Leslie’s Blog

There was nothing unusual about the staircase that I could see. It was symmetrical and wide, as could be expected in a meeting hall, or a church, or a grand library. The risers were covered in dense, dark green carpet that spread from one side to the other,  up the staircase, beyond the light and onto an open gallery. The spindles and bannister had a dark orange glow of old oak, and was decidedly gothic. I wouldn’t need to hold  the bannister unless I wanted, because the stairs seemed to invite climbing, unaided.

I was standing at the center of a large vestibule at the foot of this immense staircase, under a dull pool of light that seemed to come from far above.  The space was dark beyond the diminishing edge of that pool, but I sensed there were doors and other hallways.

 I wasn’t at all certain where I was.  I didn’t know why I was there, or what I was to do.

I thought that I was to climb the stairs.

Nothing bad had happened to me so far, and my general enthusiasm for what I might find gave me the momentum to begin the climb. I stepped out of the round lightness and onto the stairs.

I knew that I had  to be dignified and quiet…no bounding up two at a time, or even ascending with certainty. I knew I was to step on every stair with singular purpose, placing my foot solidly on the squishy carpet before doing the same with the next.

From the moment my foot felt the soft silent carpet, the staircase began to shrink in width. What had been friendly low risers when I started in the middle, morphed into steeper, narrower steps, that made me cross in a diagonal to the left, seeking the reassurance of a rail to hold  as I climbed.

I had never liked climbing staircases in my dreams. They always seemed to lead me up into a ceiling, forgetting how to get back down, or worse, they were uneven and decrepit, or missing entire sections, mocking me with their danger.

Descending dream stairs were another matter. I could take them two, four at a time,  flying down to the bottom with exhilarating accuracy and speed. I was frighteningly good at descending.

I reached the top of the stairs, which surprised me. I stood a moment,  my hand on the newel post,  facing a big open gallery landing, letting my eyes adjust to the dark.  The gallery wasn’t lit as the vestibule had been.

Nothing happened, which I thought was strange. Usually by this time in a dream, things began to lose sense, become fragmented, or to go away altogether in the need to roll over and fluff the pillow.

I stood waiting.

I am not a brave person. Curious, sometimes, and that can be a problem when combined with not being brave.

I became aware of an amber light coming from under a door on my left, beyond the newel post, and tucked in under a dusky, vaulted ceiling corner.  The landing I was standing on switched from expansive to disappearing behind me as I turned my concentration toward  the door.

The door was a grand gothic shaped door of honey colored wood, with curly, twining wrought iron strap hinges. Now it stood open a bit, not as if it were inviting, but  as if someone had forgotten to close it all the way.

I stood in the dark under the lowering ceiling, looking through the doorway into a yellow lit room. When I first looked, the room was large, like you would expect of a dining hall. A long table filled the center. The room quickly became a close, wood paneled library, and the table filled the space almost to the walls, with just enough room for the tall backed chairs and the people in them.

I say they were people, but I will never be sure. What I saw, sitting pulled in tight to the shining thick topped table, were figures in black pointed hooded robes. My first impression was that they were monks robes, but monks that I knew of didn’t wear that color black. Nothing wore that color black. It was the abscence of color, blackness.

I slipped into the room and stood quietly against the wall, just inside the door. I have no idea why I would do that, other than so far I had not felt any fear. I am not a brave person, remember.  I was, however, in the middle of my dream and I couldn’t seem to stop what was happening.

No one noticed me there, standing flat and silent.  I thought that was odd because I should have been quite visible in the room light. I stood for some time, just watching.

There were seven or nine black figures evenly spaced around the table, with one figure at the far end, at the table head. They were all engaged in an intense discussion, an arrangement of some sort, none of which I heard or understood, but I knew it was of deep import, and sinister.

I was suddenly terrified. I felt myself burn with fright in my sleep. I realized that I should not be knowing what I was seeing.

At that exact moment, when I knew I shouldn’t be there, I saw all the figures become momentarily distracted, and the discussions among them abruptly stopped.  They all turned facelessly toward where I stood, but seemed totally unable to see me. I stood frozen. My heart beat in my ears. I knew they had to hear it.

The black and pointed creatures suddenly became furious, aware of my presence, but unable to see me. They thrashed about in their chairs, but the closeness of the walls prevented them from standing or moving. They knew something, someone, was in the room eavesdropping, and needed to be found, and die.

I knew that my dream would thwart me from finding the door, and the staircase, and escape. My dreams always did that.

But this time, I found the door, I melted through it. I found the staircase. I woke up.

Leslie