I had two distinct dreams.
My family, and hundreds of other families, lived in this ice cave. Our whole civilization was there, basically. I’m not sure what it was, but there was a threat to our little community and so we decided to leave the ice cave. Everyone was packing up and getting ready to move out when then the dream suddenly twisted to us defending our homes instead of getting ready to abandon them. What we were trying to defend against, however, was a natural disaster. It was this glacier that moved rather quickly and brought waves of freezing water that ebbed and flowed before it like a tide.
To preserve our history, everyone then began packing books and other written artifacts from our culture into the northern-most wall of the cave, using snow and ice as mortar. While many were doing this, others were building barricades. (Although like a barricade is going to stop a glacier heh).
Once we were done, the dream switched to abandoning our homes again, as barricades were destroyed and dispersed with ease by the great cold waves that danced before the glacier. There was no hope at stopping the massive chunk of ice from crushing our homes, so we began to scramble up the northern-most wall of the ice cave, to the top of a high ledge.
I was slow and the bone chilling waves crashed into me before I even started to climb. I was tossed about for a bit and then spit back out on the solid cave floor as the waves receded for a while. Somehow, I was able to making it to the top without my climbing at all. I must have climbed but the dream never showed it.
Most of our community made it up to the top of the ledge. We all just sat there, and watched the waves engulf our homes and the glacier bulldoze them like it was nothing. The glacier finally stopped moving about 30 feet from the edge of our ledge.
The elders of our community then decided that we should build our new village atop this glacier.
I was moving back into my parents home. My room in this dream was like a combination of my room and my sister’s room in reality. On the south wall, there was the big panel of windows and the walk-in closet on the west, things that belonged to my old room. On the north wall, however, there was also closet space, with the sliding doors and narrow strip of storage that was reminiscent of my sister’s room.
The room was also much larger than either of those rooms, or at least seemed that way since there was only a stripped down twin bed in the southeastern corner of the room and no other furniture.
My parents were helping me unpack and jovially talking about the times when I was a child. That was when I heard a raspy voice call my name. It came from the walk-in closet, which in reality has a wooden door like the door to the room, but in the dream had instead a shower curtain to divide off the space and give the dresser (on undresser) some privacy. Neither of my parents seemed to her it, so I ignored it and continued unpacking.
My dad handed me a box of clothes and warily made my way to the walk-in closet, pulling aside the plastic curtain. I stared at the empty closet for a moment before stepping inside. As I hung up clothes, the raspy voice whispered to me, angry I had returned. Angry that I was still alive.
The plastic shower curtain suddenly wrapped itself around me, choking me. I twisted and fought with it and fell out of the closet into the main part of the room.
My parents, alarmed, ran to help me and get me untangled from the curtain. I ran, tears streaming from my face, from the room and out of the house. They ran after me and hovered around me while I sat on the curb and calmed down. While I was still snotty and sobbing, my dad muttered something about how I should be over my fear of closets. I had never told them why, always saying it was too small of space and I was too claustrophobic. I had never told them the truth. Once I calmed down, I asked them to sit down next to me on the curb and I began my tale.
I told them of how, ever since I was a child, that walk-in closet had always frightened me, but not for the reasons they thought. Ever since I could remember, there was a voice in that closet, a raspy voice that only spouted threats and hate. It was all talk then, so I tried my best to ignore it and kept my closet door shut whenever I wasn’t getting dressed.
One day, the threats weren’t just words anymore. I was getting dressed when suddenly the closet door slammed shut and I was locked inside. The voice laughed and threatened me more as cried and shouted and beat the door. That was the day they (my parents) had the door taken out, thinking I had locked myself in as lots of young children do.
My mom had insisted I get a curtain to use as a door for the closet, but I adamantly refused. And so I spent the rest of my years in the house with the gaping hole of my ever-open closet and the voice talking to me whenever I was in my room, as it seemed that regardless of what partition we had for the closet or didn’t, the voice could not leave the closet. (Which I was so thankful for.) I never told anyone for fear that I would be seen as crazy.
When I went off to college, I enjoyed the silence of my room when my roommate wasn’t there. No raspy voices, no threats, no menacing whispers. I was glad to finally be free. I never went home during my four years of college, and that was the reason why. As my senior year passed quickly by, though, I realized that I would have to move back home for a while. Determined to not be tormented by a bodiless voice stuck in a closet, I decided to arm myself with knowledge.
I looked through the endless records and articles in the school’s library and learn some things. There was a man who had once lived in our house, and hung himself in that walk-in closet. The voice, I believe, is his spirit, stuck there for all of eternity it seemed. But why threaten and berate and torture me? What had I done to the him other than cower and cry, a terrified child, as he, or well his spirit, showered me with insults? I dove deeper into the records and found that he had relatives who were still alive. I tracked down these people and inquired about him.
They were wary of my inquires, but when I told them I had grown up in the house he had died in and was just interested to know who he had been, they showed me a box of his old things.
Inside the box were some old books, a pocket knife, loose change, and a bunch of old photographs. None of them, however, were of the man. Instead all of them were of a woman with dark hair. His relatives told me she was a singer named Hannah that the man had been obsessed with. Like really obsessed. We talked for a bit longer and I thanked them for the information as I left.
Later that week, I found some more information on that singer, Hannah. Apparently she was bound for stardom, but that all changed when her sister, Helga, fell ill and Hannah ended her career to take care of her sister. I stopped cold. The voice had often called me Helga when he was really upset with me. I shivered and continued my search.
Eventually found a picture of Hannah and her family. My jaw dropped. Sitting next to Hannah was none other than Helga, but her face… Helga’s face was mine! (At this point I showed my parents the photo and they too were shocked by the uncanny resemblance).
And so the poor man who had died in my closet mistook me for Helga. He blamed her, and thus me, for Hannah’s squashed career. A rabid fan even in death.
Once I had finished my tale, my parents we silent. We sat for a while on the curb until…
… I woke up.