Dream Come True

A nightmare unfolds into reality

As a young man, I had a recurring nightmare that filled me with dread.
It never changed, and the events played out in a fixed, cyclic manner—no more, no less.
A repeated loop, if you will.
This is what I dreamt.






I was driving through the high downland in one of the south-western counties. The day was hot, and a warm, gusty wind swept the treetops as I explored the narrow, meandering lanes of the dry chalk hills. Nearing the summit of one, an unmade gravel track rose steeply into the dark, gloomy woods. A long-forgotten wooden signpost stood half hidden in the hedgerow, and on it, in barely legible words, was the legend ‘To the church.’ I’ve always enjoyed wandering around these old, tumbled-down edifices, and their equally decrepit graveyards, so the decision to see what it had to offer was an easy one. I swung the car round and began slowly to ascend the uninviting byway, which was barely wide enough to pass along without scuffing the mirrors. After a few hundred yards, I stopped and listened. The woods were silent, and, apart from the mew of a buzzard somewhere high overhead, I heard no other sounds of life. The sultry breeze funnelled through the cutting, the hedges rustled and creaked eerily, and last year's dead leaves whirled madly up the road in erratic spirals.

I continued on, and soon came to the lane's end, high above the surrounding countryside. Before me was a plateau of level ground, and at its centre stood the church. Majestic lime trees ringed the domain, fragrant with pollen, their branches swaying in the heated air. I parked the car at the lychgate and got out, the summer sun searing after the vehicle's cool interior. The valley was thickly wooded as far as the eye could see, and shimmered in the almost tropical haze of June.

I approached along the cracked and rutted pathway, the chapel looming over me, its stone old and crumbling, weather-worn from centuries of winters past. Standing before the huge worm-eaten door, I tried the handle—locked, of course. In frustration, I rattled it and turned away, intending to take a tour of the churchyard. However, after only a few steps, a loud creak sounded, and, looking once more at the entrance, I noticed a curious thing: the ancient doorway now stood a few inches ajar. I hurried back and was soon inside, eyes blinking in the sudden dark after the blazing sunshine outside.

The interior was cold and musty, as though the place had been shut up since time out of mind.
I walked slowly along the nave; the pews were in a sorry state, splintered and cracked.
Age and damp had taken their toll on them. The whole place was rotten and filthy, unloved and uncared-for, spiritually abandoned. At the western end stood a huge box tomb, raised on a dais, and festooned with cobwebs. On its side was a short inscription…

Lady Sarah Twyden, 1535–1590

May the Lord grant that she lies still.

This troubled me for some reason I couldn’t quite fathom, and I quickly retraced my steps back towards the altar. Standing at the steps, I gazed up at the stained-glass, a fine piece of work and in good repair.
About the only feature in this long-abandoned place of worship to have escaped the ravages of time and neglect, it seemed. I stood admiring this workmanship from a bygone age, lost in otherworldly thoughts that crept through me. Suddenly, and without any warning, a deafening crash echoed through the church and on up into the mouldering rafters. Turning in that slow-motion helplessness of the dream state, I gazed in terror at the dark figure outlined before the firmly shut door. The form was tall and elegant, attired in clothes from a bygone age. And then, with a speed that was uncanny, it rushed at me, eyes red and lurid, the teeth sharp and white.



At this point, I always screamed myself awake, sheathed in sweat, the bedclothes thrashed onto the floor.
Over time, however, the nightmare came to me less and less.
And by my later years, it had ceased altogether, just a distant memory.


Return

An old friend had invited me down for the weekend at his place on the Dorset-Devon border.
I was free and gladly accepted; the south-west was a particular favourite of mine.
Peace and quiet, a world away from hectic city life. I set off on a burning July day, eager to be away from the superheated town centre. Heading into Dorset, a major diversion was sending westbound travellers over the downs to link up with the main route some miles further on. I was not unduly bothered; dawdling along the untravelled chalk roads was always a pleasure. The scenery and views were spectacular in the peak of summer.

Approaching the crest of one hill, much higher than its neighbours, something caught my attention and I stood on the brake sharply. It was an ancient dirt track rising up through dense woodland. Nearly obscured in the brambles was a weather-beaten wooden signpost, ‘To the church’ it announced, the letters faded with age. My heart thumped in my chest, and, as if from the depths of time, came the recollection of the nightmare from so long ago. I sat in the car, anxious and perturbed; could a dream from decades before be a vision of events yet to unfold? For a long time, I pondered my next move; fear and curiosity fought a close fight.

Curiosity won out, and reversing sharply a few yards, I turned onto the gravel track that led to… who knew what. The unmade road, the silent woods, even the circling buzzard seemed just as I recalled it; in fact, it followed the nightmare exactly as far as I could remember. At the crest of the hill stood the church, just as I had known it would be. The flowers of the limes perfumed the air, and the valley rippled in the heat. Standing on the cracked, rutted path, a wave of indecision washed over me. But there was a kind of inevitability to it all, so, determined to see it through, I walked to the door. It stood ajar by a few inches, and, with what seemed like an act of desperation, I swung it wide and strode over the threshold.

Inside was a mirror image of my sleeping dread: damp and mould, cracked and splintered woodwork, and, at the western wall, dominating the scene, the tomb of Lady Sarah Twyden. I stood before it in trepidation and read the inscription that had haunted me for so many years. “Who were you, Lady Sarah?”
I whispered softly, “What were you?” As if in answer, and almost as though I knew it was going to happen, a thunderous crash rocked the building as the massive door slammed shut. A stately, graceful form stood in the shadowy gloom, and then, in a bewildering flash, closed the space between us. The last thing I was aware of was red eyes and sharp white teeth, and a sensation like drowning in crimson waters.

Slowly, the world came back into focus, and I realised I lay on the chapel floor, staring at the decayed rafters. An elderly couple were bending over me, fear and concern in their eyes. Gently, they helped me to my feet and on to one of the dilapidated pews. When I could speak in a coherent manner, I asked them what had happened. “Found you passed out by the tomb,” said the old man in a strong Dorset accent. “Saw you drive up the track to the church, and the missus insisted we check to see if you were alright.” I thanked them gratefully for their kind assistance. “You’re welcome,” said the wife. “This place hasn’t been fit to be in for hundreds of years—not since she… it, came,” nodding towards the cobweb-covered tomb. Her voice was soft and refined, unlike her spouses broad local dialect. She was a striking looking woman, tall and upright, with the blackest, most brilliant eyes I had ever seen. She moved smoothly, and with a suppleness that belied her years. In complete contrast to her bent, arthritic husband.

Outside in the brilliant sunshine, I thanked both of them again, and we bade our farewells.
“Going to get that doorway bricked up, good and proper,” said the old chap. “Can’t be having any more visitors going through what you did.” I asked if they were the guardians of the church. “You could say that,” he answered. “Least-ways, we try and see to it that no harm comes to those that stumble over this place by accident.” I walked with them down the path, the old lady holding my arm in a protective manner. As we stood by the car, she turned and kissed my cheek. “I do hope you’ll be okay my love,” she whispered, gazing at me with scintillating dark eyes that glistened tearfully. And in those eyes I saw something more, not just affection, but a stronger emotion, just below the surface. A desire to help, and keep a stranger safe, even if that wish would ultimately prove to be futile. It led me deep into myself, to a place still undiscovered. When I awoke from my reverie, the old couple were nearly out of sight along the winding lane. Their figures vague and indistinct. I could not recall their leaving, my only memory was an old man's voice saying… “Hurry up, Sarah, we have to go.” I sat for a long time on the lychgate seat, lost in thought. Who was this lady, still elegant and youthful despite the passage of time? The name alone was tantalising, could she possibly come from the same blood-line as Lady Sarah…a direct family descendant born centuries later? But now, instead of a malevolent figure, one that had tried throughout her life to protect others from dangers the same as I had just experienced. And ones she knew all too well.

Later that day, I finally arrived at my friend's house. I said nothing about my experience at the church.
Blaming the long diversion as my reason for taking so long to reach him.
In the evening I stood in front of the mirror, intending to shave, but something caught my gaze.
Something I hadn’t noticed until that point.
On my throat, just below the jaw, were two red-rimmed punctures.


Transformation

Several weeks have now elapsed since my encounter in Dorset.
A change has come upon me; the marks on my throat have vanished, my skin has the pallor of bleached bone, and my teeth are whiter and sharper than previously. My appetite has dwindled to nothing, and clothes hang loosely on my thin body. My eyes have darkened, tinged with red. A calling comes to me from the west, and I understand what I must now do. I will journey one last time to that known landmark and walk along the broken path to the ancient doorway. Access to the church will not be difficult, even if the old man has sealed the entrance. My shifting form will pass through where others may not enter; bricks and mortar will be no barrier. I will stand before my Lady’s tomb and call her name.
And there, in that forgotten house of God, shunned by all who believe, we will dwell together…
For all eternity.