I open my eyes amidst a deep unsettled sleep, and find myself back in the farm house. I’m standing alone, in a long nightgown, in the living room.  Next to me is the worn couch with the crocheted blanket draped across. Across the room is the cabinet in the corner, it holds a lifetime of glasses, quietly reflecting the dim light. Its storming outside. The wind blowing stronger, branches tapping on the window panes.

My hand runs over the wooden buffet, pictures lay scattered across the top, the smell of Pledge drifts through the air. I kneel, and draw my finger across the key hole, recalling the cold odd shaped metal key that fit perfectly there.

 I’m drawn to the stairs, peer up, the lights are on but it all seems grey. My foot hesitantly presses on the first step, it creaks under the weight.  I see the hooks on the wall, holding coats from years past, I continue up the stairs, each step taking me closer, finally I reach the slight curve at the top, and then my foot touches the landing.

 The windows are open, the wind blows in, the rain falling heavily on the tin roof. The lights are faded, the picture in black and white.  The bedroom door to the left is almost closed; I walk past but do not go in.  The door on the right is open, the room is dark. My heart begins to race, my mind saying don’t go in, but my body moving ahead with no hesitation. The darkness encases me. Heavy, it lays across my shoulder as a burden. I see the outline of the bed where I’d slept all those summer nights. The stale smell of dust and history fills my nose. The ghost stories of yesterday fill my mind. The clock chimes midnight, the man hangs limp from the rope tied tightly to the board on the ceiling. A little girl, blankets over her head, willing the clock to move.

 The shadows move, I pause, my head begins to spin, I blink the images back, but the refuse to leave. The window, a glisten of light catches my eye. I walk towards it, lightening flashes across the sky… thunder rumbles loudly in the darkness.  The storm is closer.

My heart catches in my throat as I stand before the window. I can see the shop building across the lane. The stone building sits cold and unsettling in the night air. A light flickers in the upper room.  My eyes fix on the window. The image of a man appears, he face cold and uncaring, eyes, seemingly dead, stare across at me, looking beyond my eyes and into my soul.  He knows me. Sweat beads on my forehead, the beating of my heart fills my ears. Panic grips my heart. I cannot move. I blink, lightening flashes, he’s gone.

Suddenly, the closet door creaks open behind me.  Footsteps.  Thunder claps. Lightening lights up the room. A hand touches my shoulder. I scream and suddenly I am awake. The smell of rain fills the room as lay there trying to forget.

It is always the same, week after week. The same dream, the same fear, the same panic. I know the face, but cannot place it. The eyes, the smells, all so well known, but the fog of the dream clouds my memory.  It frustrates me, that at 35, I cannot get past this dream.  I don’t know how to stop make it stop, the question looming do I know who the man is? What I do know is that waking up terrified has become a habit. I wonder when it will end, when I’ll sleep through the night without seeing his face. I wonder if he dreams of me too.

“When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep. “ ~William Butler Yeats

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