The thoughts that are left alone inside of one’s mind are the dreams that are left unwritten. Within one’s sleep -- one would find himself alone in a vacant cemetery, one that dates from Victorian Joliet, Illinois, or in the cold autumn nights of Winnona, Minnesota. That as one as I am standing alone in the autumn fog, I would see a being that appears to be female -- she was clad in a long black dress, a corset, and a bluish gray velvet cloak that covered most of her slender body. She was standing in middle of a mausoleum that was modeled after the Italian catacombs. It was something that would look somewhat ornate in nature, almost baroque in its design. I cannot begin to describe the origins of the woman walking among the graves -- but she looked like the way that one would live during the 19th century. The light alone came from the moon in its waxing phase of the month -- like how it would appear on Candlemas, the pagan holiday at the end of February. As I walked closer to her, I saw that her hair was long, black and covered part of her shoulders. When I tried to ask her name, she said nothing because she appeared to have her vocal cords slashed -- or a mute, one that cannot speak at all.
I continued to follow her throughout the cold night, but she passed through the door as if she wasn’t even alive. When she passed through the wall, there was a book that was left behind -- a Holy Bible. This had to lead me to where a priest had murdered a head bishop of the college, St. Mary’s. It was something that I read out of “Haunted Heartland” prior to leaving from Joliet for two weeks to visit some friends that lived near the college, they had never told me of what had happened in Heffern Hall. But they had heard rumors of a ghost that would walk around the cemetery about six blocks from the college. This cemetery was were they buried that minister. As I followed her into Heffern Hall, I could still see myself sleeping from this metaphysical state -- I felt like that I was dead, but yet I was asleep. As I had fallen asleep, I had written a haunting verse in a journal as I was reading the story about Heffern Hall; the journal was on the floor of the tent next to where I was in a sound sleep -- a sleep that was induced by a handful of sleeping pills, three doses of Nyquil, and 600 mg of Seroquel.
Since I took a gun shot to my stomach a few months ago in Chicago, my mental state hadn’t been the same. The dreams that were induced from the incident had left one emotionally disturbed -- in a state of Megalomania from the horror that it had left me with. Dr. Kaforski had suggested that I should take a trip for a few weeks to get away from the horrors that became of it and countless nights of insomnia -- I packed a frame backpack, some flannels, a few pairs of jeans, and some other things. On the way to the train station I purchased two bottles of Nyquil, and two boxes of sleeping pills -- along with the 200 mg boxes of Seroquel that Joe prescribed to me for the Megalomania, my girlfriend didn’t know about these other purchases -- shit, she didn’t need to know. I had been ill physically for three months, and hoping that I would take this trip would help in the healing from the horrific drive by shooting which almost became the end of me. Dr. Kaforski even got the train ticket for me, and booked a sleeping room so I rest on the way up there. I felt like I was written into one of my best friend’s horror tales, or a book written by Ann Rule. It was a night in September when I took that train to Winnona. Dr. Kaforski was the one that walked me to the train station, “Theo, call my voicemail when you get there -- I am doing this not just as your doctor, but as also your best friend. I had never seen you so spooked out, it was like when you found out about your cousin getting assaulted near his apartment in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, almost killed him. If you want a copy of that article, I brought it with me -- take it because it may give you something to read. Until that wound is totally healed stay off your feet, rest as much as you can -- stay on your medication. Man, I am really worried about you -- here’s my email address if you need any advice, email@example.com. I will notify your lady of this trip if she doesn’t already know. Have a safe trip Mr. Wolfe, and I will see you in two weeks.”
“See you in two weeks, Joey, I thank you for all of your help -- since my pen pal, Nicholaus Pacione had referred you to me, you and him had been the only two I was able to trust with something that horrific. Nothing like that ever had happened in New Haven, Iowa, or anywhere in that area. That incident had kept me awake for months, to the day that I first moved to Chicago. Don’t worry, I will send you an email when I get there -- I’ll find someplace where I can send you an email. Thank you for the newspaper, I didn’t hear anything about that -- Uncle Michael and Aunt Delores hadn’t said a thing about that, and what I heard about that was it was some kind of hate crime because they wrote an obscene phase on their front door with human shit and blood saying, ‘Say you love Satan.’ I don’t know, it was out of some nightmare,” I said while getting on the train in the sleeper section, “See you in two weeks.”
While I walked into the chamber, it felt very cramped -- like that of a coffin, especially on the upper bunk. I tossed the backpack onto one of the seats then untied the sleeping bag and unrolled it on to the top bunk . I then proceeded to climb up there with a paperback book, Stephen King’s Nightshift. I had set the book on the sleeping bag, and then I locked the door to my room -- closed the curtain for some privacy then I unzipped the sleeping bag halfway. As the attendant passed my room, I handed him my ticket then locked the door and closed all of the curtains in the place. At this time I was still coughing and was a bit chilled from the flu, prior to going off to sleep I took a dose of Nyquil. I proceeded to climb into the bunk and zipped myself into the sleeping bag then pulling the drawstring closed the time was around 7:30 P.M. when I began to dream. In the dream I found myself standing beside my sleeping physical state and as I walked into the hallway of the sleeper section, I had seen someone else walking down the hallway. He looked like the one who had died from the train accident in Wheaton, Illinois -- the flesh in the chest cavity had been torn away exposing the bone and the vital organs. I stood there, frozen in horror to what I had seen -- the picture was of an unspeakable nature, a harrowing site within one’s eyes.
I began to run as I had seen that abomination walking down the hallway -- began to open the door to the sleeper section into the dining car, but it would not open. One was able to see what was in the next room -- a nun was hanging lifelessly from the ceiling, and she appeared to be molested with the crucifix that she was carrying with her after someone had been strangled with it. A hair curler was shoved up her in a sensitive place -- which would be the genitalia, raped. On her chest was a note with one word written in blood, that word was “apathy.” The paper that it was taken from was a Holy Bible. I tried to scream but I couldn’t -- it came out in silence, as it would within my mind. It felt as my vocal cords were cut with a knife, I had literally punched the window open to get the door open -- as I proceed into the next room, I found that someone was hanging upside down and crucified on a St. Peter’s cross. The John Doe was castrated, eyes were gouged out, and slowly disemboweled -- his own dick was shove into his mouth and the testicles were placed in each socket. The phrase “Political Piggy” was carved onto his chest. I began think that I needed to get back to my sleeping room -- began running back to the room and when I tried to wake my physical body, I found an Ouija board, a Holy Bible, and a pair of Tarot cards on my chest, “What the f***?” The Tarot cards were the Death card and the Devil cards -- two if the darkest cards in the deck. I started looking for a really hot pipe in the bathroom then place my wrist on it -- I had a long sleeved shirt on, a hooded flannel, the pain felt like I was on fire. I had awaken moments later, back in the bed. The Ouija board and Holy Bible were gone, but the tarot cards still remained.
I found my journal and began to write of the details of the nightmare -- I found my hand was bruised from placing it on the hot water pipe in my metaphysical state. As I concluded the entry, the train was in La Crosse, Wisconsin -- almost there, the night sky was totally covered with fog where I could not see what was beyond the window. I had got out of the sleeping bag and began to back it away then laced my hiking boots back up, and started to clean myself up -- I couldn’t forget the details of that nightmare because was a horror beyond one can describe, it was almost something that could of been written in Jeffory Dahmer’s journal if the cannibal had kept a journal. That was something I did not want to think about because of the show on Court TV had a special about him the night before I left on this trip -- Rachquel wouldn’t want to watch it with me because one of her brothers had died in the hands of a female serial killer, that the police had been caught in Minneapolis after she snuffed out 14 couples in a hotel within a period of 22 months -- Raquel’s brother Aaron, was the first victim of that rampage. The body had been found in a lake on the cities outskirts, his feet were tied to a 60 lb. cement block and his hands were tied behind his back -- he was still alive, but not conscious because he was hit with a tire iron. His girlfriend was strangled and after she was dead, she was tucked back into bed the murderess had closed her victims eyes and made like the corpse was not dead, but dreaming.
A friend of her brother had mailed the article from the newspaper to Rachquel just after the last victim was murdered in Rochester -- the police named the serial killer, Iris LaVey, and her motives were Satanism and necrophia -- she killed the male victims as they would have sex with her, while she was getting them to climax and after she was done, she placed a pillow over their head and then would beat their girlfriends with a tire iron. When the police arrested her -- Iris was 4 months pregnant with the final victims child. The sentencing lasted two weeks, they awarded the bitch charge guilty but on the grounds of insanity -- then she was locked up in a correctional sanitarium until they found her sane enough to be strapped to the electric chair. One of the female victims was 8 months pregnant with Rachquel’s niece -- her name was Samantha Dominick, 23, from Joliet, Illinois, she was on vacation from Mankato University and she was going to meet Timothy, Rachquel’s kid brother. Only 19 when he had been molested and finally killed by Iris LaVey, Samantha, was beaten to near death with a tire iron survived long enough to birth her daughter, Hellyn, and finally she passed onto the next world after she gave birth. Her sister wasn’t as fortunate -- she was killed five months before by Iris while she was in Chicago, police found her molested with a spear gun and sodomized with a tire iron. Gerold Trobionti was the homocide officer that found her corpse, and her husband had been mutilated sexually -- Gerry showed the pictures to Rachquel, and she had been a mental case ever since that day that she had seen how horribly that her kid sister had been murdered. Rachquel didn’t want to come with me to Winnona, but Joe convinced her that it would be good for the both of us. We agreed to come but she asked to stay in coach because went she had seen those pictures of her sister, she didn’t want to be alone -- in fact, Rachquel’s best friend was saying in a house up there. She agreed to say with her friend while I camped because I didn’t know them too well -- the house was near the chilling dorm, Heffern Hall, at St. Mary’s College.
It was about 12:30 AM when the train made its way to Winnona, and her friend was waiting for us -- she was quick to introduce herself to me. “You must be Rachquel’s boyfriend -- I saw your picture on the internet, you have a strange imagination. I mean to let Nicholaus Pacione photograph you in a cemetery at night. I have a friend that will like your dark curiosity. I am sorry to hear about what had happened to you in Chicago -- getting shot in Cabrini Green. Joe must of been really worried about you Theo, if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t of bought that train ticket for you. The campground isn’t too far from the cemetery -- about a half a mile. You must have some frightening nightmares about that incident,” Laura had said to me, “I had been inside of St. Mary’s Heffern Hall overnight, and some of the things that I heard about the place is outright frightening -- here I brought that book with me for you to look at because of the interest that you share with Nik about the supernatural and the occult. I had felt the floor drop thirty degrees about two in the morning -- I felt the cold as I was sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag. It felt cold as one would feel on the flesh of someone that had just died. I had nightmares for weeks about seeing what happened two rooms down from Christina was staying -- after the murder of the head bishop and later of a man that caught fire on the bed, the sheets didn’t show a trace of a fire. When I had that dream, I could sleep for three weeks -- I told Dr. Kaforski about that and he said that I was suffering from insomnia. He tried to give me a special medication for the nightmares, but it didn’t work. I was sleeping with a Bible and a crucifix, and praying but that isn’t working for shit. I had dreams about seeing a woman in her twenties walking around in a long black, velvet dress and a long hooded cape -- her long, black went to her shoulders looked like someone out of the Victorian era, she was very silent.”
“Hold on, Laura, you said that you saw a woman in a black dress and a gray hood; I was having the same dream while I was camping out near the cemetery. Her eyes and mouth were sewn shut and had something in the terms of her vocal cords cut where she could not speak -- I saw her too, and in my version of that dream I saw her kneeling with a crucifix wrapped around her wrists as if she was praying. I had a really macabre dream about walking around on the Amtrak in the sleeping halls where a man that was horrifically disfigured because he had been hit by a freight train in Wheaton, Illinois, it had dragged him from Downtown Glen Ellyn to the terminal in Wheaton. It happened a month and two weeks from a suicide that took place in Naperville -- while I was in the metaphysical state I had found an Ouija board, a Holy Bible bound in human flesh and written in fresh blood, and a pair of tarot cards. When I woke up I found the tarot cards on my lap while I still was in the sleeping bag. I really frightened the shit or of me,” I had said trying to make sense Laura’s nightmares, “Have you tried group hypnosis?”
“Not yet, I think I know a person on the University of Winnona that practices group hypnosis, he owes me a favor because I wrote a term paper for him. He studied with Joe at Joliet University before transferring to Winnona -- I think he works out of his apartment in the Downtown district. He had spent years studying nightmares and the psyche of dreams. He studied in occult sciences, and parapsychology in his spare time while getting his doctors in medicine. That as one would fall asleep and dream one would see a cryptic message that the cemetery dreams would be similar in nature to the words written by the Mad Arab, Abdul Alzared, and the books that were written by Alester Crowley. Dr. Fredrelli had studied the writings of both Abdul Alzared and Crowley because he had a patient that was haunted by the very being that is in our shared dreams -- the woman was murdered by the bishop and while she was still alive, he tormented her by sewing her eyes and lips shut then wrapping her in a black sheet; finally tying her up with some duct tape and placing her in an oblong box -- burying her alive. When she would walk around in the cemetery, she was trying to set fire to the tomb of the man that had tortured her into her very harrowing demise -- her name was Laura Dominick, my grandmother. Some people would see her in a black dress or wrapped like a mummy with that black sheet. She was trying to contact me because she wanted me to set fire to the headstone of her murderer, Theo -- the reason she was trying to contact you is because your bloodline was that of her best friend, who escaped and moved to Chicago in 1923. Dr. Kaforski’s parents had been a friend of the family, and took her in as a refuge -- sheltering her from the horror that haunted her for 60 years. The murder of my grandmother had been kept a secret for 32 years, and they tried to kill my mother in that same fashion -- though the police had found her in a mummified state, but her eyes hadn’t been sewn shut.”
“Holy shit, that is frightening -- how soon can you call your friend? I didn’t know that about the Kaforskis, not even Joe told me about that. No wonder he bought the ticket for me to go to Winnona, he felt that someone in the bloodline of the bishop had started to seek me out -- that explains why I had been shot in a drive by shooting. It was Iris LaVey, she targeted me because I was connected to the Dominick bloodline. They are killing everyone connected to you and your grandmother -- LaVey was possessed by the spirit of the murderous bishop. Do you think that he is home right now?” I stated to Laura, “ we have little time to lose.”
It was about nine o’clock the next morning, Rachquel had accompanied us to find this mysterious doctor -- all I knew is that he had studied with Dr. Kaforski. We started out about a half hour after we got changed out of the clothes that Rachquel and I had worn on the train ride from Chicago, she had a long, green velvet dress and a pair of light brown hiking boots that she was wearing with us. It had looked similar to one of those dresses out of modern gothic novel and her jewelry consisted of a pentacle, the symbol of protection in Wicca and a quartz crystal. She had taken her long, reddish brown hair and had it up in a French braid -- something that she would do during her rituals at two o’clock in the morning, usually when a waning moon would take place. Apparently the murderess hadn’t tried to kill her personally because she had practiced magick -- the bishop’s spirit hadn’t been able to touch her in anyway because of her spiritual practices. She appeared to be the key to seal the spirit of that bishop it was an hour later when the three of us had stopped in a diner to get something to eat. The mysterious doctor had showed up to our booth -- he was dressed in black except for his necktie which was a deep red, almost crimson. Including the dress shirt was black -- he looked like Rod Sterling, in a pale comparasion. He spoke with a cold, dark tone -- almost frightening when one thinks about it.
“Hello, I am Dr. D’Arrya, you must be Theo Wolfe -- Dr. Kaforski’s patient and Nicholaus Pacione’s pen pal. I am good friends with both of them -- I went to the Marynoll with Nik three years ago. Nik was researching for an essay that he was trying to write. Hello Laura -- I am glad you called because Joseph never studied parapsychology and the supernatural. I noticed the symbol around Rachquel’s neck -- the Wiccan symbol of protection. Theo -- Nik said that you had a scar on your right hand in form of the penicle, that is what protected you from Gerold Flagg -- the vampire that inhabited the mental health wing of a Des Moines hospital. You’re wondering how I knew about it -- how you knew about the Bloodletting? I am the cousin of the woman you protected -- I am wanting to do this for you because of what you did in Iowa,” Dr. D’Arrya, “Don’t let my last name scare you -- of you might of mistaken me for Pator D’Arrya, that was something that my cousin could not handle even with his Christian faith -- it led him to suicide. Mind if I join the three of you.”
“No, go ahead -- I am curious about my encounter with that vampyre in the mental health wing. That was three years ago when that had happened -- wait, the person that shot me, are you saying that they are connected to Gerold Flagg? Shit -- no wonder why clergy are becoming vampires. It was because of that insane Father, the one that murdered the bishop?? The possession of Iris LaVey -- now I am starting to peice it together. They are trying to kill the bloodlines to Laura Dominick. Rachquel? Didn’t your father marry into the bloodline -- your stepmother was killed in a similar fashion to how your brother was killed, LaVey had hit her with a tire iron and threw her unconscious body into the Kankakee River -- I remember the article in The Chicago Sun Times, it was on the first page. The murderous bitch tied her feet to a cement block -- she drowned to death. That dress your wearing -- did it belong to your mother?” I had began to question, utterly terrified by now, “Dr. D’Arrya, when can we begin this process -- this thing must be stopped. What you were saying about having to set fire to the Father’s headstone -- the deaths are of the sins of the father?"
“Theo -- that is correct and Rachquel is the key. Joseph Karforski was a dream researcher before he changed his practice to behavior medicine -- he thought that my practice of metapsychical therapy was unconvential, but we are still friends. The reason he quit the dream research was that he found a woman dead with her eyes and mouth sewn shut; exactly like the woman that would inhabit the shared nightmares of what you and Laura had been haunted by,” stated Dr. D’Arrya, “Theo, you can call me Stephen. Come on it is time to return to my apartment."
Dr. D’Arrya’s apartment was like nothing one had ever seen. It had quartz crystals and artwork that reflected the times of Ancient Sumeria -- he studied medicine and alchemy, along with occult philosophy. He had kept a journal of his research, a Book of Shadows as Rachquel would call it. The detail of the apartment was dark, resembled that of a f***ing funeral home -- his lighting was that similar to that of the Victorian period. On the floor were a pair of sleeping bags, he motioned for Laura and I get into them and pull the drawstrings tight round ourselves. He had Rachquel place tarot cards on each of us and a Holy Bible on Laura’s chest. He began the hypnotherapy on both us. “Theo and Laura -- close your eyes, shut everything out of your minds, I want you to visualize the nightmares that had been haunting you. Go into the darkest corners into your mind -- Rachquel sit in between them and place your hand on each of their chests, now the three of you are brought into the cemetery. Can you three hear me? Rachquel I see your cigarette lighter -- lay it in front of you, this is your only weapon of defense and Laura’s the bible, Theo your’s is the scar on your right hand,” Stephen D’Arrya had began to proceed with the session which lasted eight hours. Laura and I were passing from physical consciousness almost into a place were the dead walk with the living.
We were both in a coma-like trance as Dr. D’Arrya and Rachquel began their queer ritual, we were both in St. Mary’s Cemetery. It was very dark and cold -- cold as the flesh of the dead. “Laura!?! Rachquel?!? Are the two of you with me in here?” My voice had echoed and was swallowed up in the fog covered night. “Theo, I hear you but I cannot see you. Follow my voice, you sound close by -- this fog had left me blind, I cannot see the front my hand. I see Rachquel, and she is right behind you -- Rachquel reach your hand to Theo’s back and grab his hood on the back of the sweatshirt. I can see your dress because the moonlight is reflecting off of the green velvet. I do see my grandmother’s ghost. I am steering her into the direction where you both are,” Laura shouted, “I think I know why she is in the dream -- she was trying to tell us to set the headstone of the Father’s grave. I am right where the two of you are -- I got your hand Rachquel. We know what we have to do.”
Laura’s grandmother had directed us to where the Father’s grave is -- I had placed my hand on the stone and it began to bleed like when I first recieved it to defeat Gerold Flagg. My hand began to glow in a crimson light. I began to turn pale white from the horror -- then I quickly pulled my hand away, the bloody pentagram that my scar had left was almost evil, like the star that was on the left hand of Richard Ramerez, The Nightstalker. Rachquel knew this sign -- it was the horror that would come out of the summoning. Laura quickly opened the Holy Bible and read of the driving of Legion, and as she was reciting that verse -- Rachquel and I were quick to light the gravestone on fire, after that was done, Laura’s grandmother disappeared into the grave were she can finally rest. On the headstone of Laura’s grandmother was a message that began to appear in blood -- it wrote: “Thank you, granddaughter.”
Two hours later all of us returned to psychical world Rachquel and I wer the first to open our eyes--the room had been lit with candles. Then Laura awakened, but she had lost the ability to speak because once they finally abolished the sin of the father, the curse of her family had came to her -- she was no longer able to speak, it was her grandmother’s way of telling her that what had happened should of been spoken of. She tried to speak but her vocal cords had been cut, and her eyes started to close and appeared to be sewn shut. The nightmare for me had been laid to rest, but the horrors of the Dominick bloodline will be eternal.
Site: Penned Within The Dark
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"A Cemetery Dream"
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|Reviewed by Cleve Sylcox
|Very Creative...I found it most entertaining...
|Reviewed by Birdie Houston
|Aahhhhhhhh awesomeeeeeeeeeeee love your chilling writes more please|
|Reviewed by m j hollingshead
|Reviewed by Edward Saint-Ivan
|I love ghost stories. You might consider adding a little dialogue but overall it was killer!|