“Katherine, I believe it’s important that we clarify your goals concerning these recurring dreams. Think of it as a springboard for the healing process, the starting point for our journey.”

Ten minutes into a fifty-minute hour, and Kat is already eyeing the door. Katherine Wyatt is not a person who seeks psychiatric help. Normal people don’t see shrinks, and normality is Kat’s calling card. Yet here she sits, chewing the end of her braid while Doctor Bramble smiles at her.

Fucksake, Kat, say something. The woman thinks you’re nuts. This is costing two hundred bucks an hour. Tell her about the damn dreams or leave.

Katherine drops her braid and forces herself to speak.

“Right, a starting point. Okay, Doctor Bramble. My life is completely ordinary. I’m thirty-two and single. No kids and one cat, so scratch crazy cat lady. I work as an HR manager. I’m not a drug addict or an alcoholic. My family is reasonably sane compared to the horror stories I hear from my girlfriends. If I were cast in a movie, I’d be the perky brunette standing in the background.”

“Is that how you see yourself, Katherine, a person in the background?”

Jeez, two hundred an hour to repeat what I say.

“No, I’m trying to illustrate that I’m not the type of person who suddenly has weird dreams. Up until a few weeks ago, I barely remembered my dreams.”

“But now?”

Katherine exhales long and slow. She reaches for her braid, then stops herself.

Now the train has run off the tracks. You’re stuck in the same nightmare three or four times a night. Mornings you drag your sleep-deprived ass to the office. People are starting to notice. So, tell the good doc already. Spill it or run screaming for the hills.

“Now, things aren’t so ordinary.”

Doctor Bramble nods and scratches in her notepad.

“Let’s try a different starting point. Walk me through one of your dreams as if you’re the guide and I’m a fellow traveler. Can you do that, Katherine?”

*  *  *

Kat creeps through a narrow fissure. Sheer rock rises on either side, only an arm’s breadth between the dripping walls. The stone beneath her sandals is worn to sand by eons of trudging footsteps. Kat knows this is true, but not where the knowledge comes from. 

Sword in hand, Kat slinks forward. She moves through the gloom with feline grace, following the twists and turns that delve ever deeper. Far above, the fissure reveals a thread of blank night sky devoid of moon or stars.

Then the clink of rock on rock. Kat freezes, her sword held at the ready. Clammy mist swirls past her bare claves. She feels the leather tunic against her knees and the weight of a bronze helmet atop her head. Three heartbeats, four, straining to sense any presence. There is only silence.

There had been another, a strange woman without coins to pay the boatman. The boatman refused to ferry this stranger across the river. Kat abandoned the woman on the far shore. She feels no regret. Better to be alone, here in this dismal place.

Kat’s left hand slips to a pouch at her belt. Yes, still there, still secure. Her fingertips caress the leather as ghostly strands of memory haunt her brain.

Once, there was a woman clad in white robes. A gift given and an oath sworn. Never open the pouch unless the need is dire. More memories swirl back to a shadowy beginning. Hundreds of people, thousands maybe, and each of them counting on Kat for their very lives.

The recollections fade into the mists at her feet. Kat stands in the monochrome twilight. She wills her feet to move. Her breath steams in the dank air, leaving tendrils in her wake.

Time holds no sway in this world. No sunrise nor sunset, only perpetual twilight. The walls lean close on either side. The mass of rock beside and above her becomes a physical weight that threatens to crush her to the sandy floor. Kat pushes against the burden and forges ahead.

She stalks the twisting passage for what seems an eternity. Then, without warning between one step and the next, the crooked fissure opens into a wide space.

Kat stops in her tracks. She stands on the threshold of what appears to be a great pit open to the sky. The pit is no more than a stone’s throw across. Looking up, her eyes trace the rise of the rock walls. Far above, the circular opening seems no bigger than a boatman’s coin.

Lowering her eyes to the far wall, Kat sees an arched portal framing the black mouth of a tunnel. The tunnel disappears into solid rock. And crouched before the threshold, a shadowed figure, head down as if in prayer.

Then, a voice in Kat’s brain.

Remember my gift.

Kat reaches for the satchel at her belt. She unfastens the clasp and tucks back the closing flap. Her fingers close over something that feels like parchment wrapped around wood. How this will help, she does not know.

Without conscious thought, her sword hand moves. The weapon slides into its sheath with a soft hiss. Armed only with the mysterious gift, Kat moves forward.

Ten steps bring her to the center of the open space. The silent guardian remains still as a statue. Kat wonders if the thing is dead. Five more steps, and she has her answer.

The hunched figure rises to standing in jerks and starts. Kat freezes. Facing her is a woman clad in a plaid dress. The woman holds a long wooden ruler before her as if wielding a sword. Her gray hair is pulled into a bun above a stern, wrinkled face. Kat recognizes those features in an instant. The creature blocking her path is Mrs. Sandling, her seventh-grade grammar teacher.

The specter of Mrs. Sandling menaces the dark air with her ruler but utters not a word. Kat unrolls the tiny scroll. Eight words are written on the parchment. She holds the scroll to her face, fixes her eyes on Mrs. Sandling, and reads aloud.

“Lay, laid, laid, laying. Lie, lay, lain, lying.”

The ancient teacher recoils as if from a blow. Then, before Kat’s incredulous eyes, Mrs. Sandling fractures into a thousand fragments of shadow. The disjointed fragments swirl into wisps of smoke and vanish into the gloom.

The portal looms unguarded. Kat rolls the scroll, places it in the satchel, and refastens the clasp. She feels a rhythmic drumming and realizes her heart is pounding. Pushing back her fear, she wills herself to move.

Three strides forward, and she passes through the portal. Darkness closes around her. Ten steps more, and the last dim light fades to distant memory. She forces herself further into the blackness, one hand groping the rough stone wall.

The absence of light brings fear. Kat tastes metal on her tongue. Darkness and fear become a palpable weight. She staggers, rights herself, staggers again. The crushing burden is more than she can bear. Her legs buckle. She sags to her knees. Rough sand rasps her palms as she crawls.

Gravity doubles, triples, and still Kat claws her way deeper into the black tunnel. Her knees tear and bleed. Fingernails split. It is all for nothing. She is buried under an invisible avalanche of fear. The last breath squeezes from her lungs, and she sinks into nothingness.

*  *  * 

“Katherine. Katherine? I’m afraid we’re almost out of time for today.”

Kat opens her eyes. Doctor Bramble’s face swims into focus. The doctor is not smiling.

Way to go, Kat. Look at the doc’s face. She’s going to call the psych ward for an emergency pickup. Wait, she’s saying something. Get ready to run.

“…a good beginning, but I believe it’s important that we agree to schedule another appointment as soon as possible.” 

Just nod your head and look sincere.

“I’m looking forward to hearing more about your dream sequence. I found it fascinating that your dream self left me behind. Perhaps during our next session, I might be allowed to go further. Sally will set you up with an appointment.”

“Thank you, Doctor Bramble.”

Good, that sounded normal.

“I do have one concern, Katherine. If these dreams are affecting your daytime hours, there are medications that would help you sleep through the night. I could prescribe something for you, just to have on hand if needed.”

“I’d rather stick to the talk therapy if that’s okay.”

Right, because you don’t want the dreams to end. You’ve gotta make it to the end of the journey. How else will you discover what all this crap means?

Freed from the confines of the doctor’s office, Kat walks home. The rush hour has started, and the sidewalks teem with pedestrians. Sights and sounds and smells wash around and over her. She is acutely aware of each detail: a child’s hand, an old woman’s scarf. The sensations are almost more than Kat can bear.

Hugo the cat greets her at the apartment door, mewing for his supper. Kat feeds the fat feline and then begins preparing her solitary meal. There are hours yet before anything that could be called a reasonable bedtime. She dreads the impending dreams as much as she longs for their embrace.

Kat sits in the cramped kitchen nook. Eat slowly and chew every bite. Forty minutes. Shoo Hugo away from the table. Five minutes. Wash every dish, utensil, and pot. Wipe down the counters. Fifteen minutes. Watch TV without paying attention. One hour. Turn the pages of a book. Another hour. Shower, wash hair, body care. A third hour. 

It’s just past nine-thirty when Kat pulls back the bedcovers. Her body is not the least bit sleepy, but she is eager to begin another journey. Two months ago, this would have been unthinkable. Kat has never been a sound sleeper, but the dreams have changed all that. Once her head hits the pillow, she will be out cold in a matter of minutes.

Kat climbs into bed, lies back, and closes her eyes. She experiences a swirl of fear, resignation, and beyond these sensations, a feeling of grim determination. Then sleep takes her.

*  *  *

Kat steps out of the narrow fissure. Her sword is sheathed. In her hand, she holds an unlit torch. She walks to the center of the pit. The same circle of twilight hovers far above her head, but she does not look up. Her eyes are focused on the far wall and the dark portal.

A small yellow creature paces before the opening, bobbing and turning like a toy soldier. The guardian stops in mid-step and spins to face her. Electric sparks sizzle in the gloom.

Kat recognizes the creature when a child’s voice whispers in her brain.

That’s Pikachu, Auntie Kat. He’s my favorite Pokémon.

Then, a woman’s voice.

Remember my gift.

Kat reaches into her satchel and discovers a glass bottle. She lifts the thing free from the leather satchel and peers at it. A bottle of ketchup.

The Pokémon guardian interrupts her confusion. The electric threat vanishes, replaced by an eager squeaking.

“Pika-pika-pikachu!”

The little Pikachu breaks into a sort of dance, hopping around and waving its stubby arms. Kat moves forward, holding the ketchup at arm’s length. As she draws near, the Pikachu snatches the bottle from her hand and dashes off into the gloom. The portal is left unguarded.

Kat enters the tunnel. As soon as she passes beneath the stone lintel, the torch blazes to life. Darkness flees the flames. The roof of the tunnel is high enough for the tallest woman and wide enough for three to walk abreast. Gone is the deadly pressure that once crushed Kat to the floor. Holding the torch before her, she moves down the tunnel.

Hours or days later, Kat comes to a place where the tunnel widens. An alcove opens on her left hand. The stone at the rear of the alcove has been planed flat as a gallery wall. Bas-relief portraits adorn the surface, four rows of twelve carved from solid rock.

The flickering torchlight reveals stern faces, women and men, old and young, bearing features from every region of the world. Then, Kat sees her own face staring back at her. Fear freezes her limbs. The torch falls from her hand. The light is extinguished. Blackness rolls over her mind, and she sinks beneath it.

Kat rises through an inky midnight, pursuing a glimmer of light. Something or someone is urging her upward. She awakens in her bed with Hugo sprawled across her chest, purring like a feline locomotive. Kat’s heart pounds, and her breath comes in gasps. Slowly, her panic subsides, and the bedroom stops spinning.

Hugo snorts as she slips out of her bed. The floor feels cool and clean against her bare soles. Kat doesn’t bother to turn on a lamp. A quick pee, a drink of water, and then she’s back beside the bed, staring down at the sleeping cat.

Her eyes stray to the luminous numbers on her bedside clock. Not yet one AM. Plenty of hours until sunrise. Kat pushes Hugo out of the way, climbs back into bed, and closes her eyes. One thought flits through her brain before darkness fills her brain.

Here we go again.

Kat opens her eyes. She’s in the tunnel, a torch blazing from her upheld hand. Darkness retreats from the flames, then reappears behind her. Following the pool of torchlight, Kat comes to the place where the tunnel widens. The alcove looms just ahead.

Fear swirls at the edge of light and darkness, threatening to engulf her. Kat tightens her grip on the torch, takes a deep breath, then exhales against the dread of this place. She knows she must not, cannot falter.

The bas-relief portraits rise out of smoothed rock, four rows of twelve. And her likeness among them, third row down, tenth portrait over. This time, she does not drop the torch.

Kat examines the portraits one by one. Stern faces, women and men, old and young. She does not know their names but recognizes them for who they are. These are not enemies. They are those who have gone before her or perhaps those who will come after, their images forever etched in stone.

The last face Kat examines is her own, proud features staring out from the carved stone, eyes hard and unafraid. A stern face, determined and defiant. Kat draws strength from her haunting portrait.

Be strong, move forward, complete the journey.

Then she turns away and pushes deeper into the tunnel, the torchlight carving a path into the darkness.

Kat forges ahead, her torch held high, not looking behind. An eternity of single steps, rock walls sliding by until it feels as if she is standing motionless, and the tunnel itself is flowing past.

And then it ends.

Kat enters a circular chamber. In the center of the chamber stands a carved plinth. Shards of crystal crown the plinth. Torchlight dances off the crystals and is reflected onto the stone walls and ceiling.

Kat leans forward, sees an enameled box nested at the very center of the crystal shards. The box resembles a miniature chest, small enough to hold in the palm of one’s hand.

She opens her leather pouch, folds back the flap, then holds her right hand above the plinth. The torchlight wavers over the crystals, and they seem to dance before her eyes. She blinks the image away, takes a deep breath, and lowers her hand. Her fingers close over the enamel surface. The box is far heavier than seems possible. As she strains to lift the thing, her hand shifts. One finger grazes a crystal. The razor edge slices her flesh. Blood splashes as the box comes free.

Ignoring the blood dripping onto the stone floor, Kat slides the box into the pouch, closes the flap, and secures the clasp. The unearthly sense of weight vanishes. She squeezes the leather, expecting the pouch to be empty, but no, she feels the outlines of the box beneath her fingertips.

Circling the plinth, Kat steps across the chamber to a portal that opens in the far wall. A short landing leads to a steep stairway. The stairs climb out of the torchlight and disappear.

Kat enters the portal. She does not look back. Leaving her fear behind, she begins the long ascent.

*  *  *

Morning light streams into the kitchen. Kat curls herself into the breakfast nook, careful not to spill her coffee. Hugo manages an awkward leap and flops into her lap. She scratches the cat’s ears, sips her coffee, and smiles at the world beyond the window.

As she sets her mug on the tabletop, her hand feels odd. Curious, she rolls her palm and stares. A ropy scar, long since healed, runs across the base of her little finger. In that moment, time falters.

Somewhere far to the south, a deadly mudslide stops just short of a ramshackle elementary school full of frightened children.

On another continent, a young woman given up for dead emerges from a dense forest, ravenously hungry but otherwise unharmed.

Closer to home, an innocent man walking to the death chamber receives a last-minute pardon. Some weeks later, freed from his cell, he celebrates a tearful reunion with his wife and children.

Time resumes its course.

In a sunny breakfast nook, Katherine Wyatt reaches for her telephone. She punches in a number and holds the phone to her ear. A tinny recording hisses from the speaker.

You’ve reached the offices of Doctor Cynthia Bramble. Please leave a message and someone will get back to you shortly. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911. Thank you. 

Katherine Wyatt smiles. This is certainly not an emergency. In a calm, clear voice, she leaves a message for Doctor Bramble. Thumbing the phone dead, she scratches Hugo’s ears and reaches for her coffee.

– Marco Etheridge