Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Capture 

    It was an extremely cold Friday in July of 2017 when I discovered that my cat violently vomited up his internal organs and flopped onto the floor while spinning in circles. I had decided, “That is the last straw,” and signed up for internet courses in veterinary school. As a single father of one cat and over 3 cacti, I knew that medicine was my calling.  After watching several mob movies, I realized that I could also make a killing on the side removing bullets from shady criminal types. 

    My mother had always warned me that the internet would teach me more than I had bargained for.  And the Harvard Online School of Veterinary Studies was no exception.  Or maybe the site was Hardvard?  Perhaps if I spent my remaining inheritance on glasses instead of rum flavored envelopes, extremely rare Pez dispensers, and erotically shaped bagels, I could have told you for sure. With my tuition paid, it was time to learn.  I opened the browser window for the online veterinary school and began my course. 

    There was the face of an elderly looking woman on the screen who was holding a phone to her withered face.  Just as the lecture was beginning, my phone rang.  The number calling was listed as “Restricted” as the Adam West's Batman theme song was played on my phone.  With a strange trepidation, I accepted the call and mumbled “Hello?” somewhat stupidly into the receiver.  “Why hello there young man!”, the elderly woman said in a cheerful but creaky voice.  I could clearly hear her voice both on my phone and the computer screen. 

    My dead cat (which I hadn't picked up off the living room floor) began to shake and tremble violently on the hardwood floor, which remained its final resting place.  The terrible shaking of the cat's cadavers pushed aside the copy of last week's newspaper I had thrown over his entrails (until I bothered to clean them up.)  My stunned silence drew a coy smile from the woman on the screen, whose voice was synced perfectly with the phone call sent to me.  “You're in the shit now, you ungrateful little ass sucker!” the old woman cried with a certain savage delight.   

    My eyes quickly darted from a deranged old lady who began cackling at me, to the convulsing dead cat.  That old woman scared the life out of me, with her eyes turned a sickly glowing yellow.  I mean, no iris, no white, just all yellow.  I began pondering the possibility of having my tuition money refunded back to me.  That might be a bit short sighted, considering that there might be something in the coursework about this type of phenomenon.    

    Some force of curiosity and genuine concern for my cat prompted me to stand up from my computer chair and walk toward the center of the living room where the corpse of the cat was flopping around like a fish out of water.  It was when I could see Mr. Stinkopede's eyes, that I observed the same eerie yellow glow emanating from them.  I could hear the old woman’s voice still laughing through the computer monitor.  It was when I approached my open-mouthed cat, that I realized her cackling was also coming through the cat’s slack mouth as well.  I nervously excused myself to go to the store to get a pack of smokes. 

    My name is Johnny, and I spend most of my time posting on internet forums and critiquing YouTube videos.  No one usually asks for my opinion, which is why I feel obligated to ram it down their throat.  I was raised by my parents in a quaint little town in the suburbs outside some random metropolis.  The moment I could work, I began saving money and moved out to a small town far from the metropolis or the suburbs where I was raised. 

    School was always hell for me, as I loathed anything militarized.  And public schooling is no exception.  I spent most of my time playing video games and reading fantasy novels.  I was always a big nerd and kept to myself.  The words “crazy loner” gets tossed around a lot.  And that describes me perfectly.  Still, I managed to find friendship here and there and always stayed in contact with my mother.  She is a sweetheart, and I owe her whatever sanity I have kept. 

    Living on my own brought little in the way of adventure or change in my life.  I found myself surrounded by a dick for a neighbor, harassed by Jehovah's witnesses regularly, and the victim of a series of morning bird chirps that often woke me up at 4 am, after falling asleep at 1 am.  I lost my father 2 years ago to a heart attack.  He left what little he had to me.  Yes, life was good.  But good things never last, and the summer of 2017 was the ultimate proof of that. 

    It was when I stepped out of my front door, that I realized my vehicle outside had been stripped of all its parts.  My 2004 Honda Civic was missing its engine and the tires were replaced with cinder blocks.  Also, the party that had stripped my car also took the time to vandalize what was left of the shell.  My once proud vehicle now stood shamefully by the curb with a series of phallic images spray painted on the side of it.  I scratched the back of my head nervously and I noticed my neighbor to the left of my house was grinning broadly while watering his daffodils.  He was a tan skinned dude-bro with tattoos covering his muscled biceps and neck. 

    “Wow, bruh. Your car looks shittier than usual.  I know a guy who has a shop nearby and he can hook you up.”  His voice had a deep guttural quality about it.  He looked like he could barely suppress his laughter at the end of the statement.  “I am sure I would get a fair deal,” I moaned sardonically.  He gave me a hard look and dropped his hose and puffed out his chest.  “You got a real attitude problem, my little friend,” He noted in a confrontational tone.  I rolled my eyes and continued to walk toward the car, trying to maintain my nerves while my cat and some random online professor wickedly laughed at my predicament.  The hairs on the back of my neck began to prick upwardly each step I took toward my defiled vehicle.  My heart began thumping like a jackhammer.  My neighbor was shouting something about “Liberal Pussies” while I slowly approached the vandalized vehicle.   

    I was close enough to the car to see red liquid covering the interior.  A chill went down my spine.  Did I mention it was extremely cold in July?  Like, 37 degrees Fahrenheit cold.  My neighbor, who insisted on wearing shorts and a tank top, because it was July, yelled, “Global warming my ass!”  I wanted to correct him, and say that it was climate change, but the notion of correcting a man who insisted on keeping a weight bench on the front lawn and a gun in the garage seemed fruitless.  The distraction that my neighbor provided allowed me to muster the courage to get a clear look inside the car.  I gasped as I discovered that there were human hands scattered around the floor and seats of my car.  

    I turned down the sidewalk and began walking down the street trying to act as if I had seen nothing.  My thoughts quickly turned to authorities questioning me and sending me to some institution for a lifetime of hard labor and anal rape.  More pressing thoughts stole my attention however, as I realized that I was wearing sweatpants and a thin long sleeve shirt.  Hardly sufficient to combat the coldness which enveloped me as I made it down the sidewalk with no discernible destination.  My coat was still inside the house. Frankly, I was terrified of walking back in there. The cold was stinging my extremities, and I started to walk back to my house.  The thought of the cat and the computer filled my thoughts, and I turned back around.  This continued 5 or 6 times, with me feeling like a complete madman pacing back and forth.   

    I noticed a rather portly woman peering through the window of her Dutch colonial style home disapprovingly, as she shoveled Oreos into her mouth at an alarming pace. I was cursing myself for being so indecisive and unprepared.  I stood still for a moment while the cold ate away at my resolve.  I thought I noticed her dart behind the curtain.  She came back into view holding a phone.  I wanted to simply return home but I was not a man to play around with the supernatural. I decided that a trip to Walmart would be the answer.  I would need to buy a new coat and figure out my game plan as I trudged onward.   

    I estimated that the trip to Walmart would take roughly over an hour on foot.  As I trudged onward through the suburbs, I occupied my mind by trying to recall the ingredients list on a Diet Pepsi.  It was a challenging but rewarding exercise that kept the one thought that I feared most out of my mind.  “You are going insane.”  On the way to Walmart, I counted over a dozen dead birds laying around the ground or on the road.  Obviously, the cold weather was a bit too much for them.  It would have been for me, but the brisk pace I kept staved off the worst of the cold.  Barely any cars were out driving.  I had figured it was around 2 pm, and without my cell phone, it was uncertain.  While taking a mental inventory of the time and failing at quizzing myself about the ingredients list numerous times, I suddenly realized that I had forgotten my wallet as well.  How would I get the money for a coat now? 

    I cursed myself for being too proud to panhandle.  I couldn't work out a formula of what to say, or how to say it.  My first thought would be that people would expect I would use the money for booze or that Walmart security would throw me off the premises.  Since I was this close to the store, it seemed more worthwhile just to walk around the store while I warmed up a bit.  Just leading up to the corner of the road that held my destination, I saw a police cruiser.  A lone Hispanic looking female officer was in the driver's seat.  There was something odd about her.  I strained my eyes hard to get a better look at her, and I noticed her eyes were dead set locked on me.  My pace accelerated as I walked closer to the street that held my destination.  I nervously waved her direction, but a hard stare was all that I was received by.  I was almost jogging by the time I got into the parking lot of Walmart.   

    There were a record-breaking number of cars in the parking lot. 4.  I mean, I live in a small town, but damn, 4?  This sent another fear induced chill up my spine.  The fact that my fingers and face stung from the cold didn't help either.  I approached the front doors and tried to keep my confidence level up.  Panhandling, already a dismal option, seemed worse than ever.  It felt like a better time than ever to steal what I needed.  I really hate admitting this ethical lapse, but I felt I was entitled.  I, to this day, give myself a pass on that one. 

    I entered into the gates of Walmart to be greeted by what looked like an aging hipster who defied Corporate America by sporting shaggy hair and an unkempt beard.  “Hello brother,” he whispered in an oddly hushed tone.  Something about the look on his face told me that he understood what the hell I was going through.  “Ahh, uhh... Something really weird is going on.  I...,” I started but he looked in the other direction and said in a mechanical tone, “Men's clothing is the last aisle on the left. Jackets on the far-right side on the wall.”  I wanted to ask how he knew what I was after but decided against it for some reason.

    I crept down the aisle looking for signs of other customers or employees who might hinder me on my caper.  As I made my journey down the aisle, I noted that the radio was playing a song I had never heard before.  It almost sounded like a combination of free-form jazz and techno.  The beat was incredibly discordant.  The harder I listened to it, the more I felt my balance failing me.  I nearly tripped over one of the U-Boats that was left empty and unattended near the pet food section.  The lyrics were awful.  Something about how true love was fornicating with raisin bread.  Apparently, the greeter knew the lyrics for the perverse song and was howling along with them like a sickly hound dog. 

    After what seemed like hours, I was in the men's clothing section.  I looked over at a plethora of coats before one truly caught my eye.  It was a light brown coat adorned with numerous patches and pockets.  I looked at the tag on the inside of the coat and it identified the coat as a “Byzwik: Made in Sri Lanka. $49.99.”  I inspected the patches on the coat and was a bit amused.  One said, “My other car is your mother.” and another that said “Ass, cash, or vaccines.  No one rides for free.”  A third that said, “industrial waste,” and a small image of an arrow pointing down to the wearer's crotch.  I made a note to remove the more offensive ones not listed here.  It was when I was inspecting the coat I made a startling discovery. 

    There was something rectangular lodged in the inner pocket of the coat.  I pulled out what literally inspired an erection.  It was a huge stack of one-hundred-dollar bills held together by a rubber band.  Also, there was a folded-up photograph.  It was a picture of an elderly interracial couple locked in an amorous position.  Now when I tell you that I had an erection inspired by what I found, I swear that it was from the money.  I tucked the stack of cash into the back waistband of my sweatpants and put the photo into the jacket pocket.   That might come in handy someday...

    I happily walked back toward the counter, pleased that I wouldn't need to make a hasty getaway from the greeter.  As I bounded over to the self-checkout, I realized that I could purchase a prepaid cell phone so I might call my mother and check on her.  I would have called my father, but he was still dead.  I grabbed a decent looking burner and surreptitiously pulled a 100 from the wad in my pants.  With an abundance of pockets, this jacket would at least eliminate the need for such a system.   

    I followed the prompt on the machine as I scanned my two items.  The prices rang up and there was the briefest moment something on the screen changed.  Before I could pick my payment type as cash on the machine, there was an interruption of video feed that covered the space of the monitor.  It was a gaunt looking bald man in his mid 70's.  His hair was long and stringy and combed over in a few small areas.  He was calmly eating what looked like a human limb.  Yes, it was a human limb upon further inspection.  He was eating another person's right arm.  He pulled his fork and a chunk of meat from the severed bicep and gingerly bit into raw human flesh.  After politely chewing his meal, he looked right at the camera and winked.  The feed stopped at the checkout prompt, then returned to its normal state.   

    “Jesus! Save me!”  I cried in utter terror.  The greeter looked over to me and yelled “Oh! He wouldn't bother!” and a cascade of throaty laughter followed.  Despite being completely horrified, I managed to feed the bills into the machine to pay for the coat and phone.  I collected the printed receipt and started toward the doors but found myself walking to the men's room instead.  I pushed open the door, while I breathed heavily, propping myself up on the sink until my heart rate could stabilize.  I gazed long and hard into the mirror, half expecting my reflection to jump out and apply a vicious choke hold on me. 

    I started splashing water into my face and praying that whatever nightmare I was living in, would stop.  I just wanted things to go back to normal.  I began sobbing.  My life seemed so warped, and I missed my cat.  Mr. Stinkopede was going to rot on the floor of my house.  What killed me most of all, was the fact that he would never earn that PhD in abnormal psychology, and become Dr. Stinkopede, like he always wanted.  I would have asked him to take me on as a client given the circumstances, but then again, psychologists don't usually take family as clients anyway.  I scolded myself for being so stupid.  I wiped the tears off my face and splashed more water on myself.  When I felt fully composed, I felt a moment of cleverness come on.  I moved a couple hundreds in my right sock and a few in a couple different pockets.  After relocating to the closest stall, I lodged a good-sized roll of them up my anus for good measure.   

    I did a slightly bow-legged walk out of the bathroom and toward the exit of Walmart with my new coat on and receipt in hand.  The greeter gave me a disinterested nod, and I walked into the foyer.  At least it would still be warm there when I called a taxi to my mother's house.  The setup of the new phone took a few minutes given the condition my mind was in.  It was an unusually arduous challenge.  Finally, after the setup was completed, I could call the local taxi service and get the hell out of this town.  The moment the prerecorded voice told me that the service was active however, something else took priority.   

    I noticed a white van pulling up to the front of the Walmart. Several large men dressed in white exited the van and entered the Walmart foyer.  I dropped the phone just before they approached me. “I am not insane! I am lucid and in control!” I screamed as they tackled me.  They dragged me outside, opened the back hatch of the van, and stuffed me inside.  The last thing I saw outside the interior of a padded van was the police officer I had seen on the way to Walmart with a smug smile on her face. 

I felt a pinprick on my neck during my capture. Everything turned to black. That was 3 years ago. 

 

    I hated everything about the mental institution to which I was remanded.  Well, everything except one thing, the fact that everything seemed more or less normal.  Horrible, yes, but without all of the strange supernatural phenomenon visiting me regularly.  They had me on high doses of anti-psychotic medications, which I grudgingly accepted might be the cause of the episode I was suffering.  The doctor (who we will refer to as “Dr. Sprinkles”) was adamant that I suffered a series of hallucinations and delusions based on a previously untreated condition.   

    Dr. Sprinkles was a man of Indian descent who spoke with a thick accent, which called for many repetitions of what he told me.  Out of child-like revenge, I would invent and use slang that I had made up on the fly, so he would have to ask for explanations.  It wasn't the kindest way to treat an immigrant, but I was terribly resentful that I was placed in this institution.  The sessions with Dr. Sprinkles ended the same way every time.  I would ask when I could leave, and he told me that when I had made sufficient progress, he would notify the review board. 

    The other patients were almost impossible to hold a conversation with.  Many of them would burst into conspiracy tirades, begin sobbing uncontrollably, make bold religious proclamations, or simply spout incomprehensible garble.  I truly felt like the belle of the ball here.  For the most part, people left me alone.  This went for the outside as well.  In the three years I spent in the institution, I had no visitors.  No friends, no family, and not even some jerk off looking to get a good laugh at my expense.  It was clear to me that I was not at this institution through the normal channels of such a process. I was certain I was being illegally detained.  This did not help the overwhelming feelings that I was a target of some kind. 

    There was little to do that I enjoyed besides walk around the grounds and watch ants crawl around the dirt.  I found myself wondering what the ants might do if one of their own went insane.  Send him off to his own ant hill?  Send him off to battle to die fighting other ants?  Or perhaps the queen devoured him.  Strange thoughts like this helped pass the time.  Or thoughts such as, pondering where the roll of 100’s that were deeply lodged in my rectum went off to.     

    A rather pale skinned and sleepy faced young woman asked me why I stared at the ants with such fascination.  I told her, “I was just wondering if society was much like an ant hill, and if I somehow pissed off the queen.”  She seemed to like my statement and burst into a giggling fit. “I don't know,” she said thoughtfully while brushing aside her auburn hair from the right side of her face.  “Neither do I,” I responded in a dull tone.  “I wonder what the ants would do if one of them went crazy like us.”  As she said this, she was looking down at the ant hill, while an involuntary shudder crept up my spine.  I had not shuddered like this since...the incident in July.  She returned her gaze to me and after a few seconds and offered her hand to me.  “I am Laurie.” 

    I hesitated to meet her hand with my own.  I had witnessed her use that hand to wipe her nose, scratch her privates, and harass a number of insects scurrying around the grounds at the hospital.  And that was just this morning.  After a moment, I decided that politeness would trump hygiene today.  I extended my hand and shook hers and finally introduced myself.  “My name is Johnathan, but I prefer to be called Johnny.” 

    The moment our hands came into contact, one of the staff members watching us shouted, “No touching!”  The combination of being scolded and grossed out left me with a strange impression.  It was like shame meeting revulsion.  “Well, it is almost time to go inside. It is arts and crafts next!”  She announced this gleefully, like I hadn't been here for three damn years.  “Yup,” I responded in a gruff monotone.  She bounded off with a certain spring in her step.  I certainly did not get her. 

    I hated arts and crafts.  Everything about it felt like a chore.  I would lob whatever I found on the supplies table onto a piece of paper to pass the time. It was like working on the most painfully boring chain gang in the world.  One particular Tuesday, the concept revolted me so much that I threw up my raisin bran on the piece of yellow construction paper I was working on.  The instructor running the class insisted that I immediately throw it out.  That was the only piece of art I thought she should have let dry and hang on the wall. 

    Arts and crafts proved to be more abnormal than usual.  I began by sitting down and coloring a picture of two ants locked in combat.  One was red and one was brown.  I thought it might provide a statement about the futility war and racially motivated violence.  I found the project both depressing and masochistically self indulgent.  After I grew weary of coloring the brown ant's head, I took a look out of the third story window in the art room for inspiration.  It was then I noticed something truly unnerving. 

    It was a pile of ants about the size of a roasted pheasant creeping up the glass of the window.  I blinked twice and considered asking Dr. Sprinkles to up my dose of meds again.  I pulled myself out of my seat gaining the attention of the fellow patients and the instructor.  I pressed my hand against the window of the glass, and I noticed that the pile of black insects scrambled on the thick unbreakable glass to form an identically shaped hand out of ants.  It was like two people pressing their hands against a wall of glass between them.  I couldn't believe it was real until I heard the hooting and whispers of the other patients.  This was really happening. 

    “Look at that!” one patient called out.  I could hear Laurie gasp and moan the words, “the ants are going crazy too!”  The instructor called out for me to take my hand off the glass like this was some elaborate plan that I had cooked up to get out of arts and crafts.  As soon as I peeled my hand off the glass, the pile of ants lost its form and collapsed with a countless number of ants falling off the outside window ledge.  The instructor pushed the “help” button and waited with folded arms for the orderlies to arrive. 

    Two burly looking men arrived at the scene and instinctively knew to grab me.  I tried to protest and complain that whatever had occurred was not of my doing.  Instead, what came out was a Porky Pig stutter and the words, “T-t-t-t-that's all folks.”  All eyes followed me as I was dragged unceremoniously from the room and into a small padded white cell.  While they restrained me into a strait jacket, I felt the old familiar prick of a Thorazine needle enter my body.  It was not going to be a fun day. 

    I lost track of time as the drool cascaded from my mouth like the Rivers of Ancient Babylon.  During the periods where I was not sleeping or shouting for a doctor, I spent my time trying to invent Sudoku puzzles in my head.  I suck with numbers and puzzles, so it was a lengthy experiment in failure.  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Dr. Sprinkles and his assistant arrived to discuss what happened.  “Are you going to remain calm?  I need your word that if my assistant removes your restraints, that you will not harm myself or him.” Dr. Sprinkles had a way of speaking in a tone that was oddly comforting while remaining incredibly pompous.  “Yessshhhh.” I responded, trying to shake off the effects of the medication. 

    We sat down in one of the conference rooms with one of the orderlies standing just outside the door.  Dr. Sprinkles had a glass of water in front of him and his assistant sat several chair lengths away, ready to scribble down any information on a large yellow legal pad.  The assistant looked like a med student with neatly trimmed blonde hair and thick glasses.  It was an interesting contrast to Dr. Sprinkles who was a late middle aged Indian man whose own mental illness was medicated by pastries and streaming miniseries.  Not to mention the orderly, who looked like he would be right at home at a demolition derby or bounty hunting bail jumpers.   

    Dr. Sprinkles cleared his throat to draw my attention away from my dreamy assessments of all their appearances.  “I want to talk to you about what happened in the arts and crafts center two days ago,” He sternly began.  “Oh, OK,” I responded innocently.  The doctor took a moment to pause and consider his next words carefully.  “What you have experienced in that room is, for lack of a better term, a shared hallucination.” He told me this as if I expected that was possible. “Excuse-?” I started to ask but he continued without noticing.  “Every once in a great, great while, there is a type of mind, that, well, defies the traditional categories of mental illness.  It is a person who by all accounts acts rationally, thinks rationally, and is sane but...” he trailed off to consider how to frame this devastating news. 

    “...if such a mind ever experiences a certain kind of trauma, that sort of schizophrenia is projected to those around them.  You, Johnathan-” He said, and I cut him off this time, “I prefer Johnny, thank you.”  He paused and said in an apologetic tone, “Of course, pardon me for forgetting.  I have a lot of patients, you know.”  He waited a moment then continued his revelation that I was almost certain would not be found in the DSM-V.  “Johnny, you are in this institution because your mind has become too dangerous to remain around the public.  You may not have been in crisis when we found you, but you became the crisis.”  He emphasized the word “became” like it was in the preview for Hollywood's next blockbuster psychological thriller. 

    I started to grow irate immediately.  “Why in hell did you wait three years to tell me this?!” I demanded not realizing that I jumped out of my chair and blood rushing to my head.  I saw in the corner of my eye the orderly began to open the door with a syringe in his hand.  Dr. Sprinkles shook his head, and the orderly backed down.  I found myself nervously sliding back into my chair.  I had to listen to this doctor.  I had to know what he was talking about.  I let out a protracted sigh and gestured for the doctor to continue. 

    “Johnny, your mind is a puzzle that we need to solve.  To unlock.  So that my colleagues and I can better understand why people experience mental illness.  Perhaps in whatever trauma you are experiencing, we can develop a lasting and very real cure for paranoid schizophrenia.”  Dr.  Sprinkles had a way and manner in his speech that for once in my warped and sad life, made me feel significant.  “How could I even help you at all?”  I asked skeptically, arching my right eyebrow upward.  “You must comply with the treatment Johnny.  You must stop playing games with me and tell me about yourself.  We must isolate whatever triggered this event in your mind that manifested in July.”  My heart sunk.  I had no idea what changed then, just that it had. 

    It seemed that every word that we exchanged was being furiously scribbled down by the assistant who appeared near orgasm from curiosity.  I also noticed that the orderly left the door open a pinch and was trying hard to decide if today was the day to quit his job and commit himself as well.  I would have liked to think he'd have the good sense to ask to go to another institution. The doctor had his hands neatly folded over his protruding belly as he waited for my reaction.  I gave him a sly look and asked, “How do you know whatever is going on is a hallucination and not something, weird, going on?”  The good doctor gave an honest shrug and said, “Our reality is governed by our perception of it.  How do we even know anything is real?”  Descartes, eat your heart out. 

    The doctor and I chatted for several more minutes about the usual stuff.  He mostly asked about my upbringing.  If I was abused, molested, or killed animals for fun.  Ever since he shared his insight with me, I couldn't help but fantasize about controlling this odd gift, if not to terrify people like my neighbor who would insult me, flex his muscles menacingly, and then loudly complain that I didn't stand up for myself.  Still, there was another problem: The doctor might have been full of it and there really was something completely unnatural going on.  It might ease his conscience to think it was me, and not that half the people he diagnosed were actually right about demons and apparitions. 

    The thoughts of whether I was an infectious crazy person or that everything they teach you in school is wrong haunted me throughout the night.  As my nighttime medications kicked in, the thoughts became a dull roar fading further and further from my grasp.  The more I tried to focus on an answer that suited me, the more new questions entered my mind.  They became fainter and fainter as I fell fast asleep.  The last thing I heard before entering my nightly induced coma was one of the other patients whispering to me “Don't forget about the ants.”   

    Moments after falling asleep, I found myself in an enormous tunnel deep within the Earth.  There were cocoons littered around the floor, plastered to the walls and ceiling of the tunnel.  They looked like they were wrapped by some kind of monstrous spider, and they contained person sized occupants all writing and struggling to break free.  The air in the tunnel was musty and acrid.  I could feel myself struggling to breathe.  Further down the tunnel I could hear whispers or singing.  I followed whatever instincts I had that pushed me forward.  I crept down the tunnel convinced that some kind of answer or escape would greet me there. 

    After walking past numerous more cocoons wrapped in slick glistening white strings, I began humming along with the whispers.  It was a freakish tune that was a mixture of horrifying and melodic.  Something about the visceral nature of this experience told me this was more than your average dream.  I could feel the hot breezes wafting from behind me, I could smell the ammonia scent oozing around my nostrils, and I could taste it as well.  Part of me wondered if I was suffocated in my sleep and this was a strange part of hell my unrepentant soul was condemned to.  My thoughts were interrupted by the sight of numerous small red glowing eyes peering at me from every dark corner of the tunnel. 

    I noticed these faintly glowing eyes were also the source of the humming.  I became deeply concerned that I was waltzing to my own funeral dirge.  Finally, after walking and humming for what I perceived to be hours, I entered a large chamber.  It was a large football shaped cavern about as large as the field said football would be used in.  There was a large cairn made of odd shaped igneous rocks in the center of the room.  Maybe they weren't igneous rocks, and I just wanted to appear scholarly in my assessment of them.  After they began to violently shake and pile together in an odd shape, I could have cared less. 

    The rocks combined into the shape of a large spider with the torso of a woman growing off it.  The rocks morphed from stone into flesh. Human and spider flesh.  The sight of the many legged spider lady caused me to lose what was left of my composure.  I instinctively formed the most manly of positions: the fetal position.  While curled in the fetal position, crying and telling myself “It is just a dream,” I felt a pair of powerful human arms scoop me up. My watery eyes opened just long enough to see the face of the girl I had the biggest crush on in high school looking at me. 

    I blinked and wiped the tears while she cradled me in her arms.  “Shh, you don't need to cry my love.” The spider-woman cooed with an air of genuine concern.  “I've eaten my fill today.” She added, revealing rows of razor sharp, needle-like teeth.  I assure you; those dental peculiarities were not shared by my former crush.  I tried to say something but couldn't find any words.  “You need to know what you are experiencing is real.  Your mind is little different from any other mortal in the world you inhabit.”  She looked up thoughtfully and continued, “I have a gift, from the other side, a memento to take back with you.  To the world of the living.”  After she concluded her remark, a large bulbous purple tongue lolled out of her mouth and unfurled.  An object that fell out of her unrolled tongue and landed in my lap.  It was a large blazing red ruby (about half the size of my fist.)  It was warm to the touch.   

 

I woke up back up, drenched in cold sweat, in the psych unit, with a warm object resting on my belly.  It was about half the size of my fist.