The other night

I felt my heartbeat thump as I dreamt this baby up.

I was waiting in line at a county fair and noticed that the various lines were in the shape of a cross within a square.  The line began moving, and I was able to cut in front of the line because Fred was the director of my section.  In order to get into the event, we had to wear photo I.D. around our necks.  My mother flirted with the photographer as she got her picture taken, and I posed on a wooden lawn chair for my picture.  When I turned my right shoulder in for the pose, I noticed my upper arm was littered with dark hair.

After the pictures, we entered a convenient store/lodge which was owned by Ceci’s parents.  It was nearing sundown, and Ceci needed to lock up the store.  I rushed through the aisles on a quest for Raisin Bran, but soon remembered that I’d be getting a box the following afternoon.  Ceci and I went into the lodge to turn off a few lights.  We went down a corridor with a door at the end that led back to the convenient store.  Before we stepped through the door, Ceci rearranged the doormats; there were seven or eight mats in a pile.

We entered the door to the store and heard the photographer speak to the group about the pros and cons of his profession.  I grabbed something quick to eat before meeting up with the group who waited around the corner.  As I made my way toward them, I noticed a dead black rat on the floor.  A few members of the group began shrieking.  It was fairly dark in the store, but I was able to make out a rat running around with a trap on its tail.  I lost sight of it for a moment, then it brushed up against my ankle.  To calm the group, the photographer killed the rat.

A knock at the door froze the group’s chatter.  A tattered pig-like mask was framed by the door’s window.  There was a medium sized mirror on an adjacent wall that reflected a different mask from the window.  The mask in the mirror was of a scarecrow.

I realized that I was inside a glass case, and although the masked man could see me, I felt somewhat safer in there.  I called out to the photographer and said, “That guy is back.”  He replied in an unfamiliar Italian accent, “He has a name.  ________   ________.” (I couldn’t recall the name when I woke up, but it wasn’t one of those “John Smith” ones.  Russian, maybe.)

Crazy thing is, I think the eyes behind the mask were intently staring at me alone.


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