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The Man Who Dreamed The old man drove a red pickup that looked
ready to fall apart. He went up one street of Mud Creek and down another,
driving slowly, looking out the window, sweating inside the pickup, cooking in
the summer sunshine like a turkey in the oven. Finally he found what he was looking for: a
small, white frame house with a freshly mown lawn that you could smell from
three blocks away. There was a low, decorative, white fence that encased the
yard and the old man parked in front of the curb next to that, got out on his
rickety legs, went through the gate and up the walk. A tricycle lay overturned near the front
steps. The old man picked it up and set it right. He went up the steps and
knocked on the door. A young woman with her blonde hair tied back
in a ponytail answered his knock. She had a white apron tied over her jeans and
sweatshirt. She was barefoot. And very pretty. She smelled faintly of fried
chicken. "Yes?" she asked the old man. The old man wore a sweaty cowboy hat and he
took that off with a wave of his hand and held it in front of his stomach in a
manner reminiscent of one clutching a wound. His face certainly seemed to show
some sort of hurt–something deep and sour and unrelenting. "Ma'am, my name is Homer Wall and I'm
from Tulsa, Oklahoma–" "Tulsa? I've got relatives there, the
Mayners. This hasn't got anything to do with them, does it? They're okay?" "I guess so. I don't know them. I'm not
here about your relatives." Her eyes housed some suspicion now.
"Then you're selling something?" "No, ma'am, I'm not. I've come to tell
you something very important. You see, Mrs. James–" "How'd you know my name?" "I'll explain that. I've got this gift,
you see, and–" "For me?" "No, ma'am. I mean, yes, ma'am, in a
way. But not the sort of gift you're thinking of . . . let me explain." "Mr. Wall, I don't give to religious
organizations, and I really have some work to do." He shook his head. "No, ma'am, I'm not a
religious organization." "Well, now," she said, smiling,
"I didn't think you were the whole thing." The old man produced a pocket watch from his
pants pocket and looked at the time. He felt the mainspring of his heart wind a
little tighter. "We haven't got much time, Mrs. James. If you'll just give
me a moment." "Much time? What on earth are–" "Please. It takes some explaining to
make it so you'll understand it right. My gift is special. I got struck by
lightning three years ago. Just one of those things. I was working in my
garden. Didn't hurt me at all. But it cured my bad hearing, made my hair grow
back–" "You are selling something! My husband
has a full head of hair–" "No, ma'am, I'm not selling anything.
Please listen. The lightning, it caused me to start having dreams. Dreams that
come true. Like I dreamed my wife was going to die three weeks before she did.
Happened just like I dreamed it. Her heart quit. You see, I dreamed my way
right into her chest, saw her heart stop pumping, and three weeks later she
died. Just like I'd seen it. "After that it got worse. The dreams
would come and grow more terrible each night; then, finally it would stop, and
three weeks after it stopped it would happen." "What would happen?" "The dream would come true. I dreamed
about this air crash, and each night the dream showed me more. I even dreamed
the headlines that would be written long before they were put into print,
before the words were even thought up. It was terrible, the bodies in the
water, the horror . . . . always bad dreams. Never good ones. I dreamed about
this little baby and the well down at my granddad's old place. I'd played there
when I was a kid. And I dreamed this baby fell in, and I knew that child, and I
talked to the parents and they listened, and it didn't happen. You see, they
were thinking about buying that land, and there wasn't any way I could have
known. "So I put it together, that this
lightning hadn't been any accident, that I was special and I was supposed to go
out and try and stop these things. And sometimes, when folks listened, I found
that I could–" "Now, Mr. Wall–" "Listen, three weeks ago to this day my
dreams about you, this house, your husband and your little boys, they
stopped–" "How'd you know I have little boys? What
are you–" "For God's sake, listen. I'm telling
you. I dreamed it. And I could see them and you, and your husband,
burning–" She tried to close the door on him, but he
moved fast, put his foot in the doorway. She pressed but made no progress. He
didn't remove his foot. "–dreamed this signpost that said 'Mud
Creek,' and I dreamed the newspaper headlines off your local paper. I just kept
dreaming enough things that I put it together, figured out the town's location.
And when I saw your house, I knew it was the one in the dream. The one that was
burning." "Mr. Wall, my husband'll be home any
minute." "Yes, I know. And at five-thirty, while
you're eating dinner–I know the time because I dreamed the clock over your
kitchen sink and it showed five-thirty–there's going to be–" "There's my husband. You best go." The old man did not turn around. He heard a
car pull up to the curb. "Listen to me, please. There will be a
storm." A car door slammed. "Lightning will strike this house and
you'll all die, horribly." The gate creaked open. "I tried to get
here earlier, to warn you in plenty of time, but the truck broke down and I had
to take some odd jobs to buy the parts it needed, and by the time I got that
done and found you, well, it was the day, nearly the time–" A hand clamped
the old man's bony shoulder. "Get your foot out of the door." The old man turned to look the other in the
face. He was a young handsome man in a blue business suit. "Mr. James,
you've got to listen." "Oh, Robert, he's telling some awful
thing about how he dreamed we were all going to die in a fire, that lightning
is going to strike the house at five-thirty, that he's here to warn us–" "I am here to warn you," the old
man said. "I dreamed this place. Your names will be in tomorrow's paper,
they'll call it a freak accident." "Tomorrow's paper!" Mr. James said.
"You are some kind of kook. Take your witchcraft stuff somewhere
else." "Mr. James . . ." The old man's
hand clutched at the man's lapel like a claw. "I mean it." "You've got to–" Robert snatched the old man's hand free,
pushed him back. The old man stumbled over the tricycle and
fell onto the grass. "Robert! He's just a crazy old man.
You'll hurt him." "I didn't mean to do that," Robert
said. "I didn't know I pushed that hard. I didn't mean for you to fall,
but if you don't go, now, I'm going to call the police." "Lightning will strike this house,"
the old man said, getting up, recovering his hat and placing it on his head.
"And you'll all die. You've got to get out of this house." "Get out of here," Robert said.
"I mean it. Hon, call the police." The old man sighed, nodded. "Very well,
I tried." "You tried something,"
Robert said. The old man got in his truck. He looked
longingly out the window at them for a moment, finally started the motor and
drove away, heading north. "Oh, Robert, such a strange old
man." "A kook." "Could . . . I mean—?" "Of course not. That's hocus-pocus
nonsense. Besides, there's not a cloud in the sky. It's sunny and blue. He's
just a nut, well-meaning maybe, but still a nut." "Poor man." "Forget it. What's for dinner? Are the
boys home?" "Fried chicken and mashed potatoes. And,
yes, they're home and hungry and ready to see their daddy." He put his arm
around her and kissed her on the cheek and they went inside. The old man stopped just outside of Mud Creek
and looked at his pocket watch. Five-twenty. He shook his head sadly, a tear ran down his
cheek. He put the truck in gear and drove on northward. Above him, blowing
fast, a dark mass of clouds moved south. "The Man Who Dreamed" was originally published in 1984 in The Horror Show. It was later included in The Good, the Bad, and the Indifferent, a limited-edition hardcover published by Subterranean Press, and Bumper Crop, published by Golden Gryphon Press. "The Man Who Dreamed" © 1984 By Bizarre Hands, LLC. All Rights Reserved. The place to be next Thursday, August 27, is
right here at The Orbit. We'll be serving steak smothered with Mojo mayhem from
champion chef Joe R. Lansdale! |
