The Dog in Our Dream by Chris Farrington

It came to us in our dreams.

That’s how it passed, jumping from person to person, dream by dream. Some were lucky and woke with just a mild fever, but others weren’t so fortunate. They were never the same again following that dream, and sadly, some never woke at all.

If you dreamed it, chances are you would transfer the dream to at least one other person, and most frightening of all, the dreams could be passed to anyone, there were no rules in that respect. It could be passed to your partner, your children, your parents, your best friend, a work colleague, or just some random person in the street.

Everyone was vulnerable and nobody was immune.

It sent the world into absolute chaos.

The thing was, nobody took it seriously, especially at first. I mean, why would they? Who cared if you dreamed about a dog stood on its hind legs, wearing a spotted bow tie and top hat? There were bigger things to worry about in life than some stupid dream.

The dreams were surfing for well over a month before they made the news, and even then, it was tagged on to the end of bulletins, delivered by presenters who couldn’t disguise their amusement. I still remember Bernard Goldblum’s smug expression as he announced; “Now for some furrightening news in the form of a dream dog terrorising the nation.”

Oh, how pleased he was with that little pun, his mother would’ve been so proud. I tell you this though, the cocky smile soon left his face once the dog entered his dreams. Oh yes, he didn’t look quite so assured on the Live with Rory Palmer show a month later, describing the horrors he’d endured and continued to live with ever since.      

More and more people were dreaming about that damn dog, it spread like wildfire. People woke and spoke of the dog’s manor house, recounting the horrors that lay within. A ramshackle in every way, withered trees flanked the path to the doorway, while storm clouds hovered menacingly overhead. Some hypothesised that those who didn’t wake were trapped inside an eternal Hell, lost to an endless nightmare.

People were afraid to sleep, they didn’t want to dream. Even the thought of dreaming aroused a dread, one that smothered your entire body from the inside out. Anti-dream paraphernalia was rife and thrown at us from all angles, particularly on social media. They had sleep masks, which were apparently clinically proven to prevent dreams. Then there were the dreamless pills, which stifled the part of the brain that induced dreams. But my personal favourite was the dream canisters, a special serum you injected to attack any sign of dreams, shutting them down instantly.

It was all preposterous of course, but people were buying them by the bulk load. It was everywhere, companies were making an absolute killing, while the legitimate sleep industry was on its knees; nobody wanted luxury getaways to relax and unwind. Relaxation was associated with sleep, and with sleep, came the threat of dreams. Beds, mattresses, pillows, blankets; you couldn’t give them away when it hit.

Like most people I was petrified and did all I could to stay awake. Fortunately, I had a healthy store of strong coffee—one of my pleasures in life—and it was a good job too, because when news of the dreams became all too real, there was no coffee left on the shelves. Coffee, caffeine pills, energy drinks—even protein bars for some bizarre reason—you simply couldn’t get your hands on them, unless you were willing to pay a pretty premium. The most absurd story I heard, was when my neighbour told me he’d spent a grand on a kilo of coffee beans.

Utter madness.

I drank coffee by the pot-full each day, and whenever I felt the effects of caffeine wearing thin, I’d slap myself hard or throw ice water over my face. I even resorted to stubbing cigarettes out on my arm for a time, until the wounds became infected and exuded puss.

My record for staying awake was just shy of three days—sixty-eight hours to be precise. By the time sleep took me, I was grateful. My head was several sizes too big and pounded like a bass drum, while my eyes drooped like anchors, my conscious mind a million miles away from my physical body.

Eventually I let go and succumbed to the inevitable. I slept for fourteen hours straight and didn’t dream of that dog. The relief was palpable. When I woke, despite my groggy demeanour, I felt rejuvenated. I had drifted into dangerous dream-filled waters and came out the other side unscathed. Still, the joy was short-lived and the gloom of reality soon enveloped me.

The news reports were damning, record numbers of people were dreaming and entering the dog’s manor. Fear became ingrained, the cycle was never ending. Every night I’d resist, but sooner or later I was under sleep’s spell. Each morning I would wake grateful, but also found myself riddled with tension. I didn’t know how much more of it I could take.

Then something remarkable happened.

Reports started to break that the dog was losing its power, that the dreams were not as threatening. It even got to the point where it was suggested the dog could barely influence our dreams anymore. People rejoiced, the fear began to dissipate and we all started to sleep soundly again.

Normality returned and we were free for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. I didn’t know how to approach it initially, it was all so strange. However, my regular sleep pattern soon resumed and I learned to dream again without threat. The whole world become re-energised, luxury breaks were back on the agenda, while figures showed a spike in mattress sales.

Collectively the world breathed a huge sigh of relief, but suddenly, it all came crashing down like a house of cards. Rumours surfaced that the dog had returned, only this time, it had reappeared with even greater vengeance.

And the rumours turned out to be true; I finally dreamed about the dog.

I knew I was in trouble the second I drifted into the depths of an inky darkness, silhouetted in the distance by a manor house left in ruin. Lights slowly began to flicker to life, the windows bathed in an ominous amber glow. The wind whirled and screamed in my ears, as I was drawn closer to the house by an invisible force. My feet rode above the rotting flesh of perished creatures, which had decayed into a black sludge and stank like an open sewer.

Ten-feet from the house, the door opened to reveal a furry brown dog stood on its hind legs, wearing a red and white spotted bow tie and top hat, its tail swishing from side-to-side, excited to see me. Then it spoke in a low growl; “Welcome to my manor, Lillian, please do come in.”

Before I knew it, as if by magic, I stood all alone in a dimly lit room, caged within an empty concrete cell. A constant drip rained down from all around me, one I could hear, but not see or feel. I began to shake, the temperature turning icy cold, yet despite that, my body roared with fever. “Hello?” I called out desperately, but no-one answered, prompting my heart rate to ramp up several notches.

Black tears then squeezed from my sockets without warning and joined the beads of sweat that peppered my face. I looked up and saw the dog staring at me through a drooling grin, appearing as if from nowhere. “Please, I don’t want to die,” I stuttered, the dog no more than two-feet away, its breath so fowl, I could taste it.

However, it just threw back its head in a gleeful howl, its top hat spilling to the ground, laughing uncontrollably at my plight. Its front paws scratched the air like an excitable canine sprinting for its favourite ball, before it seemingly vanished from sight through a cloud of smoke.

The light then abruptly snapped off and cloaked the room in total darkness. Fat drops of what I thought was rain landed by my feet, as the dripping sound grew louder all around me. With no time to react, something slithered across my upper body, binding me firm, its texture gauze-like and sticky. I tried to call out, but no sound escaped my mouth.

I closed my eyes, my entire body now wrapped tight by this awful gauze, paralysed in fear. Even though I could’t see it, the dog’s cackled laugh returned, bouncing off the walls like an erratic pinball, while the gauze masked my face and I could no longer breathe. I thought it was the end, I thought I was gone.

I thought the dog had claimed me.

That was until I bolted upright like a jack-in-the-box.

My heart tried to escape my body, as my head snatched around the room in a series of jerked movements. It took me a good thirty seconds to realise I was actually home, in my own bed, disorientated and burning up with fever. The bedsheets were soaked through and my body was sleek with sweat, but at least I was no longer dreaming.

Still, the thump in my chest was pronounced and I took a series of deep breaths in an attempt to regain some control. Eventually my heart rate settled and exhaustion took over. I was back in the real world, yet before I knew it, a new panic washed over me. Who had I infected? Every day for the next month I rang my parents, my brother, my sister—even my ex—just to ask if they’d had the dream.

Each day they answered no.

It was relief of course, but I knew the reality of the situation; my dream had been passed to someone, that’s just how it worked. The fact I didn’t know who, in a way made it all the more distressing. The guilt ate me up inside. I was one of the lucky ones, but what if the recipient of my dream—whoever that may be—wasn’t so fortunate?

That dog changed everything, things haven’t been the same since. Today, if I manage three hours sleep a night, I consider it a win. I’m constantly drained and tired, just dragging myself from pillar to post. We’re told the dream can come back, even if we’ve dreamed it already. There’s some talk of a legitimate anti-dream pill in development—not the fake stuff we see on social media—which will eventually get everything back to the way it was, but I’m not so sure.

For me, the dog is here to stay. It may not be in my dream tonight, but it’s definitely out there, circulating like a bird of prey; it feels like only a matter of time before it returns to my subconscious.

I hope I’m wrong, because I want the world to be free of this constant terror.

I want our dreams to be dreams again, not nightmares.

But as it stands, that damn dog threatens us all.

I just long for the day where everyone can dream freely and without consequence.

I just want things back to the way they were.

Chris Farrington

Image by Robert Anderson from Pixabay – Black and white image of ruined manor house.