It’s probably the Flagyl I’m sucking down twice a day to combat the bacteria farm that sprouted spontaneously last week in my lady parts, but holy freaking hell did I have the weirdest creepiest dream ever the other night. Either that or divine intervention just soft-tossed me the best opening scene to a novel I had yet to even think about writing.
Until now.
Because of the dream.
You decide.
I’m in the shower (don’t all good creepy tales have at least one shower scene?) getting ready for something. The dream was sort of vague on that detail, so we’ll just go and assume I am a lady of leisure preparing for my day of domestic bliss while delicately nibbling on dark chocolate and watching Mark Harmon NCIS reruns. Because that is so what I would do.
As I step out of the shower, water cascading over my firm svelte body (Hey! My dream, my fantasy. ’K??) I hear a strange man’s voice drift in from the living room. I wrap my luxurious towel around me and move swiftly down the hall to the living room. (My dream did not decide to place me in my dream house, alas, so that walk was about five steps.)
My daughter is standing at the door, holding it open while a deliveryman has one foot inside the door, clipboard in hand. He’s about 5’ 9”, almost military short black hair, liberally streaked with grey (dream details can be do fucking intense. I could pick this guy out of a line-up, I swear), with pale blue eyes behind simple black framed glasses, smiling at my daughter. His face is long, tanned and craggy, plain really, not one to stand out in a crowd. This guy? He’s Mr. Everyman. His uniform is that slate blue color, the logo Excel007 Package Delivery in yellow but there is no nametag.
He looks my way and his eyes change, just a bit and my skin prickles. My son is lounging on the sofa, reading his book, paying minimal attention now that I’ve come into the room. My daughter excitedly announces that thiis man has a package for us. I pull my towel a little tighter to my body and move closer to her, asking what delivery company.
He smiles widely, friendly, waving the clipboard over his shoulder toward the door, “Excel007. Got a Delivery for you, Ma’am” he says, with a smiling wink at my daughter. I peer over his shoulder out the door and there is a dark blue panel truck backed into my in my driveway, the same Excel007 Package Delivery name sprawled across the side.
During this exchange, he has somehow gotten both feet in the door and is now level with the edge of the front door my daughter is holding. I realize that and something inside me goes on alert. I put my free hand on my daughter’s shoulder, pulling her back a bit. I stare hard at this man, this plain stranger who is now in my home. “I’m not expecting any packages. Please step outside.”
He waves the clipboard a bit more, “Just need you to sign this for me, got your package right outside.” He looks around a bit, glancing toward the hall, the kitchen, his eyes taking in the rooms, I think. He leans a little further forward, as if he’s about to take another step.
My voice firming even more, I ask him again to please step outside. My son looks up at this exchange, maybe sensing the tension in my voice, puts his book down and comes over to my side. I don’t like the way this feels, this man, in our house.
Deliveryman’s eyes narrow slightly as he looks at me, glances to my son. For a few quiet seconds, nobody moves, there is only eye contact. “I’ll need someone to come out and sign for the package.” He insists as he takes a slow step back from me.
“We’re not expecting any packages.” I say again, moving forward to push him back through the door. “Please leave the information, and I’ll call your company when it is more convenient for me. Can you leave a card?”
We’re both standing still, not more than two feet away from each other. I know how vulnerable I am, standing there in a towel, and my children at my side. I refuse to let him know just how vulnerable I feel at this minute. I glare, unsmiling, at him, memorizing his features, letting him know I am doing so.
He pulls a card from his pocket, holding it out for me. I gesture to the table next to the door, clearly indicating he should put the card there. This forces him back another step closer to the door. He’s staring at me, all pretense of a smile gone from his non-descript everyman face. “Sure. Just contact the number there.”
He steps fully out of the house now, and I swiftly close the storm door, a barrier between him and my children, the lock making a solid click as I engage it. He turns and walks down the stairs. Before he rounds the back corner of his truck, he looks back over his shoulder at me, his eyes now cold, his face hard and set. I stand, shivering in the warm air, as he disappears from my sight and the truck pulls out of my driveway.
I pick up the card with shaking fingers and know with gut wrenching certainty that the number printed in black does not exist, nor does Excel007 Package Delivery. My dream self knew without a doubt that we had narrowly avoided a very bad experience and was shaken to the core.
As dreams are wont to do, the next sequence was a jump that found me detailing what had happened that morning to my husband, that I had called the police, told them what happened and upon their investigation they confirmed that the company didn’t exist and the truck had not been seen in town that day.
When I woke up from this dream, every bit of it was so still so clear; the water drops on my skin from the shower, the light background noise from the television, the sound of cars passing our house. It was like any day at home, except our dog wasn’t in the dream, which was odd.
It’s been a couple of days and that sense of dread, of menace, lingers every time the dream resurfaces in my mind, which is frequently. There will be further discussions with my kid’s on how to answer doors in our future, that’s for certain, just to remind them again. Because Mommy’s dream paranoia takes a little while to overcome.
When the more creative side of my brain kicks in, that scene ends a bit tragically for the poor unfortunate fictitious family I am now creating, and opens up a whole sorrowful story of loss, redemption and revenge.
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