Evil Dreams (2 page)

He turned to the people again. Would they be satisfied this time?

Ghastly smiles animated their vengeful faces. The throng made motions with their forefingers jutting out like pistol barrels, thumbs cocked like hammers waiting to fall on a live shell. Some were put against temples, others placed in open mouths.

He fell back, vigorously shaking his head, but submissively raised the pistol to his temple. An acutely violent paint seared both sides of his head as though his skull had split. He grabbed his face with both hands, the gun slipping from his fingers. His eyes burned intensely, his jaw and teeth buzzing with pain as though countless dentist drills bored through live nerves. His ears hummed insanely in a hissing wheeze. He could feel his legs buckling. The trees, which had become people, burst into flames, wavering in his sight as he collapsed.

Then Jon Ward screamed—long and loud— and awoke.

“The dream is its own interpretation …”

The Talmud

PART ONE

THE DREAM CONTINUES

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

April 27, 1979

to

May 1, 1979

CHAPTER 1

Jon Ward strode energetically through the Fuller Building lobby toward the bank of elevators. For some reason he could not quite understand, he felt almost happy to be on his way to meet Dr. Samuel Dayton. Ever since he had been discharged from Presbyterian Medical Center, where they had convinced him to meet with the psychiatrist, he had experienced a sense of trepidation whenever he thought of the impending appointment. Now that the time was here, a sense of relief eased his anxiety.

After pressing the button, he stepped back to wait for the car and ran a hand through his black hair. He could not help questioning his sudden involvement with Chicago’s medical community over the last seven days.

It had been at his wife’s insistence that he visit a doctor the day after their second wedding anniversary. Trina’s concern had totally overwhelmed his air of forced indifference following the recurrence of his nightmare after they had retired for the night. The next day, Saturday, she had maintained her conviction, insisting that he keep the promise he had made during the night.

Could the dream really be a threat to his well being? Ever since he had been a small boy, he remembered having it. So far, nothing adverse had happened to him. Still, to satisfy Trina, to please her because he loved her, he had agreed to see the doctor who, after a thorough physical examination, suggested that he have more tests taken in the hospital. If only he had gone to that appointment alone, without Trina, he could have told her everything was fine and that would have been the end of it. But, because she had been there, he had had no choice and consented to spending three days in the hospital. The doctors there, after nothing out of the ordinary had shown on the tests administered to him, suggested that he talk with Samuel Dayton, psychiatrist.

Fortunately, Trina could not find a substitute teacher and Jon had promised he would keep the appointment alone. Could knowing the meaning of the dream be that important? That vital to his existence? How would his life change if it suddenly left?

When the elevator doors opened, he boarded after the last passenger hurried away. Absently rubbing his elbow, he reprimanded himself. For someone who disliked doctors and had been apprehensive during the last twenty four hours, he tried to comprehend how he could feel so relaxed, so calm. Knowing he would be talking about the dream with an expert had brought him an air of uneasiness he had never before experienced. Lying wide awake the previous night, he had tossed and turned, finding it difficult to fall asleep. Normally, he drifted off within minutes after going to bed and seldom had difficulty sleeping. But last night, he had actually been afraid to close his eyes and had lain awake for hours thinking about his dream.

The elevator bumped to a stop and when the doors slid open, Jon stepped into an antiseptically clean hallway. Once he found the door bearing the words: SAMUEL DAYTON, M.D.—CONSULTATIONS, he pushed the heavy door in and approached the small blonde sitting behind the receptionist’s desk.

“Yes?” she asked, an efficient crispness ringing in the single word.

“I’m Jon Ward,” he said. “I have an appointment with Doctor Dayton at three.” He was amazed at he ease with which he stated his reason for being there. During the last week, he’d been behaving like the worst type of hypochondriac. Reacting to his new role of perpetual patient, he smiled grimly.

“Yes, Mr. Ward,” the woman said. “The doctor will see you in a few minutes. Would you please fill this out for our records while you wait?” She handed him a printed form, gesturing toward a small table across the room where he could write comfortably.

Crossing the outer office, he sat down, perusing the sheet of paper. Medical background?

He could give them something there, all right. All kinds of tests and doctors’ names. A week ago, the form would have been virtually blank. He jotted in the necessary information but hesitated when he came to the bottom of the page.
Reason for seeking Doctor Dayton’s assistance.
What should he put there?
My wife is upset because I have a dream and occasionally wake up screaming.
Or,
everyone who hears about it is fascinated but doesn’t know the cause of it.
He felt as if he had been telling anybody and practically everybody about his dream during the last seven days. Why shouldn’t this doctor hear about it as well? He wrote,
Recurring nightmare.

After returning the form to the girl, he took a chair opposite the desk and noticed her covertly reading the form. Her heavily lashed eyes flitted across the page, arched brows giving her oval face an expression of indecisiveness. He wondered if she read everything about the patients. His eyes dropped from the woman to the desktop where he spotted a name plate— Miss Worthington.
Well, Miss Worthington,
he mentally scolded,
you’re a sexy number but you ‘re a nosy little bitch. Read on, ‘cause you’ll get an earful if you hear about my dream.

After several minutes, a buzzer broke the silence and Miss Worthington pressed a button before picking up the phone. Looking quickly at Jon, she spoke softly into the mouthpiece. When she hung up, she stood, leaving the room through the doorway opposite the entrance, and carrying the form he had filled out. In seconds, she returned. “This way, Mr. Ward,” she said, holding the door for him.

When he entered the plush office, the psychiatrist raised his head. “Thank you, Tory,” Samuel Dayton said before she left quietly.

Jon felt trapped. He wanted to run. Why should this man be able to do something those other doctors, and Trina, and even he, could not do? Could this man, this doctor, solve the riddle of the nightmare, if indeed it held a solution?

Sam Dayton came around the wide mahogany desk, extending his right hand as he approached his visitor. Jon took it hesitantly, feeling himself loosen a little when he found a sincere quality to the manner in which the doctor grasped his.

Once they were seated in easy chairs facing each other, Jon took the opportunity to study the doctor in his own element. An inch shorter than Jon’s own six feet, Sam was heavier in build, his broad shoulders and narrow waist indicating an athletic background and a well maintained condition. He appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties and dark brown, curly hair surrounded his round face. A long, straight nose separated piercing eyes while his wide, expressive mouth subtly displayed a slight overbite. Jon concluded he could, if necessary, trust this man who appeared self assured, almost cocky. Sam moved his hands very little when he spoke and at first, Jon found his steady gaze unnerving. While they talked, the doctor’s attitude brought Jon to a point where he began giving more than monosyllabic answers to the psychiatrist’s questions. When Sam smiled, his teeth flashed from a well tanned face, which Jon learned had been acquired during a four week vacation in Florida and the Bahamas the previous month.

“I understand, Mr. Ward,” Sam said, “that doctors are not your favorite people.”

“Who—?” he began.

“Presbyterian Medical Center sent over a complete file on you. It says your dislike has something to do with the death of your mother. Is that correct?”

“Well, the sonofa—, I mean, the doctor who attended her, refused to try any drugs on her when she was dying of cancer.” Jon bit his tongue. He had promised Trina after he had become angry at the doctor’s office last Saturday, not to let the memory of his mother’s death and its circumstances bother him to the point of using foul language. Why take his wrath out on this man?

“When was that?”

“I was nineteen. About fourteen years ago.”

“And as a result, you’ve more or less avoided doctors since then?”

He nodded. “It was my wife’s idea to go to a doctor now.”

“I also read in your file that you’re an author?”

Jon smiled, his face reddening. “Not really. I’ve taken a year’s leave of absence from teaching and am giving it the old college try.”

“How do you feel about your wife supporting you? I see she’s also a teacher.”

Shaking his head, he said, “You know everything, don’t you? Trina inherited a sizeable amount of money from her mother. She decided I should take the year off and write my novel.”

Sam made a notation on his pad and looked up. “She decided?”

“It’s not the way you think, Doctor. I didn’t want to, but she pointed out that it should be looked on as an investment in our future.”

“Have you ever had anything published?”

“Some articles. A few short stories. Not enough to say I could make it as a full time writer.”

“I see,” he said, adding to his notes. “I believe the course we’ll follow will be one of associating different aspects of your dream to certain, if not all, areas of your present life as well as those of your past. Would you have any objection to the use of hypnotism if it became evident that the solution to your dream lay in its use?”

Jon’s eyes widened. Hypnotism? Parlor tricks in a psychiatrist’s office? “I—I don’t know. Is that normal?”

“Not in all cases. However, considering the length of time you’ve been having the same dream, it might become necessary to unlock certain memories stored in your subconscious mind. Without help of some type, you may never be able to recall them. I believe hynotism could be the key in your case.”

Jon quietly wondered about the element of doubt where any acceptable conclusion was considered. Would baring his soul, unlocking his memories to be examined in minutest detail by someone he hardly knew, really rid him of his nightmare? “Do you really believe that, Doctor?” he asked.

“I believe it completely, Jon,” he said sincerely. “I’ve seen some very quick results occur through the use of hypnotism, cutting through all the incidentals of the problem right to its core. I also believe as an aspiring author—a creative person—you will be amazed at the hidden thoughts you’ll pour out when you’re ‘under.’ “

“Can I be hypnotized?” Jon asked, his curiosity slowly awakening despite his nagging doubts.

“We’ll find out when we try, and that could be at our next session, if you’re willing. I believe, for now, you can rest assured with the knowledge that I am medically and psychiatrically conservative and will not at any time put you in danger.” He smiled reassuringly. “I’d like to add that I’ll need your full cooperation, not only to place you in a deep hypnotic state, but during any of our meetings when you’re just talking.”

“I—I understand.” A rueful expression crossed Jon’s face. It was not unlike agreeing to love, honor and obey when one married or promising one’s mother to be home at midnight. He caught himself when the thought of his own mother flashed across his mind. This was not the time. He had to go along with this man. If he did, the doctor might really be able to help him. If he got rid of the stupid dream, Trina and he would be better off. No doubt of that existed in his mind.

“Jon?” Sam asked when his last question had not been answered by his patient.

“Ah—what?” Jon stammered, recognizing the almost urgent sound to the psychiatrist’s voice.

“I said I would like to get the dream, as you have experienced it, down on tape today. Then I can play it back several times to acquaint myself with it before we meet again.”

With the moment of truth at hand, Jon squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. Uncertain, he waited. Would the next move be up to him or did the doctor have something else to say?

“I understand your reluctance at being here. You’ll be defensive for a while until we get into the subject more and you can start treating it objectively.”

“Just how much do you know, Doctor?”

“I know quite a bit about you and your wife, Trina. The dream however, was explained rather sketchily in the file.”

“I don’t particularly like people talking about me and my problems behind my back,” Jon said, a touch of bitterness in his voice.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Jon,” he said evenly. “You’re here to be helped. Hopefully, we’ll be able to build the type of relationship and rapport necessary for an ultimate solution to your problem.”

Jon nodded, waving one hand through the air as though to say,
I know when I’m whipped. Let’s get on with it.

“Do you want to tell me about the dream?”

He smiled. “The sooner I tell you, the quicker we’ll be finished.”

Sam fixed his almond-shaped eyes on him before speaking again. “Let me clarify one thing. This isn’t exactly like having a pain in your head that can be cured with an aspirin. I wish it were that simple. Helping you will depend on many things; your willingness to talk about yourself and your relationship with other people in your life; being perfectly honest about the dream and everything we’ll talk about; how quickly you can accept certain things about yourself. Consequently,
you
will determine more than anyone or anything, how long we’ll be working together.”