Dreams

The nightmares began when I was ten. They were always the same. They were always terrifying. Someone chased me, threatening, wanting to kill me. I would run from him, but I could never get away. He was always there, right behind me. “You should be dead,” he would hiss. I would wake, heart pounding, frozen by fear.

Sometimes I would leap up, running for comfort to my sister’s room.

“I had a scary dream,” I would whimper.

“It’s just a dream,” she would say sleepily.

“But it’s the same dream,” I would whisper. “Always the same dream.”

“Then you know how it ends,” she would say.

I would gulp, and nod. “I die,” I would whisper in misery.

Silence. Then, “You can sleep on the floor,” she would say, tossing me a blanket. “Go to sleep.”

The years passed. The dream grew.

There was a boy, my age. Always my age. As I grew older, so did he.

He was angry. Always angry.

“It’s your fault,” he would say, his voice thin and chilling. “You should be dead.”

“What did I do?” I would whimper.

“You know what you did,” he would hiss.

“No! I don’t!”

“If it weren’t for you…. You should be dead.” His voice would fade, and I would wake, shaking from the hatred I felt from him.

Once, I had tried to tell my parents about my dream. They cut me off, told me I was being silly, told me I was too old to be afraid of a silly dream. So I never told them again.

But the dream continued.

I tried to make peace with the boy in my dream. I told him I was sorry. I didn’t know why, didn’t know what I had done - I told him that, too - but whatever it was, I was sorry.

Slowly, as the years crawled by, he seemed to accept my apology.

As I grew - as he grew, too - our dream-visits became calmer, less scary, more peaceful. The nightmare became just a regular dream as we made our peace.

“Did you ever wonder,” he said one night, “what it would be like to have a … brother?”

“Like you?”

“Yes. Exactly like me.”

“No,” I said slowly. “No, I never did.”

“Maybe you should,” he whispered. He kissed me on the cheek and disappeared.

When I woke, I touched my cheek where he had kissed me. It felt cold, that spot. Cold as ice. Cold as death. And it stayed cold, that spot, all day.

I went to bed early that night, eager to see him again in my dreams. To ask him about that kiss.

But the dream was gone.

Night after night I hoped, night after night the dream eluded me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said.

What would it be like, having a brother? Having a brother just my age?

And why would he say that?

I tried to dismiss the thoughts, but they wouldn’t go away.

Then I started having an odd dream, a new dream, though it wasn’t the dream of the boy. In my dream, I saw a stone stairway. Gradually, it came closer, clearer, as if I was nearing the steps.

Then I was climbing them. A huge wooden door stood at the top of the steps, with a brass handle and a massive brass keyhole. I approached the door, but I couldn’t get in. It was locked. I peered through the key hole, but it was too dark inside to see.

I kept going back, night after night, until one night the door was open. I stepped through it. Down a twisting spiral staircase of cast iron. Down to a dark, narrow hall that led to a dark room. Into the room. Drawers and shelves surrounded me.

A woman appeared, glowing white. She beckoned me and I followed her. She led me to a drawer, which I opened.

It was full of newspapers, their dates marching backwards through the days and the weeks and the years.

The woman reached toward my hand, pointing. I picked up the newspaper she pointed to. It was from the day I was born. The woman disappeared, fading away as the dream faded, and I was awake. The dream was so real, it shimmered in the reality of my room. It seemed important - urgently important. But why?

Stone steps. Wooden door. Brass keyhole. Spiral staircase. It all seemed vaguely familiar, but just beyond my grasp.

The dream would not let me go, making me restless, edgy. Mama sent me worried looks.

“Are you feeling okay?”

I nodded, unable to voice an answer.

“I - uh - I’m going to go for a walk,” I said.

“Okay,” Mama answered. “Be careful. Pay attention when you cross the streets.”

I nodded and headed out the door. I walked down the sidewalk, headed to the center of town. It was a sunny Saturday, so I wasn’t the only walker.

I stepped aside to allow a mother with a double stroller to pass on the narrow walk, turning away to face the building behind me.

The stone steps. The wooden door. The brass keyhole. There it was! The building from my dreams!

“Riverton Public Library,” the brass sign over the door read.

As in my dream, I walked up the steps. Through the door. The spiral staircase beckoned, its sign reading “Archives.”

“Can I help you?” the woman at the desk asked.

“Um - yes, yes please,” I choked out. I cleared my throat. “I’d like to - I’d like to see the newspaper from the day I was born.”

“Family history project?” she asked with a smile. “Of course, right this way.”

She led me down the spiral staircase, down the hall, to the room with the drawers and shelves that I had seen in my dream. She showed me a table I could work on and gave me a quick overview of how the newspapers were organized.

“If you need any help, you know where to find me,” she said with a smile, and left me to it.

With shaking hands, I opened the drawer from my dream. I paged backwards through the days and weeks to my birthday. I gently drew the paper out, carefully spread it open on the table. I turned page after page, looking for … what?

Obituaries. My name. “... survived by his twin sister, Maddison ….”

My brother. My twin.

Who was stillborn.

They had named him Matthew.

Maddy…Matty….

With shaking hands, I carefully folded the paper, gently returned it to its place.

“Did you ever wonder … what it would be like to have a brother…” His haunting words sounded loud in my head. Maddison. Matthew. A brother. A twin.

I had lived, and he had died. My fault?

That night, I had the dream again - the old one, the one that had haunted my nights for so long, the dream with the boy just my age. Always my age.

He walked towards me, my age, my face, my eyes. My twin. My brother.

“Hello, Matthew. Matty.”

“Hello, Maddison. Maddy.” He smiled an angelic smile. “I’m glad you know.” He kissed my cheek. “I’ll go now. Live a good life. For both of us.”

The dream faded away. For the last time.