My wife hates when I tell her my dreams.
I understand, really, since dreams have crap plots and make little sense and rarely, if ever, end properly. But I think there’s two kinds of writers: those that write from life, and those that write from dreams.
I write from dreams. Mostly nightmares.
Last night’s would be a nightmare in any proper sort of skull, but I don’t have a proper kind of skull.
I’m at a writer’s group in my old high school’s cafeteria, and I’m meeting a couple other writers I’ve never heard of or met before. One is this like fifteen-year-old kid with thirty published bestsellers under his belt, and the others this older, swarthy Canadian I think I went to college with. He hasn’t finished his first book yet.
Well, we get to talking, and, though I’m burning with envy at this prodigy I’m sitting with, we all kind of hit it off and decide to go on a road trip together. Apparently Nyarlathotep (Yes, the Lovecraftian Horror) is going to emerge from the Pit not far from town, and rumors have it that Death himself is making a guest appearance too. That’s it, we think, this has to be the big one.
It’s gotta be the apocalypse.
We’re not going to miss this for the world! We stop and get pull and peel twizzlers from the convenience store, then we drive and we drive and the prodigy, who’s driving, won’t stop again for anything. We chat and play road games. Finally we get to the Pit, and it’s already pretty late as we’re pulling in. From outside it looks like the Renaissance fair.
At the entrance there are two green and gangling creatures with dog heads and mantis limbs, and, before guiding us to our spot in the parking lot, they pull the Canadian screaming from the car. They strip him naked and pull him away into the dark of this huge barn, and inside we can see rows and rows of bare bodies hung on meat hooks like old clothes hung out to dry.
This doesn’t faze us; I remember thinking I was lucky it wasn’t me, and thinking how smart it was of us to trick him into coming. The beasts, now wearing orange fluorescent vests like those guys in carnival parking lawns, lead us to our spot, and we pull beach chairs and a blanket from the station wagon’s trunk.
The Pit is in fact a giant volcano, and we pull up our chairs on the steep hill descending toward the infinite black center. We’re eager, and eating kettle corn and cotton candy. Someone else brought a keg, and we envy their forethought. It’s kind of like how I imagine burning man, except probably with a lot more people literally on fire.
Then, as dusk comes, Nyarlathotep starts to rise. The tentacles boil from the Pit, and I can feel my sanity burning and leaking out of my eyes. I can’t look away from it, but I can’t understand it, either. It looks like an elephant, sort of, and it’s moaning deep and echoing and that noise is the only thing I can hear or will hear ever again. Fire sprouts from it as it crawls from the Pit, and the sky has turned so blood red that it’s started dripping.
We start screaming, and running, and the apocalypse has begun and I wake up.
Best night’s sleep I’ve had in a while.