I could hear the sound of a tinny radio above the chatter of conversation, the sizzle of barbecues and the distant sound of children laughing. The End by The Doors. Jim Morrison was singing something about elaborate plans and summer rain.
The dream, when it surfaces, always starts with that damned song. Then the smells: the slightly damp odour of the canvas tent, the summer air thick with humidity. The sky had opened up earlier that evening and everyone retreated to their tents. The parched ground had become soggy and the roof of the tent had started to sag.
“Where’s Lucy?”
The question always incites a sinking feeling. My sister’s voice is laced with concern and criticism. She doesn’t say it, but the meaning is implied.
You were supposed to be watching her.
There is a flurry of shouts as our voices cry out into the dusk. In the dream, our voices are muted. Alarm gnaws away at the pit of my stomach. There is a flurry of movement and activity. the concerned faces of other campers.
We have to find her.
Every minute that a child is missing, increases the chance that they might not come back. I remember clinging desperately to the idea that she might be visiting friends and the sickening, slipping sensation that followed.
Jane headed towards the activity centre at the far end of the caravan park. The collection of old board games and promise of table tennis never failed to attract the kids. I nodded and turned towards the beach. She knew she wasn’t supposed to go down there at night. I took off at a sprint, running up the narrow sandy path, tea trees scratching against my face in the half-light. I turned a sharp corner and collided with someone. Collapsing, the breath knocked out of me for a moment, I started to apologise and explain myself. Then I noticed what he was wearing. It immediately struck me as wrong. The dream only intensifies that feeling of dissonance, the feeling of reality and normalcy slipping away. Our eyes lock and he reaches into the dark, crimson robe, producing a knife. At that point, training kicks in and I’m on my feet. There is a sudden, savage burst of movement as he lunges forward. I dodge and deflect the blade, turning away and regaining my balance before he can strike again. I feel a sudden surge of adrenalin and know, in the surreal certainty that comes with lucid dreams, that I’ll be awake soon, disoriented and gasping for breath. In the moment, instinct dictated the next few seconds. In the dream, I’m overwhelmed by feelings of alarm and inevitability. I’ve been caught off-guard and completely unprepared and I know that I won’t make it to the foreshore in time.
The man recovers his footing and lashes out again. This time I’m not quick enough and the knife glances off my arm. There is a sudden, searing flash of pain. I grit my teeth, grimace, and before he can strike again, my fingers close around his knife arm and I punch. My fist connects with his nose. There is a satisfying crunch of cartilage and bone. He drops the knife, stumbles and falls backwards, crashing to the ground. In the growing darkness, the blood from his nose is black. I could see his white teeth as he smiled.
“You’re too late,” he said, gesturing towards the beach. “You can’t stop it.”
In that instant, I knew he wastalking about Lucy. I kick him savagely, hear him cry out in agony, grab the knife and turn towards beach. The sand was impossibly soft as I sprinted up the narrow, winding track. It was almost completely dark beneath the canopy of twisted branches. When I burst onto the beach, there was enough moonlight to get my bearings and see the tiny figure in the denim dress and striped t-shirt.
My heart sank and I was overcome by a dream-like sense of disbelief and desperation.
I’d arrived too late.
I screamed her name from the crest of the dunes and started running. The tide was completely out and she was standing on the edge of the water. She swayed slightly, as if hypnotised., and I tried to focus on the thing in front of her. There were moments of clarity when I managed to glimpse its entirety.: a sprawling, seething mass of tentacles that rose and fell with the ebb of the waves. When I tried to focus more intently, to comprehend what I was seeing, my eyes seemed to slide off it as if it wasn’t actually there. I grasped the knife tighter and increased my pace, lungs burning with exertion as my feet slammed into the sand. Nearer now, I could taste the stench of it. With a primal, guttural scream of desperation, I raised the knife over my head and launched myself into the water.
In the dream, it feels like the very nature of reality pulsed and shifted.
I was alone.
I was sobbing in the shallow water, looking around desperately for the small, delicate figure in the denim overalls.
In the moonlight, with snot and tears running down my face and the taste of saltwater in my mouth, I looked down at the gleaming knife with its intricately carved tentacles rising up from the pommel.
Contrary to what you might be thinking, that wasn’t the moment everything changed. That happened much later.