ghosties in my dreams

This is not the first time, even recently, that I've woken up unsettled because of the ghosts in my dreams.

In this particular dream the ghosts were not spirits of any dead I recognized, but they were trying to get my attention. We were in a tall, old house, nestled snugly into a green cliff face so that you looked out, past the winding road which restrained the little yard to within it's wrought-iron perimeter, and saw a vast valley that spread out far beyond and below you. If you've ever driven through the hills of Appalachia you know what I'm talking about.

I say the house is tall, because it is. We've just bought it and we arrive to inspect it. The drive is steep, the house is steeper. There's a path running up behind the house which I use to gain access to a crow's nest-type lookout on top of the three-story building--and from here I realize the house literally leans forward, making this a dangerous place to be. I break one of the aging wooden rails trying to get down.

The ghost doesn't appear right away. Of course, when we were buying the house we heard the stories, but Dad laughs at them. He doesn't believe. I'm taking pictures of everything and flashes of a little boy show up in one. Nobody else sees it. And then I actually start to see the boy, at first here and there. He courage builds gradually. Finally, I'm the only one seeing him tramp up and down the stairs, and I'm chasing him around trying to get a picture, while my family which doesn't believe me is cleaning the house up, or fawning over it's more magnificent features. The boy is a trickster, and lets me get close, or shows up in a photograph, only to disappear when I'm about to snap the lens, or when I run to my mother to show her my proof. The boy enjoys playing with me, and I'm rather frustrated with him.

Outside things get dark, but that's not because it's late. Clouds are rolling in and Dad decides that if it thunderstorms we're going to have to stay the night, because navigating the hilly roads would be dangerous. This is when the boy starts to get creepy. He pours a stream of water on my head from the second floor, trying to get my attention. He does it twice, actually, and Dad still ignores the fact, even though he's sitting next to me when I'm soaked. Then the ghost lowers a skillet of raw meat, like an offering to Dad, and Dad starts to change his mind. Then I actually get a decent picture of him to show Mom, who also begins to believe me. Then the boy beds down for a rest, falling asleep at the top of the stairs with a blanket.

This is when the next ghost shows up, a cavalier that dances. I only see his silhouette, or shadow, on the wall. He wears a cape and hat, and his movements are a little unnatural, the effect of that being an eerie-looking dance. Since we haven't even moved in and I've already have problems with one ghost I'm not in the mood to introduce myself to a second. This is when I wake up.

This was not a pleasant dream, and it left me feeling uneasy, especially with Beatrice and Karfilov out for the afternoon, leaving the house empty. I got a phone call from Titomo and another from one of his roommates, and they were both looking for the same person, who was supposed to be standing on my porch at the time: so I went downstairs and there's nobody waiting, of course, but the trek back up is nervous, avoiding the mirrors and the walls for fear of a shadow that is there but doesn't exist, an extra face winking at me perhaps from the window of another plane opened just over my shoulder.

In the previous dream I had, that I remember, which feature ghosties, I was visited by my Angel of Death, in the sexed-up form of an old friend of mine, who died when we were in tenth grade. In the dream I'm playing guitar in the dead of night, in the dark, and she's listening--in calf-length leather boots, fishnets, black boyshorts and evening gloves, and nothing else. She doesn't have wings, but I know it's her, my Angel of Death, in to check on me. She likes the music. Maybe she's a Muse as well. In life her name was Nerissa.

I only have Ghost Dreams here--never at Lovely's. The worst one so far was the in one which I met the Nun, our own resident ghost, who lives in a portrait of Jesus Christ that we've tacked up just below the thermostat.
In the dream she was walking around with a broken neck. Our nun hung herself, I guess, because she couldn't stand the drab convent life. That dream was unnerving, and I woke up stiffly, afraid to move, aware that she was probably watching me. I only have Ghost Dreams here because I think the Nun uses them as a means of communication. Of course, in last night's dream you could say that, the ghosts vying for my attention coincide with the attention I've lately given my past; for example, talking with an ex-girlfriend, or two. That boils the literal, supernatural factor out altogether, leaving a halfway decent explanation for my peculiar subconscious. But I have fun with it: Karfilov's girlfriend, Mao, had a dream of the Nun the night after I told her about mine.

The ghosties visit me in my dreams because I listen. Last night, I realized that if I was going to live in that house I'd become desensitived to the ghosts' plights, and subsequently to the plights of ghosts everywhere. But a nightmare is a nightmare, and waking from one is impossible to get used to.