Nightmare on Sesame Street

   The Count's eyes closed and the door to his nightmare opened. His pointed collar glowed like a black star beneath the streetlights. His fuzzy purple fingers pointed to the sign above Leela's Laundromat. A grimace creased his face, highlighting his fangs.
    Two bodies dangled from the sign. He recognized his friends Abby Cadabby and Telly. Abby's wand protruded from her chest and out between her wings. Telly's magenta coat was slick from blood as hundreds of cardboard triangles slashed his fur.
     The Count gasped. His friends, dead. His two friends...dead. "Two...bodies, ah ah ah. Two bodies...ah, ah, ah" he said, his voice cracking.
    Then there was an echoing crash followed by a gruff cry. The Count ran to the noise and stopped mid stride at Oscar the Grouch's trashcan. Loud clamoring erupted from within; screams of help screeched from beneath the dented lid. Words formed on the Count's lips but before he could scream out a thunderous boom roared deep in the Grouch's home...then Oscar's broken body climbed out of the can.
     The Grouch spotted the Count. Scraggly green fur bounced as Oscar's mouth moved; words choked as blood drowned his friend. The Count patted his hand, gripped it, and leaned close.
    Oscar's lips parted and he said "I...hate...you."
    Then the Grouch slumped against the can and died. Grief ballooned in the Count's chest. What was happening? Why...had three of his friends been murdered?
    "Three...dead...friends, ah...ah...ah." He said, the last word trailing off into the night.
     Then the streetlights went dark. A soft whisper of children's voices filled his ears. A lonely xylophone played and the Count smiled. He knew this song. He loved this song.
     "...can you show me how to get, how to get..." He sang but then swallowed back his words.
    The voices turned shrill. The xylophone broke rhythm; became a melancholic dirge. Shadow figures of children glowed down the alleys and streets, lit by an unholy light. Then their haunting voices sang out.
   "One, two, he's coming for you..."
   "No," the Count said.
   "Three, four better lock your door..."
    "No, stop." The Count said, his voice cracking.
    "Five, six, grab a crucifix..."
    "No!"
    Another sound joined the singing, distant, like a chorus but high pitched.
    "...nine, ten...he is back again."
    The sound intensified until the Count recognized it. It
   was laughter; high pitched maniacal laughter. He backed away, begged to wake up, but the sound grew louder.
        Suddenly he heard "Elmo wants to play. Do you want to play with Elmo?"
    The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. The Count fell to his knees. He glanced up and saw his tormentor. Red fur singed with patches of black. A leather fedora covered most of the face but patches of burnt fuzz glowed like embers in the dark. A sweater of green and red stripes dotted with holes covered most of the body but the hands...leathery gloves with sharpened knives on fingerpoints.
    The thing laughed. "Welcome to Elmo's world" it said.
    The Count shook his head. Mumbles spilled from his mouth. It wasn't possible. Not like this. He whimpered a prayer to Jim Henson; begged to awaken.
    Then in a blur of motion the nightmare moved. It danced around him, laughing, and singing. Finally it stopped and grinned before sliding the fingerblades through the Count's chest. 
    Blood poured from his body. Darkness blanketed his eyes. Purple fingers grabbed his chest. Fuzzy hands grew sticky from blood. Six holes in his chest...six...ah...ah...ah.
Then the Count's eyes closed as his life oozed to the street.

The world would wake up to a darker reality as beloved characters were found slaughtered. Nobody knew the cause or culprit but everybody knew there would be no more rest...for now there was a Nightmare on Sesame Street.

(The End)

The Field

They called it Mast Park; we called it the Field.

By day people littered the manicured grass, played on its courts and in its playground; strolled along the exercise trail of wooden beams and searing steel. But by night, as the gate closed, as the last picnicker and jogger left, its orange lights and abandoned benches twisted into an ethereal and sinister Elysium. The gaping maw of its bathrooms twisted in like a maze to a black hole. Lights cast a halo of gold onto jagged steps and fluttering swings. The tarred path led to a twisted haunted wood where lights bounced in the deep trees and beasts howled in the thick darkness.

When the gate closed Mast Park ceased to be and the Field awoke.

The Field bled into the subconscious of those who lived next to it. During the daylight sanctum we played, ran, and walked the paths along with everyone else. But at night, when lights danced in the deepening woods and bestial shrieks sang into moonless skies...we watched from shuttered windows and prayed; we prayed that a chain link fence would keep the Field at bay.
    It was a mystical place where one could easily imagine dryads and pixies astride stray dogs as fairies fluttered like moths among the golden lights. Their chirping wings beat like a hummingbird's heart; their laughs twinkled like wind chimes in a summer wind. It was a place of old life, dark mysticism; where humans were intruders.
    
The Field played into my dreams night to night. Legs of curiosity, guided by a dreamers passion, carried me from a peaceful slumber into the Field.

The sky was aglow from a blocked moon; red-gray clouds painted in broad strokes across the horizon. Shadowed things on midnight wings glided above as my legs trudged on. Like rusty spires, the roofs of the apartment, of our homes, stood sentinel like a gate to reason. I could turn back, but yet, I wouldn't.

I followed a sense of wonder to the fence, a thick ivy wrapped gilded wire that served as protection and border. Then I stepped beyond it and across the threshold to wonder.

The thin maple and oaks by day were gone, replaced by wooden behemoths with dangling branches. Leaves of gold, silver, bronze and copper adorned every branch like jewelry. An ivory bridge of golden rails crossed over a stream where once an asphalt path led to darkness. Birds chirped as fairies giggled and over the southern sky the bright glow of dawn cast a glimmer upon every blade and every gossamer wing.

But it was to the east and north the night stayed. Red eyes of primal hunger watched my dreamer's steps from darkened pines. Whistling winds rustled my hair as voices gossiped in my ears about wicked deeds.

I strode to the woods on shaking legs as bats bristled on conifer tree tops. Wolf born howls served as a dirge to my passing. With each step my flesh prickled from chilled dew and cool dread. Through the branches like a window to sanity I saw the condos of gray and bleak; sister homes to those of the rusty spires. I'd traveled far, yet a voice urged to press onward.

Steps of hours or years led me to a clearing. The condos of gray encircled a temple of marble, with broken columns and inhuman statues. Beasts howled behind me, urging me up the steps; my reason begged me to awaken.

I took the step. Then another. Sweat beaded along my brow. I stepped again, and again, until finally I stood on a dais of polished obsidian. Its blackness reflected back at me, showing the dreamer, the traveler, and moved like rippling water beneath my feet.

I gazed upon the dais and witnessed movement on the far end. My eyes fell upon the ebony throne made of charred bones and stretched human flesh. My eyes begged to look away as my mind turned cloudy from it all.

But the movement again.

A rustling of cloth on bones as something ancient strode from the throne's shadow. Yellowed eyes in a sunken skull, wisps of white hair billowing like webs from Methuselahs web, and it came to me.

Its clawed finger pointed to me and a single ancient word croaked from dead lips, and my heart ceased. Shuffled steps approached my dying body. Wolves howled as the winds screeched in my ears.

But as my body fell like a dead leaf, my heart thumped a single beat. Eyes of desperate need fluttered open and as the onyx floor flew to my face I awoke.

The sun shone through a torn curtain. My chest ached. Sweat saturated pillows and sheets tossed aside. It wasn't real. It was not real. Downstairs my brother laughed. Outside a car roared by. I closed my eyes and thanked the other me, the traveler of dreams, that the dream ended. The memory faded. I held my head, breathed deep, and stood.

I winced as I brushed aside the curtain. My eyes sought sanity from the madness of night's journey. But the chain link fence stood, thin as before. Joggers raced over the asphalt trail. Toddlers swung in the swings as parents pushed. The park was as it ever was.

Yet I was changed. I would be forever altered by the dreams of the Field. The traveler of dreams would always wonder: was it real or had I been visited by madness? Time would tell...

Mast Park still exists, so too does the Field. And so too does the magic. 

Dreams of the Traveler.

I rarely sleep deep and rarely dream honest. Yet, when I do dream, it's horrifying. As a child I dreamt of ghosts stalking my home. Vampires and werewolves would tear me asunder, feed on me, and kill me night after night. As a teenager it became nuclear Holocaust. The dreams woke me after the bitter taste of ash, the refuse of burned flesh coated my hair and clothes, then I woke but carried the dream in waking hours like a bag of grief. As an adult it was haunting images of helplessness: unable to save my mother as she reached to me and asked me to help her as she lay dying; zombies chasing me from one end of the dream to the bloody helpless finale where I was forced to watch them eat those I couldn't save. I woke screaming, terror swollen in my throat, mind replaying the dream over and over until I fell asleep again. Rarely do I dream, and when I do, it's never pleasant.

Throughout my life I've had one ongoing dream. It began as a child and occurs rarely as an adult but I witness it occasionally. I sleep, and I wake, but I know I am dreaming for there is no world like the one I witness. There are shadowed peaks in the distance and at my feet is a lake of ebony water. A boat awaits with a shrouded figure by the oars and a lantern hanging over its head. I know to get on; that for now all is safe. I step onto the boat and ride across the lake. Stars glint above as a cobalt hue paints a swath above the mountain ridges; light from an unknown dawn. Ahead are more boats like mine. Some are empty. Others carry the cargo of other travelers like me. We eventually come to the opposite shore where a stone path leads into a cave. Glowing blue stones light the path as others begin the trek. I follow, a light step carries me higher. Finally I enter the cave and find a torchlit hall, carved with fantastical images of alien beings, beasts of no earthly origin, and finally of man. Each step deeper into the cave tells a different story. Man's birth. Civilizations crumbling. Man marching through time until the last carving which depicts tall, thin entities guarding a gate of black and ushering humans into it. It was this last image that follows me into the waking world. Who are the potentates and are we master, servant, or simply coming home at last? I trudge beyond the etchings to a stone platform which opens out into a wide cavern. Bright blue orbs light every stalagmite as thousands of men, women, and children march to the far end of the cavern. There, standing like a cyclopean shadow, was a gate of black night. Tall, gaunt creatures stood guard on each side as people stepped through. To me they seemed statues, rigid and gray, stone markers like gargoyles of a different race. I followed the throng of humanity to the gates until I stood before it. Like a starless night it stood, swallowing those who entered its maw. A cold detachment befell me. I knew once I stepped into that gate I would never return; that I would stop being a traveler and instead be forever stolen from life. I wanted to step forward. A base need urged me to take that last step into oblivion and a life beyond. I stood, trembling, staring from gate to towering guardian and could not move forward. It was not yet time. I stood and watched, felt moved by the scope and mystery of it all. Then, I woke, feeling as if I had been witness to a cosmic, perhaps divine, secret that I was not yet ready to grasp. I long to know what's beyond the gate. It frightens and compels me. One day I'll step forward; one day when I am done waking up.