“I had a nightmare about being an archeologist a few nights ago.” The world falls dead silent as I wait for a reply. They’re typing back, I can see those three little dots dancing at the bottom of the screen. “An archeologist? That’s an interesting career for sure. How’d the nightmare go?”
“The beginnings of the dream were inconsequential, mostly going about my job at the digging site. It was actually a calm sort of pleasant in that part of the dream. The tools seemed a bit dated.. But it was when the team uncovered, in their excavation, two bodies that things took a horrific turn into nightmare territory.” I paused for a moment, thinking over how to continue with just what I saw.
“.. I’m not sure what you’re comfortable with, so I’ll just leave this part censored. From how deep down in the earth they were, it was impossible someone had buried them there, and the earth we had dug up was unturned when we started this project. People were panicking, calling for 999, and here’s something more horrific,
“The reason I bring up them being too far down, and the earth being unturned is how fresh the bodies were. Under all that dirt, their skin was soft and blueish. Bloated from the very beginnings of decomposition. Her hands were gripped into his arms so hard they broke flesh, and the most terrifying part for me was their eyes. They were wide open, allowing the dirt in.
“Their mouths, their faces still twisted by fright in death, they were alive when they somehow found themselves under all that earth, and that terrified me because by all means, I have no idea how they had gotten there.”
I lean back, looking at what I copied and pasted. There’s guilt here. It's an unusual thing, the need to tell people about what I’ve seen in the dreams– a new development that makes my stomach roll. I don’t like having to spread this feeling, that’s not me.. But fear can really turn me into a monster when it’s left unattended. After a moment of waiting, the weight of what I wrote suddenly hits me somewhere deep beneath my ribs, and I feel anxious.
“Julius, we think you really oughta take a look into The Magnus Archives; https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/The_Buried.” I’m sulking. I’m a grown man, and I’m sulking over this reply. Something about that source recommendation makes me uneasy and I don’t know why. Shouldn’t I want an answer? Don’t I want to understand? Before I can dwell on this factor any longer, I realize that they are still typing.. And what they write sends a chill down my spine all at once.
“We’ve seen this,
These people buried deep beyond the limits.
They were in space, and they met with a fate worse than death… and then they weren't in space anymore.
They were sent home.”
I've had some time to reflect upon this path I've been set on to find myself - and I realize I have been running aimlessly without a game plan, and that's all due to laziness.
I thought I didn't have any control in these dreams/memories I've been experiencing, but in this recent one I shared with you all I was able to yell, if only for a moment. That's gotten me thinking about the nature of these dreams, and the potential they have to uncover the parts of my life that have always felt like a mystery. Clearly there is something my subconscious has clinged onto. I can no longer sit idle and expect the answers to come to me. So, what exactly is it that I am after?
I want to get to the point where I can consciously ask questions in my dreams, and to better understand the entities that have shown up in said dreams- I think it's the only way to help me better find my identity. I however have to compile a questionnaire in order to set a baseline in my questioning, and I need to train my brain through repetition in order to ensure some consistency. I think if I ask enough fictionkin and fictives about their experiences using the same questionnaire, the likelihood of me being able to force lucid dreaming through questions will increase.
Through these questions, I will be sorting my findings into four categories;
Familiarity in topics- I will be looking for specific topics and themes that speak to my memories, especially any recurring symbolism that appears in the source material. I will also be looking for familiarity in those who reach out to me, through their memories and their overall fictionkin/fictive experiences.
Emotional Response- I cannot deny that there is an emotional aspect to this whole kinsidering journey, to completely divorce my emotional reactions from my findings would be silly, so I will be taking it into account- especially my own dread and guilt since that was a large factor of what started me on this journey in the first place.
Attraction or “Draw”- Sometimes there are aspects within a source or within the topics we discuss that draw me in. I feel a natural pull to it- be it craving or a gut feeling- it may possibly be even adjacent to kin shifts, but I’m hoping to further explore these feelings by documenting them. Sometimes intuition is your best guidance.
Roles- I have been taking into account what you have all said to me so far, and I have noticed a large majority of you have reached out to me with an identity in mind of who I may be. I will be examining these suggestions at a closer level and seeing how I fit into their roles. Could I see myself taking the actions they had in their source material- and better yet, do I show a pattern of echoing their behaviors in this present life?
That being said, I have noticed a disturbing trend in my dreams that involves people who feel preyed upon by a malevolent force, so when I am considering what questions I want to practice on you, I will also have to hold the double intention of what I may want to extract from said dream apparitions, and for this I have a completely different set of criteria;
Defense/Offense- Do those that make an appearance in my dream seek out targets to attack, or are they rather trying to protect something that they fear is vulnerable, and if so what is it? Why do they exhibit the behaviors that they have in previous dreams, and how can that be traced back to any source material that I have been kinsidering?
Craving- It's colored a large part of my experiences. It's a core theme that I've been meaning to focus on, so I want to know if those that feature in my dreams seek out their victims for fuel and survival, or if they are simply craving the entertainment of watching someone’s hope die in their eyes. This may help me better research new possible sources.
Method- Just as there are themes that I am looking for that feel familiar to me in source material, I am also looking to draw comparisons on what I see in these dreams. I've noticed the entities all have specific themes for how they appear in my dreams; An eye deep in the ocean’s floor, a deadly conglomeration predator and prey animals that stalks the woods in hunt for those who dare disrespect the fragile balance of nature, the haunting pull of an eternity in silence, with only your fears to keep you warm- these are all very distinguishable visuals, so if I can just categorize them, maybe then I can look up sources through these recurring themes.
There's only one noteworthy conclusion that I can say with certainty about these memories. The thing about these anomalies is that they pick their victims, and they seldom choose someone who has the tools to fight back. It is an exposed vulnerability that they needle, and once they realize that you aren't able to defend yourself against it? It's open season. I need to learn how to make myself dangerous to the things that have been haunting me, and remove the danger from interacting with whoever is caught in the crossfire- namely you, the reader. What better of a way to do that, than to talk my fears to death? A surefire way to defang any horror is to remove the mystery, and make it known.
Had a dream of an old woman. Her home was dark and made of wood, and the air was full of the smell of rain. She had white hair, and the wrinkles on her face danced as she smiled her millionth smile, looking at me with soft eyes. As if we were old friends, reminiscing on older times. She hands me a well-loved child's toy. Nothing fancy, nothing flashy or intricate. It was a simple doll, made of old simple fabric, with a kind simple expression. Its hair was made of yarn, and it was small in her thin hands, which had held countless other things. But those hands held this doll so preciously, so gently- like a young babe; precious, and loved with the full capacity of the human heart. And she hands it to me. Places it gently in my hands, saying not a word, that expression unwavering. She was showing it to me, sharing the decades of memories and love stored inside every fraying thread.
The fire is a comfortable warmth for the woman, despite her gentle body being easily chilled. The rain thudded against the old wood of her home, which gave it's life for her to continue her own- and, in a way, she gave it a new one. A life it would've never known otherwise. And so they took care of each other. And I took care of them.
She calls me a strange name, one of the many I've been called- one of the many that had been forgotten as generations had come and gone. I say her name in a tongue I do not recognize, though it passes by my lips easily. It is not the first, nor the last time I have said this name. I am one of the few who remembers it.
I gently put the doll among the other things she has given to me over the years, all holding an amount of love only a human could carry, and I cherish them all. She lights candles that she made herself, dyed green for the forest I so dearly love. I stare at them a while, watching the flames flicker gently, tilted slightly in my direction.
As I look around the home, tend to the fire and make sure the home is steady, the woman sits in the chair her son made for her, gazing out at the rain. We both know this will be her last storm, and so I do not bother her. Only keep my presence nearby. She may take her time, enjoy the world a few moments longer. Enjoy the world for as many moments as she may wish.
I held her hand and shared with her memories of when she was young. Of when she first said my name, and when she first offered me a little flower crown she made, to her mother's delight. I shared with her memories of her children, and her children's children- and of the children who've yet to come. Her family is all in good health, and happy.
She hopes, with a smile, that her passing does not interrupt that.
It will, but only for a moment. They will learn to be happy, because she would want them to be. And so they will, and they will do so with all their hearts. She will remind them just how important happiness is.
She rests, then. And I stay until the candles' flame dies out one last time.
Had a dream of an old woman. Her home was dark and made of wood, and the air was full of the smell of rain. She had white hair, and the wrinkles on her face danced as she smiled her millionth smile, looking at me with soft eyes. As if we were old friends, reminiscing on older times. She hands me a well-loved child's toy. Nothing fancy, nothing flashy or intricate. It was a simple doll, made of old simple fabric, with a kind simple expression. Its hair was made of yarn, and it was small in her thin hands, which had held countless other things. But those hands held this doll so preciously, so gently- like a young babe; precious, and loved with the full capacity of the human heart. And she hands it to me. Places it gently in my hands, saying not a word, that expression unwavering. She was showing it to me, sharing the decades of memories and love stored inside every fraying thread.
The fire is a comfortable warmth for the woman, despite her gentle body being easily chilled. The rain thudded against the old wood of her home, which gave it's life for her to continue her own- and, in a way, she gave it a new one. A life it would've never known otherwise. And so they took care of each other. And I took care of them.
She calls me a strange name, one of the many I've been called- one of the many that had been forgotten as generations had come and gone. I say her name in a tongue I do not recognize, though it passes by my lips easily. It is not the first, nor the last time I have said this name. I am one of the few who remembers it.
I gently put the doll among the other things she has given to me over the years, all holding an amount of love only a human could carry, and I cherish them all. She lights candles that she made herself, dyed green for the forest I so dearly love. I stare at them a while, watching the flames flicker gently, tilted slightly in my direction.
As I look around the home, tend to the fire and make sure the home is steady, the woman sits in the chair her son made for her, gazing out at the rain. We both know this will be her last storm, and so I do not bother her. Only keep my presence nearby. She may take her time, enjoy the world a few moments longer. Enjoy the world for as many moments as she may wish.
I held her hand and shared with her memories of when she was young. Of when she first said my name, and when she first offered me a little flower crown she made, to her mother's delight. I shared with her memories of her children, and her children's children- and of the children who've yet to come. Her family is all in good health, and happy.
She hopes, with a smile, that her passing does not interrupt that.
It will, but only for a moment. They will learn to be happy, because she would want them to be. And so they will, and they will do so with all their hearts. She will remind them just how important happiness is.
She rests, then. And I stay until the candles' flame dies out one last time.