Haunted Dreams 2016

Monday, 3:45 am.

I gulp for air as I break out of the nightmare, the same one for the third straight night.

I’m sweating, and breathing heavily. The cat is terrified, staring at me at the end of the bed with its head cocked to the right. “It’s ok buddy,” I say, gesturing for him to join me. He obliges, and places himself in my lap. I reach for the water on my nightstand, still lost in thought, and stare at my Ikea carpet, recollecting the dream once more.


I’m on the New York City Subway. It’s the 2 train, downtown, towards Brooklyn. I know this because of the signs, yes, but also because the stops are being repeated by the conductor rapidly, without hesitation, and while the train is motion.

We stop, but not at a station. I turn to the man to my right to bemoan yet another “train traffic” hassle, but just then the doors open, and from somewhere below the door level, men in suits climb aboard. Except they’re not quite men. They have the heads of rats.

I freak out. I feel the sudden need to get off the train. I have to. But the men keep coming. And coming. And coming. They’re filling the car rapidly. They’ve taken all the seats and are now clogging the standing areas, grabbing hold of the poles. I suddenly am struggling to breathe. I try to push my way past them, and this act of resistance is met by every single set of beady eyes turning to me. I feel all of them. They’re gnawing at me from every angle. I push and I push and I push. But I can’t get off. More of them are pouring in. I’m getting squished into nothing. The lights dimming as the men continue to stare. I’m going to pass out. My head and neck are pushed from the left and I face the rat closest to me on the right. He says something.

“Good night Donald.”


Now I can’t fall back asleep, so I might as well get the day started.

I turn the shower on, and the water hits the basin with force. I undress and jump into the warm water, hoping to calm down, but I can’t. My mind turns to the dream.

I used to take the 2 train to work in lower Manhattan, but haven’t taken it in quite some time. It’s a popular express train line that serves three boroughs: The Bronx, Manhattan, and Brooklyn. I’m not sure why this dream happens on this subway, but perhaps since it’s the one I am most familiar with, it is the one my subconscious has chosen. I have no idea what to make of the men, dressed in suits, with rat faces for heads. Why are there so many of them? Why are they flooding onto the subway without ebb? Why did one call me Donald? That’s not even my name!

I’m washing my hair when I hear the voice. It’s so low, so faint, that I can’t make out the words, but it does seem to be repeating the same two words over and over. It continues throughout my shower, subsiding only when I shut down the water.

“What the hell is going on?” I mutter, grabbing my towel. I dry myself, and look in the mirror. In it is a black mass that quickly dissipates when I notice it. I jump and knock my head on the wall. I’m dizzy, and I stumble with my eyes closed when I see something in the black of my eyelids. Senator Ted Cruz.

Tuesday, 8am.

I wake from a restful sleep, one spared from the horror of the dream, and set my alarm for a 20 minute snooze. Hey, after the past few nights, I’ve earned it.

I relax under my covers, and fall into that not-quite-awake-but-not-quite-asleep phase that often follows the press of the snooze button. Images of Ted start to flash; he’s at the podium, then on a different stage with a microphone in hand, then taking pictures with supporters holding signs in a large auditorium.

I pop out of bed, thoroughly discomforted by the images in my head. I grab my phone, and call out of work. Something is happening here, and I need to investigate.

I call New York’s top rated demonologist, and he tells me he can do 2pm. Perfect.

I spend the morning doing more research, and it turns out that there have been similar cases across the nation, of people seeing presidential candidates in their dreams, and even hearing words being said aloud in their heads.

Lunch time approaches, and I head out for some food. At the corner of my block, two construction workers are having a lively discussion. They’re shouting expletives in front of each other’s names. One of them is named Ted.

I return to my building after lunch, and kill some time watching CNN. Ted Cruz is on the rise in many states, passing Marco Rubio and threatening Donald Trump.

The demonologist arrives.

Upon entering my apartment, his body language shifts from greeting to suspicion. “When did this start happening did you say?” He asks. “Well, the first dream was Friday night. It happened again Saturday night. Then it happened AGAIN Sunday night. I didn’t have it last night, but I’ve been seeing his face and hearing things while I’m awake.”

He nods in comprehension as he walks my apartment. Living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. He joins me again in the foyer and says, “Look man, I’m not sure what’s going on here, but I’m feeling a presence in this apartment. It’s not serious yet, but it could get there. If you have the dream again, give me a call, ok?” “Ok,” I answer him skeptically, and he bids me goodbye while pulling out his phone to shoot off a text. I watch him walk down the hallway of my floor and down the stairway, with an air of familiarity. Had he been here before?


I’m on the train. The conductor repeats the stops. The train comes to a halt. The men are coming in. They have rats heads. They don’t stop. They are staring at me. They are laughing at me. Why are they laughing? “Why are you laughing?” I ask. They keep laughing. Louder. Louder. Louder. The train gets smaller. Smaller. Smaller. I’m going to pass out again. I’m not going to make it off this train.

Wednesday, 5:06am.

*GASP*

I’m awake, but I don’t feel alone. I realize that the cat isn’t in my bed.

I sit up to call him, and that’s when I see it.

“It” is a black mass in the shape of a man at the edge of my bed. It’s saying something over and over. “Trust me.” “Trust me.” “Trust me.”

I’m horrified. I back into the corner of the wall my bed rests against. I gather my courage to ask the figure something.

“Wh — wh — what do you want from me???”

The muttering stops. The figure leans closer to me.

It speaks clearly now as it says, “Your vote.”

I jump out of bed and the figure disappears simultaneously. I grab my phone and call the demonologist. I expect to be waking him, but he answers on the first ring. Was he waiting for my call?

I’m in shock and can barely speak. I stutter, “H — he — hey. Uhh, I — I had the dream again — and — uh — um — he — was — in m — my — my room.” He tells me to wait outside of the building. He’s on his way.

15 minutes later, we shake hands and we walk into my building and subsequently into my apartment.

He stiffens up as we enter, severely this time, and takes a deep breath. He withdraws his phone from his coat pocket and places it to his ear. He doesn’t greet the recipient of the phone call, just gives him or her the address to my apartment.

He turns to me. “Do you have somewhere you can stay for the day?”

The knock on the door is surprising at this hour, but not unwelcome. The man declares confidently, “Come in.”

The assistant enters the large bedroom and addresses the man in an exasperated voice. “There’s another, Mr. Trump. We need you to get down there ASAP.”

The candles are lit and the living room is crowded with his staff. Trump looks around the apartment. “Who could live like this?” He asks rhetorically. The demonologist gets his attention. “We’re ready sir.” Trump sighs, and pulls a folded piece of paper from his back pocket.

“Ok, let’s make this quick,” he says into the air. He then turns his attention to the paper, and begins to read.

“Ted, I know you’re here Ted. Come out now Ted. I found you, ok, I found you because I have the best people and the best demonologist in New York, ok. What did you think was going to happen, Ted? Did you think you could just set up shop in my city and remain hidden? No way Ted, ok. I could maybe expect this carelessness from Baby Rubio, but from you? Frankly I’m disappointed.”

Trump’s arms, which had been wildly gesticulating, fall to his sides, and he looks to his team. “Ok everyone, time to chant.”

“MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.”

“MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.”

“MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.”

“MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.”

“MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.”

“MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.”

“MAKE AMERICA GREAT — ”

The last chant is interrupted by a high pitched, rat-like squeak. A black mass comes from the bedroom and into the center of the circle, where the candles are, and materializes into Ted Cruz.

Trump is elated. He has found the soul piece Ted had sent to New York. Trump addresses the figure in Trump baby speak. “Ha! I got you Ted, just like I told you I would.” The business man is handed the hat, a Make America Great Again hat, and places it on the ghostly representation of Cruz. The rodent-esque screech returns, loudly, and the figure vanishes into thin air.

Trump smiles widely.

“That was fun.”


I hang up with demonologist. He tells me the apartment is safe now, and I can return whenever I’d like. I thank my friend for her hospitality, and head to Starbucks for the beverage with the highest caffeine content they have.

I order my latte, with 6 shots of espresso, and sneak a look at the barista’s name.

It’s Ted.

 

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