan on writing at some point. Probably next after I finish The Cog that Spins the Wheel, but who knows. I scoped it out years ago, even wrote a beat sheet, but I knew my writing chops weren’t there yet to pull it off. If you dig it, let me know. Thanks to Ring Shout and Stranger Things for some of the monster inspiration here.

I finally broke ground on this for my open mic this month. Just like last year, the theme is Write in a different genre so… I went horror. I found out I wouldn’t be able to make it due to a work trip, so I recorded this video to keep working on my live reading skills. I swear I don’t always read in a slipping southern accent, but it does fit this piece.