Dreamlog: 2015, July 11

Meant to publish this earlier but forgot due to all sorts of events. But here is yet another shard of my ongoing post apocalyptic dreams.  This dream comes to me in a “series” every other night for several years now.

Feel free to click [here] to read what happened in my previous dream.


Giant Roasting Feast, Part 3

My vision is blurry and I’m surrounded with an awful stench. I rub my eyes in attempt to improve my eyes and find myself standing in front yard of a post-apocalyptic house. It is the house of Mashhadi, my Arabic elderly neighbor.

There is a horrendous smell that fills the air and it comes straight from that house. On the ground I notice a leaflet with “GIANT ROAST FEAST” in bold letters written on it.

A strange feeling creeps upon me as I hesitantly raise my arm to knock on my neighbor’s door. I knock three times, take a step back and wait. After several moments of no response, I knock another three times. I wait some more. But, there was still no response. Maybe the neighbor wasn’t home? At least, that is what I hopefully thought to myself. Yet somehow that strange feeling just would not go away. Neither would the horrendous smell.

Not being able to let go of my curiosity, I walk towards the window next the the front door. The windows were covered by dark curtains and thus I was not able to look inside.

“They’re gone.” a voice behind startled me.

I quickly turned around. At the rickety gate of the front yard stood a man in a green sweater. I had seen this man before, talking to some other guy across the street.

“Strange things are happening in this town.” said the man in the green sweater.

“What is going on?” I asked.

“People are disappearing.” said the man in the green sweater.

I slowly recalled the conversation I overheard earlier between the man in the green sweater and the other guy.

“There’s a really bad smell coming from the house.” I said.

The man looked up at the house and then back at me. He wiped his nose as he slowly walked over to where I was standing. He tried peaking through the window but was not able to see anything through it.

“I have a feeling they are still inside.” I said.

I could not help but cringe at the thought of what condition my Arabic neighbors might be in, to be able to release such a foul odor.

The man nodded.

“We will have to break through the door. I’ll get help.” the man in the green sweater said.

He ran off. Not much later he returned with two other men. They were carrying a large piece of wood.

“Step aside, young lady.” said one of them.

I frowned and then stepped aside as requested.  The men stood in front of the door with the large piece of wood and began to ram the door. With just a few strikes, the door started cracking and flew open. The horrible foul and stomach turning smell was even stronger, now that the door had opened. It was so bad that the men and I had to cover our noses and mouths as we entered the house to find where the smell was coming from.

Once inside, I noticed the living room was a mess. The Arabian couch was upside down. Shattered glass and torn up pieces of paper laid all over the floor.

“Holy shit!” a voice yelped out.

It was one of the men who came along with the man in the green sweater. The yelp came from the kitchen. The other men ran up to their friend in the kitchen. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat as I followed after them. That’s when we saw what caused the smell…

Laying in a puddle of all kinds of his own bodily fluids, laid the lifeless body of Pahlavan, Mashadi’s disabled son. He laid there, with eyes and mouth wide open as flies circulated above his face. The poor disabled young man’s body was covered in bruises and grazes and his own vomit and feces.

“What monster would do this to a poor disabled person?” I asked shocked.

“Poor guy sure suffered quite a beating.” one of the men stated as he inspected the body.

“Poor Pahlavan.” I breathed in sadness.

“Did he live alone?” asked another one.

“No…. I do hope his father is ok.” I said, feeling quite anxious to whatever might have happened to Mashadi.

Without thinking, I ran to look for Mashadi’s bedroom. The door of his bedroom was broken, as if someone had barged in, just like we did with the front door. Carefully I stepped into the bedroom. But my elderly Arabic neighbor did not seem to be there. Not under the bed. Not in the closet. That’s when I noticed the window of his bedroom was open.

“Are you alright, young lady?” asked the man with the green sweater, who had followed me into the bedroom.

“The father of… Does not seem to be here.” I said while looking out of the opened window.

“Someone or something must have taken it and escaped from the window.” the man in the green sweater said.

“Then maybe he is alive!” I said hopeful.

And then I woke up….


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