DREAM ON
A Widow Bit – Dec. 13, 2009
By Mary Koch

            Enduring the boredom of a five-hour flight from Atlanta to Seattle, I read all ten pages of an article on nightmares in New Yorker magazine. I should have known better. After all, I know myself well enough not to read Steven King novels. My imagination is too susceptible.

            Nonetheless, I was reading a Steven King book, “On Writing,” during that same trip. It’s not a novel but a memoir in which he describes how he develops characters and story lines. I enjoyed the book so much, I was wishing I had the courage to read one of his novels.

            After last night, however, I remain firm in my convictions. No scary books, movies or even rides on roller coasters. Last night I had a nightmare: Someone was in my house, walking around. On the rare occasions when I have nightmares, I shout for help but can’t make a sound. This time I tried to call out, “Go away!” and “Get out of here!” but all I could generate were whimpers. I was frozen in bed; I couldn’t move.

            Finally I woke myself up, convinced there really was someone in the house. Dazed, I shuffled through the rooms, yelling “Who’s there!?” I tried to sound powerful and in command. I hadn’t turned on lights, and it appeared as if someone were sitting in a chair in the living room. It was, of course, an illusion created by a combination of shadows and stacked pillows.

            By this time, my body was fully in fight-or-flight mode, heart pounding, adrenalin pumping – the whole bit. My brain realized there was no threat, but tell that to my racing heart! I let the dog out of her crate, where she spends her nights. She inspected the house and confirmed my conclusion. Only the two of us here. To reassure myself, I put her cushion by my bed, where she quickly went back to sleep.

            While she slept, I meditated on vulnerability. I’ve never worried much about living alone; I enjoy my solitude. Still, when your heart’s doing some heavy thumping at two in the morning you tend to remember things like the nice woman who lived four blocks down on this quiet street and was murdered by an intruder. In broad daylight.

            That was an anomaly, I told myself – like having a rock roll of a cliff, crash through your windshield and kill you. Which also happened to a friend. No comfort in anomalies.

            So, I asked myself, what would you do if someone broke into the house? I would quietly pick up the phone and dial 9-1-1. That seemed a good answer until I tried it. No matter what I did, the phone clanked before I could even dial. I could buy a new, quieter phone, but the way my nightmares go, if I ever needed to call I probably wouldn’t remember the number.

            Besides, maybe there was a presence in my house. A spirit, a ghost, a …

            Nope. Absolutely not going to go there.