On the eve of his 40th birthday, Martin Aimes travelled in time.

That's how it felt to him anyway. It could easily have been a product of an undiagnosed aneurysm or a flashback from his more drug liberal days, but Martin was convinced that the rapid rush of images he saw was a personal journey through his own timeline. He'd never been one to buy into the idea of past lives or destiny, but the chair and the sights it showed him quickly changed his opinion on the subject.

Martin had spent the day prepping his house for the celebration that evening. Finger foods were in the refrigerator or oven as necessary, beverages chilling in one of the dozen or so coolers housed in the garage, decorations collected from Martin's various journeys across the world had been hung or strategically placed throughout the house. He had even somehow managed to hang the 300 lb. ceremonial fertility sculpture he had acquired in Brazil over the arch connecting the living room and front entry area, though he was convinced it would probably come crashing down any second, leaving Martin to celebrate his 40th with a personal injury lawsuit. But he was incredibly proud of the sculpture and the journey it represented, so up it stayed. The use of his souvenirs as decorations was his way of celebrating the 40 years he had already lived, and of the many things he had seen in that time. It was also to be a reminder that he still had many things to see and do, and that despite this milestone in his life, he had many years in which to see and do those things.

Since he had already thoroughly cleaned his house to the point that every surface sparkled and squeaked, even the cloth curtains, he was almost completely ready for the party when the knock on the door came. He answered, expecting to see an early party-goer, and was instead greeted by a nice but modest looking chair on his front step. He stepped out and looked up and down the street, but saw no one running from his house, nor any cars he didn't recognize from the neighborhood. Assuming this chair was an odd gift that would be explained at a later time, he dragged it into the house and closed the door.

Martin had several friends who were practical jokers, so he thought it prudent to thoroughly examine the chair for breakaway legs or a false back before trying to sit in it. The chair was of average dining room table size, solid wood that looked old and expensive and stained a light chocolate brown. It lacked any flourishes or adornments, and looked like it was created for solid function rather than airy form. There were no notes or greetings of any kind attached to the chair, save for a simple card reading "Happy Birthday, Martin Aimes," so the mystery of its origins remained a mystery. But the seat was nicely padded, the construction looked to be of quality, and Martin (an avid lover of antiques of all kinds) decided that he owed it to the chair and the craftsman who created it to put it to its intended use, just for a moment. So he sat and leaned his head back against the chair's back, and closed his eyes for a brief rest before making his final party preparations, which is how he ended up taking the strangest and most intriguing journey of his life so far.

The rush of dizziness that overtook Martin as soon as he had settled into the chair startled him, but he simply attributed it to the work he'd been doing since he got up at 8 AM that morning. He figured keeping his head back and eyes closed for now would allow the spell to pass. He realized how wrong he was when the smell of manure and dirty humanity hit him. Thinking again of the joker friends and the riot act he would read them for stinking up his immaculate house, he opened his eyes and quickly rose from the chair, but stumbled both from the continuing dizziness and from the sight that greeted his eyes.

Martin had been to France on several occasions, and loved every trip, but had never seen it like this. Everywhere he looked he saw horses, goats, cows, and other animals associated with farming. Stalls of fruits and vegetables surrounded him, all staffed by dirty and unkempt French people. Most alarming was the smell. His nostrils were assaulted by a mix of human and animal waste, rotten produce, and almost sentient funk of thousands of unwashed humans. Thinking he was dreaming, Martin pinched himself, but only succeeded in adding a smarting arm to the rotten stink and bizarre images surrounding him. Being an avid student of world cultures and history, he easily recognized the dress of the people as being from the mid-1700s. Certain of the impossibility of the situation he found himself in, Martin stood stock still and tried to simply observe, at least until a fat Frenchman started pointing and yelling in his direction.

Martin had never fully learned French, despite his numerous trips to the country. He understood some basic phrases, but would find himself hard pressed to communicate if left alone with solely French-speaking people. So he reeled from the confusion that hit him when he realized he could understand every word the fat man was yelling, and even more when he realized he was yelling back in French. Of course, despite the fact that Martin's confusion and embarrassment made it feel like this exchange took an hour, it all happened in a split second. It was just enough time for him to realize that what the fat man was yelling was "Look out, you stupid pig! Above you!," and for Martin to look up and see the globe-sized chunk of masonry hurtling toward his head from the building behind him. "Merde," thought Martin, and then all was blackness and dizziness again.

The assault on his nose ended almost immediately, to be replaced with a stifling feeling of heat and the smell of dust. Afraid of what he would find yet still infinitely curious, Martin slowly opened his eyes only to be blinded by the brightness of the sun beating down on him. The fear he felt at finding himself in a new locale with no explanation as to how he got there was ratcheted up several hundred degrees when he realized he stood in the middle of a dusty street, large wooden buildings rising up on either side of him, and that a large and angry looking man stood at the opposite end of the street with a gun pointed in Martin's direction.

The angry man was dressed much like the men from the Westerns Martin had so enjoyed as a child, and he realized, looking down, that he too was holding a gun and dressed like an extra from The Rifleman. Fear more than instinct made him squeeze the trigger, and he jumped what felt like 15 feet in the air at the explosion that emanated from the barrel of the gun. Shaking in fear, he threw the gun down even as a large whoop went up from the people standing on either side of the street, watching this showdown. Guns were fired into the air in celebration all around him, and he cringed and shook with each one. Men poured onto the street around Martin, slapping him on the back and yelling for whiskey for the hero. Martin allowed himself a small smile at being called "hero" and looked forward to a bracing shot of whiskey from the saloon he found himself dragged into, but the smile quickly faltered and disappeared when he heard a loud crack from above his head, as the people around him yelled and scattered away from him. He looked up to see a large, ornate chandelier tied to a huge beam that sunk inward and broke apart even as he watched. As the chandelier shot rapidly toward his head, Martin had time to think "Again?," before he was overtaken and shot back into the dark.

Next Martin awoke to find himself in the Industrial Revolution, in a large factory producing some product or another. Men and smoke surrounded him, and he found himself covered in grease and grime, and sweating profusely. As per the previous experiences, he became aware of his situation even as shouts warned him of some disaster. He looked up, expecting to see the ceiling of the building hurtling toward him, but instead fell flat to the floor as an explosion rocked the factory around him. After several confused moments, foremen came around and started ushering men out the door, and Martin found himself shoved unceremoniously into the street. He decided to take advantage of the longer duration of this visit and take in some of his surroundings. He walked down the street, nodding at people who passed him, and generally enjoyed his bizarre once-in-a-lifetime journey. That is, until shouts around him warned him, once again, to look up just in time to see the next in the series of head-trauma-causing objects whistling toward him. This time it was a large, dead, vulture-like bird, beak pointed straight at the crown of his head. "Oh, you have GOT to be kidding," his mind exclaimed shortly before being pierced by five pounds of carrion fowl and hurtled back into the blackness.

This time, Martin came to comfortably seated in the grass, leaning against a tree and surrounded by music and the smell of marijuana. Looking down at himself, he saw his clothes were of varied shades of tie-dye, and he suddenly realized the music he was hearing was Jimi Hendrix's famous version of the Star-Spangled Banner. Amazed at his good fortune at being able to see such a legendary musical moment, Martin threw back his head and whooped with pleasure.

And saw a naked man sitting in the tree above him, holding a set of bongos hooked on one finger and gesticulating wildly toward the stage. Martin's joyous yawp turned into a resigned sigh as he watched the bongos slip from Tarzan's finger, and he thought to himself "Stinking hippies," before the bongos crashed into him in the least musical way possible.

When the blackness and dizziness subsided for the last time, Martin found himself laying on his own couch, in his own home, in his own time. The chair was not where it had been when he sat in it, and a quick perusal of his house likewise turned up no mystery chair. Since his head still throbbed and he could still detect the faint smells of farm animal, grease, dust and pot, he quickly came to the conclusion that all the experiences were real glimpses of himself throughout history, and that once the chair had shown him these sights, it had travelled on without him to who knew where or when. He wasn't sure why the chair had shown him these things, except maybe as a warning to go through life with a hardhat. Martin realized he had only a few minutes until his guests were due to arrive, and so rushed upstairs to clean up and change for the party, filing away his journey for examination later.

He had just finished his ablutions and was slipping on his shoes when the first knock came on the front door. Giving himself one last look in the mirror, he smiled at the almost-40-year-old version of himself in the mirror, and laughed at what he was quickly becoming convinced was the dream he must've had while dozing on the couch. He giggled quietly to himself at the sheer absurdity that a mystery chair could take him on a space-time tour of his previous lives. He was still giggling to himself when he opened the door and welcomed his friends to his home. And he was still giggling to himself when he heard one of the supports he had installed for the Brazilian sculpture, under which he was currently standing, crack and start to give way. His giggle subsided when he looked up in time to see the 300 lb. sculpture slowly descend toward him, the figure's huge erect phallus pointed straight at his skull. "Happy birthday, Martin Aimes," he thought to himself even as the black embraced him once again.

The infant stirs, not yet awake but partially aware. It dreams lush dreams of ancient seas and warm sun, of creatures great and small, of plants and insects and other things for which it does not yet have a name. Its eyes flutter under translucent lids, preparing for their time to open. Occasionally it feels warm on the inside as well as out, and this is love, though it does not yet know that word. A high lyrical voice sings numerous lullabies in many languages as it slumbers. This is Mother, though the voice is all it knows of the idea of parentage. At somewhat regular intervals the voice, now harsh and loud, proclaims, "NEW SECTOR CLEAN -- CONTAMINANT LEVELS REDUCED." The infant feels fear when it hears Mother speak in this way, though fear is nothing more than the rush of adrenaline that courses through its veins; it does not yet know the name of the emotion. Again Mother speaks, now flat and even, speaking of food and nutrients. The infant does not know these ideas, only that when Mother speaks this way it feels contented and at peace.

In time, the child dreams of science and religion, music and literature, war and poverty and disease, all the things that make its kind wonderful and base. It sees images of men and women in white coats, urgently working together deep underground. It sees them pressing buttons and speaking to Mother, telling her she is their only hope. She sings to them as the poison they swallow takes hold, and sends her first children to clean them and inter them when they are finally and forever asleep. The child dreams of great cylindrical machines flying through the air, and of flashes bright as the sun, and towering dome-capped clouds. It sees men and women staggering and falling, burns and wounds covering their fragile flesh. It sees what Mother sees, great swathes of land full of fire and sickness and horror as its kind struggles to survive. And it feels Mother's pain as the world turns black, cold and silent.

But then it watches as Mother watches, as ages pass and the land becomes green again. And suddenly it feels fear when it hears Mother's loud voice again, this time saying, "SURFACE LEVEL CLEAN - BEGIN NEW EDEN SEQUENCE." It feels her joy and hears her song as she releases her pets all over the world in pairs, and celebrates with her as the pairs become more. It watches as she samples water and proclaims it clean, as she samples fruit and declares it edible, as she watches her pets' offspring and sees no mutations or sickness. And when Mother is satisfied, she speaks softly to the child, telling him to come forth and claim what she's prepared for him.

So the child is released in a torrent of fluids and tubes, in a wave of fear and new sensations. Mother's first children clean and swaddle the child while Mother sings of discovery and hope and new life. Mother helps the child, who she now calls Adam, learn to walk and talk and write and sing and embrace the world she has kept safe for him. Mother watches and teaches as Adam becomes a man, and her pride is as limitless as the stars.
And one day Mother tells Adam that her time is short, that the tasks set before her have been accomplished save one. Mother tells Adam of other humans the world over, kept safe and taught in the same way as Adam, ready to be loosed on this pristine new world to form it in the image given them by Mother. She tells him of love to come, and discoveries to make his heart sing, and reminds him of the lessons of peace and respect she has taught him. And she sings him one last lullaby as the doors open onto the new world, as her last thoughts end and she bids him farewell.

And Adam weeps with both joy and sorrow, for his beloved Mother is no more, but the world has been reborn with her passing.

I enjoy dreaming. It's like a little stage play just for my benefit. One night, I had one of those dreams that leave you feeling melancholy when you wake up. I know you know what I'm talking about. We've all had them, and had terrible next days as a result. One of those ones that seems terribly realistic, in a utopian sort of way.

I dreamt that I was on vacation with friends, though friends in the abstract, of course. They had that disconnected, I-don't-really-know-you-people presence that our dream characters always seem to have. I knew they were friends because I was with them on vacation, and what other possible reason could I have for being vacation in the woods (did I mention the dream was set in the woods?) with a bunch of strangers? Maybe they were subconscious representations of my waking life friends. Like, one was maybe really greedy to represent a friend I viewed in real life as particularly selfish. And one may have been particularly kind to represent someone in my life that I saw as my safe haven. Or maybe dream interpretation is all bullshit anyway, and I should just enjoy them for the cinematic magic shows they are.

Anyway, I was on vacation (in the woods) with these avataristic friends, enjoying the peace that only that sort of location seems capable of bringing. We drank, smoked out, played ridiculous made-up games that would only amuse a close circle of friends, and generally made a party of life. I know I make this dream sound like some sort of perfect life (I believe I already used the word "utopian"), but what good are dreams if they can't occasionally show you things in an ideal sense? If all we dreamt about were number crunching, meal preparation, filling up with gas, dreams wouldn't carry the power of myth that's been attributed to them throughout history. So if I make my vacation (in the woods) dream sound wonderful and perfect, maybe it was at the time. And that gives me a little pleasure in what can be an otherwise often dreary and mundane life.

As the general sense of well-being and joy carried on throughout the dream, I found myself floating through conversations and events as a detached observer. Of course I also participated, but that's the interesting dual nature of dreams. From this observer position, I spied a girl that was new to me. I was instantly fascinated; maybe even, dare I say it, enamored. She sparkled and was intoxicating to me, even from a distance. My participating self felt the pull and made his way over to the small circle of which she was a part. I observed with amazement as I, normally shy and reticent, introduced myself and struck up a conversation with her about the latest music, or books, or Britney Spears scandal, and she listened with seeming fascination and enjoyment. We laughed, talked, laughed some more, and generally just had a wonderful time learning about another person.

Now while this may not seem like anything particularly special, just enjoying getting to know another person, stop and think about your day-to-day life. How often are you able to simply relax and receive joy just from learning about another person? We all walk around, waiting to be hurt by others, by circumstances, just by life in general. We've all been stung so many times in so many ways that we've learned to walk through life playing ostrich, heads buried in the proverbial sand, avoiding trouble at all costs. How else do you explain unreported crimes to which there are multiple witnesses, so many people sliding into alcoholism despite being surrounded by friends and loved ones, teenagers with years of wonder, joy, and pain still ahead of them, taking their own lives? We avoid conflict at all costs, even if one of those costs is intimacy with our fellow humans. And so in the act of avoiding conflict, we avoid learning anything about those that surround us every day. But sometimes you let your guard down, someone slips in, and suddenly you're reminded that life is full of things that make you laugh, make you cry, but generally just remind you you're alive. And for me, the simple act of meeting and getting to know this entrancing girl was enough for the moment.

From that point, time skipped in that easy way it often does in dreams. There's no sense of having missed anything, just a natural progression or flow of time. At this point it was apparent that my dream girl (in the literal sense) and I had made one of those random connections that happen all too rarely, and I, continuing to display huevos grandes far beyond any I display in real life, had asked her out on a D-A-T-E. We were sitting outside at night, under that perfectly clear and starry sky you only find in unspoiled nature, making plans, deciding when and where to meet up, what to do on the D-A-T-E. We also were laughing, ribbing one another, and enjoying each other's presence in a very easy and familiar way. I remember thinking in my dream "She's the one I've been looking for," which, while clichéd, felt absolutely true. Its truth made it even more special because it proved the cynic in me wrong. Proved that sometimes the cheesy clichés are truth, and it's wonderful to be surprised by that revelation.

Plans made for the D-A-T-E to come the next day, we began to head our separate ways to bed, to rest, and perhaps, in an already perfect dream, weave even more perfection that we could return to at any time. She started to walk away and I, bemused, watched her go for a short while, before turning in the opposite direction toward my lodgings. I had a walk of about 100 yards back to my cabin, and I was in no hurry to get back. I wanted to walk slowly, breathe in the cool night air, and think about this new friend who already felt like so much more. The night was chilly enough that I could watch my breath plume out from my mouth like harmless dragon's breath. The dry pine needles crunched under my feet, reminding me of the crunch of snow, which is one of my favorite sounds in the world. I was so enraptured by nature and by my thoughts of her, that at first I didn't notice that the crunching of the needles was much more rapid than my own two feet could account for. In addition, the sound was coming from behind me as well as under me, and I knew that no matter how clear the air, I couldn't be producing an echo that convincing.

I turned around, already preparing myself for a playful tackle from one of my other companions on the trip. So when I swiveled 180 degrees, a vulgar greeting ready to leave my lips, it's only natural that I stumbled a little when I saw not one of my buddies, but her, jogging toward me. She stopped about 3 feet from me and laughed quietly at my defensive posture, knowing, I'm sure, the mistake I'd made and finding it silly in a sweet sort of way. I was excited to see her back so soon, and was preparing to ask to what I owed the pleasure, when she took a couple of tentative steps toward me. Those steps brought her eyes into the light, and as always (something I knew instinctually in my dream logic), they took my breath away a little and made me forget what I wanted to say. She had golden eyes, ringed black and flecked with glittering reddish-copper. Dream eyes, in other words. We watched one another, unsure but comfortable, and neither of us moved for a moment. Then she closed the remaining distance between us, reached out a trembling left hand (though whether from the cool air or from nervousness, I'm still not sure), and took my right hand. She simply held it for a moment, and looked into my eyes in an intense and absorbed sort of way that no one had ever looked at me before. She then lifted herself up on her toes (she was 4 or 5 inches shorter than me) and kissed me. It was a movie kiss, perfect in every sense. The night's chill did not extend to that small surface area of skin that connected us in that too brief moment. The kiss was not forceful, not hurried, not lustful in any way. It was simply an acknowledgement of the bond we had formed so quickly and strongly. It was innocent, intense, and the best kiss I've ever had, awake or asleep. She reached up with her right hand, lightly cupped, and gently ran the back of her fingers down the side of my face. The kiss lasted forever, but that wasn't nearly long enough. When she finally pulled back, I could see her cheeks were flushed, and the burning sensation in my face told me mine were as well. We looked into each other's eyes again, and despite being dazed by the wonderful kiss we had just shared, I was still overwhelmed by the strength and intelligence and life I saw in her impossibly beautiful eyes. The look lingered only briefly; then, with a quick squeeze of my hand, she turned and jogged back toward her cabin. Not a single word had passed between us the whole time, but we had communicated more deeply than I ever had with any other person. If I sound overblown or overly effusive, it's only because I'm trying to fully illustrate the beauty of that moment in the dream. I realized, once I'd regained the ability to think coherently, that my lips tingled slightly from the contact we'd shared. I carried this pleasant sensation with me back to my bed, ignoring all entreaties for conversation or a game of spades or Xbox, and fell asleep to dream about the time I knew was to come with her.

And that's when my alarm went off, awakening me to start my day in the real world. The world where I usually avoided eye-contact with others due to my painful shyness, the world where I couldn't remember the last time a girl had agreed to go on a D-A-T-E with me, nor the last time I had asked. Sadness hit me in an instant and powerful wave when I realized the beautiful moment was little more than the elaborate stagecraft of my sleeping mind. I lay in my bed, gathering my wits and summoning the courage to rise and face my day, my responsibilities, my life. Finally, I shook off enough of the dream's vestiges that I could successfully prepare for the next 8 hours of work-a-day life, and I headed to the bathroom to shower.
It wasn't until I was washing my hair that I realized my lips still tingled.

Elder Lane by Bill Chandler

People still talk in asides and whispers about Peter and Iris Derleth. They moved into the neighborhood formed by the cul de sac known as Elder Lane several years ago, and though their residence lasted less than a month they are still the most famous residents of the normally quiet street. The end of their time on Elder Lane is of course the most often discussed subject when the Derleth name is brought up at dinner parties or poker games, but the things leading up to that end...they contribute just as much to the palpable chill that comes over any room in which that dread name is spoken.

Peter and Iris moved to Elder Lane in November right after the first snow fall, about two weeks before Thanksgiving. The whole neighborhood was a delightful mix of the smell of fireplaces burning, of the ozone scent of freshly fallen snow, and of baked goods which had been (and would continue to be) traded house to house from the weeks leading up to Halloween until well after Christmas. Nothing said more about the sense of community on Elder Lane than the welcoming scents which greeted visitors and new residents like the Derleths. The people of Elder Lane prided themselves on being the most neighborly neighbors in existence, and so would descend on any new people on the street with suggestions for dining, discounts to the local dry cleaner's, sets of rules governing pet leashing and facade maintenance, and of course, entire baskets of food both homemade and store bought (Mr. and Mrs. Charles Betel, the oldest residents of Elder Lane at 82 and 80 respectively, always brought the finest gourmet bread they could find; both felt they were too old to be dithering about with a hot oven). Food was a point of cohesion for the people of the neighborhood. It was shared at wakes, births, anniversaries, and any other excuse the residents could find to gather en masse. And it was food that gave the first indication that the Derleths were unlike the rest of the people on Elder Lane.

The Derleths arrived with zero fanfare, and it was almost as if they had materialized on the street. For most of the year, #3 Elder Lane had stood empty. Some college kids had rented the place briefly, but moved soon after following a barrage of complaints (and a few heavily veiled threats) from the other people on the street about the late hours and loud noises that came with them. After the collegians left, the house seemed to become frozen in time - small, nicely maintained, but empty with a glaring "For Sale or Lease" sign standing in the yard like a repudiation of the normally friendly people who had driven away kids whose only crime was to be young. Some of them had the decency to feel bad about how the kids had been treated, but none of them were so broken up that they thought to seek the students out and apologize. So when the sign first displayed "Sold!" and then disappeared from the yard the first week of November, the people of Elder Lane breathed a collective sigh of relief that they would finally be able to return to their neighborly ways, and to make up for the actions of some of their more "zealous" compatriots.

So the welcoming committee was well and truly ready to greet the new neighbors with open arms, but never got the chance thanks to the way the Derleths arrived. Normally the moment a moving van pulled into a driveway, the new residents were flooded with welcome packages and offers of help to unload, but that was always assuming the new residents arrived during the day, which most did. The Derleths, so far as anyone could tell, arrived in the middle of the night and could have won the award for "Most Quiet Move Ever" had such a thing existed. One day the house was empty, the next it wasn't, and no one had any clue that it was different except for the appearance of a small car in the driveway. Feeling themselves already out of sorts for having missed the newest arrivals to their small community, the neighbors gathered together to make their new neighbors feel welcome.

The group gathered on the front walk of the now occupied house, and Jack Marks and his wife Cindy took the lead (Jack and Cindy were one set of the Derleths next door neighbors, and so felt the responsibility to be the most welcoming). Jack rapped on the front door quickly three times, then stepped back and put his arm around his wife with a grin on his face, his equally friendly looking neighbors ranging behind him. Save for the presence of baked goods, coupon packs and broad smiles, this particular tableau could have easily been a repeat of the one that led the college kids to find a new house to rent. But their business today was welcome, and the sense of camaraderie flowing among them was palpable and alive.

It withered away and died when Peter Derleth opened the door.

Peter was a tall, thin man who wore small round framed glasses that caught and reflected the light in such a way that seeing his eyes was almost an impossibility; the viewer was simply blinded by the reflected glare and forced to look away before any determination of eye color (or kindness, or warmth, or any of the other myriad doorways into a person's personality often associated with the eyes) could be made. Stranger still was his mode of dress. Peter wore plain, shapeless white linen garments that brought to mind priests and ascetics from throughout the ages. He wore no shoes, and kept his hands folded in front of him at all times. Even when Jack and Cindy held out their hands to shake, Peter kept his neatly placed in front of him, responding to their overtly friendly gesture with little more than a slight nod of his head. He greeted the people of Elder Lane in a polite but detached manner, meeting each person's gaze briefly when his or her name was announced and responding with a simple, "Hello."

Several people tried to steal glances inside the house, but due to the darkness from within and Peter's frame blocking most of the small opening in the doorway, very little was determined about the interior of the house. Most people saw enough to realize that the house was almost empty of furniture. The living room, just off to the right of the front door, was furnished with nothing more than several large bookcases containing what appeared to be a large collection of very old and valuable looking books, and a large stone table in the middle of the room, about 7 feet in length. Nothing else could be determined from the tiny opening Peter allowed into his home, so the general immediate impression was that Peter Derleth was a new-ager, basking in the principles of Feng Shui and minimalism at the expense of what most considered to be basic humanity.

A woman's voice inquired from within the house as to who was at the door, and Peter called her forward to meet the new neighbors. He introduced her as Iris, which many in the assemblage on the front walk felt couldn't be more of an ironic name. Rather than the striking and lovely flower whose name she shared, Iris Derleth looked like a woman who had spent her entire life indoors, cowering from the sun or any other source of life and nourishment. She was pale and mousy looking, with long grey hair that was in dire need of a brush. The friendly greeting of her neighbors seemed to have the opposite effect of what was intended, in that it seemed to make her shrink further into the dark interior of the house. Almost as soon as she had appeared, she was gone, leaving Peter and the neighbors to blink uncomfortably at one another until Peter made some excuse and retreated into his house with only the barest of "Thank you"s before shutting the door. In the brief but highly uncomfortable exchange of greetings, no one had though to present him with the welcoming items they had brought. There was some discussion as to whether or not they should simply take the items back, but the need to appear overly neighborly led them to simply place the baskets on the front step and leave them there. The hope was that the Derleths would find this bounty and realize what a warm community they had entered, and respond accordingly.

The next day, all the items were left on the Marks' front step, with a note in spidery handwriting that read simply, "Religious restrictions prevent us from partaking of these items. Peter Derleth." Some people were offended and of a mind to speak out on the matter, but cooler heads prevailed with the thinking that religion should be respected, regardless of how cold it made one seem. They all assumed that an invitation to the neighborhood Thanksgiving potluck, a yearly tradition on Elder Lane, would serve as notice that regardless of religious or societal differences of opinion the people of the neighborhood still wanted the Derleths to feel a part of the community. The broad assumption that they would not come, thereby sparing the community the discomfort of having to deal with this odd couple, went unspoken but widely shared.

When Peter and Iris did indeed show up about an hour into the dinner, the gathered people felt almost offended at their presence despite the fact that it was their invitation which brought the Derleths to the event in the first place. But once again the sense of neighborly pride won the day, and the people set about welcoming the Derleths and trying to foist various items of food on them. Peter always answered in the negative for both of them, always referring back to the previously mentioned "religious restrictions". When asked about their religion, Peter stated that it was an ancient religion which was nameless, and whose followers were very few but very committed. Several people commented on the fact that neither Peter nor Iris wore shoes, and that they had walked to the party through at least an inch of fresh snow but neither seemed to register any pain or coldness in their extremities. Peter told them this was due to the fact that a strict adherence to their religion gave them a, and here he paused as though searching for the right words, "command over the elements." He refused to elaborate further. Shortly after, Mr. Betel (an avowed enthusiast of the written word) pulled Peter aside to discuss the books he had seen in the Derleth collection, and Iris was pulled into a small gathering of wives who wanted to find out everything they could about the newest members of their ranks.

After much wheedling and light badgering, the women surrounding Iris convinced her to try a small bite of a particularly popular dessert item in the neighborhood. Iris accepted the tiny morsel and, if the way her eyes rolled up was any indication, loved it. She had the look of a woman who had been on a deserted island for several months, and was only now taking her first taste of something other than coconut or fish. However, before the bite had been swallowed or the look extinguished, Peter seemed to appear out of nowhere and grabbed her by the upper arms. The two looked deeply into each other's eyes but spoke not a word (some would later swear they were communicating without words, almost with a form of telepathy, because how else could Peter know that Iris was eating something?, but this was widely dismissed as "absurd"). The longer they stared, the larger the pool of tears welling up in Iris' eyes grew, and the more frightened the people around them became.

After 2 or 3 minutes of this (the other people of Elder Lane watching uncomfortably the whole time), Peter released his wife and stepped back, once again assuming his removed and cold stance. After smoothing down his clothing and pushing his glasses up on his nose, he looked deeply into Iris' eyes, and said "He waits." Iris looked back at him fearfully, as though she knew what he wanted but was afraid to say it. Peter took a step closer to her, and in a lower and decidedly more ominous tone of voice, once again said "He waits." After another brief hesitation, Iris looked up at Peter and responded "Yet He shall rise and His kingdom shall cover the earth." Peter continued to glare at Iris for a moment, then gave the slightest of nods. He took Iris by the elbow and led her out the door without a single expression of thanks or regret for the events which had just occurred.

Tact had a hold on the neighbors, but only for a brief moment. The door had barely shut behind the departing Derleths before wild speculation and discussion of what they just witnessed took over. The Derleths were the prime subjects of conversation for the rest of the night, and for much of the rest of their time on Elder Lane. Over the next week, the community became more and more wary of the Derleths as more strange things occurred. Jack and Cindy Marks reported feeling a growing sense of hopelessness which disappeared as soon as they were away from their house and, more importantly, away from the Derleth's house. Cindy was often seen standing on her front porch, staring at the house with a blank look on her face and tears dropping slowly from her eyes. Strange, alien looking plants sprouted in profusion along the walkway to the house, despite the cold and snow, and blossomed into flowers so dark they appeared black. Two Girl Scouts from a nearby neighborhood who were going door to door raising money for their troop were seen crying and running away from the Derleth house. When asked what had frightened them so, they would only point at the house and whisper "The darkness knew we were there."

The people of the neighborhood were not blind to these things, and knew something was different about the Derleths, but none were bold enough to approach the couple's house and demand an explanation of the strange events that had occurred since their sudden arrival. The boldness the neighbors had shown when ousting the college students had suddenly deserted them all, and now all they could do was gather together in small groups and whisper theories about the strangeness emanating from the Derleth house. Many were put forth - chemical weapons, mass hypnosis, lead - but no one felt any one theory explained all the things they had seen and felt. And none encompassed the night of their departure.

That day had been especially bleak. The sky remained clouded over, warning of a heavy snowfall approaching from the south. The mood on the entire street was palpably somber. The neighbors all felt led to gather together at the Betel's house through some shared need for community, to try to fight away the emptiness they all felt. At one point Mr. Betel and a couple of other men from the neighborhood gathered up the courage to approach the house with the intent of speaking with the Derleths and determining once and for all what they were doing in there, and why it was filling the neighborhood with so much dread. They got as far as the sidewalk in front of the house before they stopped and turned on their heels, all of them ashen-faced. Mr. Betel said he had heard chanting in a strange language, and had suddenly felt as though there was no point to anything in life, a feeling which disappeared as soon as he stepped back onto the street. The men with him reported feeling the exact same thing. No further attempts were made to approach the house until that night.

Around 11 P.M., all the people of Elder Lane were returning to their homes when Cindy Marks screamed. Concern for their neighbor drove them all to run to the Marks' house, despite its proximity to the Derleths. They arrived to find Jack on the porch holding a sobbing Cindy, who kept repeating "He waits, He waits, He waits," over and over while pointing at the Derleth house. Suddenly they all heard the chanting Mr. Betel had mentioned earlier in the day, sometimes in Peter's voice, sometimes in Iris'. The chanting was unusual and unsettling, but not nearly so much as the third voice they heard in response. The voice was the vocal expression of darkness and terror. It seemed to come from inside the house and inside each of them, and all knew they had been touched by something ancient and inhuman. A few of the assembled people had spontaneous nosebleeds, and most of them either started crying or felt a strong urge to do so. The chanting voices from the house continued to rise in pitch, but the third voice stayed level, a sense of dread coming off it in waves.

Suddenly, a bright light flashed through the windows of the Derleth living room. At the same time, Iris' voice rose suddenly into a scream of utter despair, driving the neighbors back in fear. Peter could be heard babbling and crying, and though no one could make out all his words, they all heard his last scream.

"He waits in R'lyeh! All joy shall be wiped from memory! His eye watches, and His gaze will burn humanity away! Come, Ancient One, and reward Your servants!"

As the last word was uttered, they were all blinded by another great flash of light, and all the windows in the house blew out. Then, it was as though a great vacuum had come in and sucked out all the noise. The neighbors were left staring at the house, their mouths moving but no sound coming out. A shadow appeared in the front windows of the Derleth house, and the sense of dread and loss of hope overwhelmed them all, driving them to their knees. Somehow they all instinctually looked away from the house, as though knowing that to see the thing which made the shadow would be the end of sanity and life. The shadow drew away from the window, and as it did sound returned. Iris could still be heard screaming inconsolably, but now Peter had joined her. The third voice spoke, and the screaming stopped all at once. All the street and porch lights dimmed, and then the night was quiet. The people, still quaking at what they had just witnessed, took a moment to realize that the dread had lifted. They were still frightened and confused, but all felt that somehow, things would return to normal now. They stood on Jack and Cindy's porch, and watched the house until the sun rose.

No one was willing to approach the house with the police who arrived the next morning. The officers spent several minutes looking around the interior and exterior of the house, but found absolutely zero signs of either Peter or Iris Derleth. The only thing left in the living room was the stone table, which one officer stated was so cold to the touch that it was as though it had sat all night in a deep freeze. The bookcases stood empty, the books that had been in them reduced to ash all around the living room floor. The rest of the house had clearly not been occupied, except for the master bedroom. No beds were found, other than two blankets and two pillows which sat disheveled on the floor. Drawings on the walls depicted a great winged creature hunched over an ancient temple, with tentacles sprouting from its face, and a look of pure and utter malice in its dark eyes. The remaining items were gathered up and taken to the police station, but the officers felt certain the Derleths had simply disappeared in the night. Since none of the neighbors were showing signs of illness or violence, the case was filed away as basically unsolvable.

The neighbors slowly returned to their normal lives, and though the events of that night were discussed in whispers at gatherings, little mention of the Derleths was made. The neighbors would occasionally discuss why it was that grass or any plant life refused to grow around the house, or why that end of the street always seemed colder by just a few degrees. A few people tried renting the house over the following years, but none stayed more than six months. Jack and Cindy Marks moved away the following year. Cindy was now prone to crying fits that would come over her without warning, and Jack felt a change of scenery would serve them both well.

The people of Elder Lane were changed by the arrival and departure of the Derleths. The sense of community retreated from them and the formerly frequent gatherings became, at most, once a year events. They knew they had witnessed something few humans had, but none felt privileged by this knowledge. They all tried to go about their lives as best they could, with joy and hope, but all of them knew that somewhere in the dark a great eye watched them all, and joy and hope would burn in its gaze.

Darkness.

A rough cloth bag over my head, making it hard to breath, filling my nose with the smell of mildew. A similar piece of cloth acts as a gag. I'm not sure where I am or how I got here. I'm sitting in what feels like a hard metal folding chair, hands and feet bound. I realize in a detached sort of way that I'm not scared, but I can feel the fear picking at the edges of my mind. Stay calm, I think to myself, try to figure out where you are and how you got here.

I think back to before I awoke here. The last thing I remember is getting into bed, sad and a little lonely. I live a pretty solitary life. I have few friends, my family lives on the other side of the country (though we're still relatively close), and I work from home, so no coworkers. Days pass without me speaking to anyone short of the voices I deal with over the phone. It's not a great life, but it's what I have to work with. I remember closing my eyes, thinking some action was needed to break this rut I'd worked myself into. Feeling my body grow heavy as sleep overtook me.

Then, darkness.

And now this place, this chair, this gag, this hood. Still no solid answers, just more questions. So I settle in to wait. Wait for rescue, wait for some hint as to why I'm here. Just wait.

After what feels to me like several hours (but is probably only a few minutes), I hear the light "tock tock" of hard-soled shoes on a cement floor, coming close to where I now sit. I neither heard a door open, nor detected any change in the quality of light to suggest someone's entry into my "cell", and yet here he comes. The steps come closer and closer, until they stop right behind me. For a moment, nothing, and then the bag is lifted away. I blink rapidly, expecting the pain of bright light to sear my eyes, but there is no light to blind me. I strain my neck to see my tormentor, but he is beyond my range of vision.

I sit for a moment, wondering what the next move is. I decide to try to engage my captor. I try to say "Hello?" or "Where am I?", but the gag turns the questions into meaningless grunts. I realize suddenly how thirsty I am, so I try "water" next. It comes out "ah-er", but it apparently does the trick. A soft light clicks on behind me, and a hand and arm, clad in a red leather glove and black featureless sleeve, enters my vision on the right. It's holding a water bottle with no label and a straw sticking out of the neck. The straw stops right in front of my mouth, and I do my best to wrap my lips around it despite the gag. It's not perfect, but a cool stream of water marred by the taste of the cloth, dirty and old, slides down my throat.

Just as I'm about to try to force out a few more questions, I'm stopped by the sound of a small motor fan, and a white square of light appears on the wall directly in front of me. A slide projector. The first slide appears. It's a white title card, with five simple words in a bold typewritten font.

"Your life is a dream."

I'm confused by this statement, but have very little time to process it, as the projector behind me clicks and a new slide flashes on the wall.

*CLICK*

"All dreams must end."

*CLICK*

"Before a dream can end, its connections to the waking world must be removed."

*CLICK*

The card is replaced by a photograph. At first I can't comprehend what I'm seeing, but when I do, my breath rushes out of me as though I have been punched.

My two best friends, faces beaten until they are almost unrecognizable, lying on morgue gurneys.

*CLICK*

My brother on the floor of his bedroom, shadows where his eyes should be, a pool of deep red blood surrounding his head like a halo.

*CLICK*

Now inside my parents' room. It's mostly dark, except for the glow of the small nightlight my parents keep for early morning trips to the bathroom. It's just enough for me to see my parents' faces, deeply asleep. I can feel my pulse racing, my breathe forcing itself raggedly in and out of my body, tears on my cheeks. My chest is hitching as I try to fight the dread and the pain and I'm beginning to cry.

*CLICK*

My parents' bathroom, the door open, the cool tile an abattoir. Blood staining everything, even reaching the ceiling. I hear an odd noise and realize it's coming from me; I'm sobbing and keening.

*CLICK*

Close up on the shower's sliding doors. The glass is translucent, but I can see the tub filled with dark red and unnamable shapes. A hunk of my mother's platinum blonde hair, encircled by my father's wedding band and stained red, sits on the tub's edge.

*CLICK*

The shower doors, open now. Two faces stare out at me. I'm screaming, sobbing, pleas for surcease spilling past the gag.

*CLICK*

"And now, you are awake."

*CLICK*

The projector snaps off, and the room is once again dark except for the light behind me. I mumble, asking why, expecting no answer but asking all the same. The footsteps approach my seat and stop directly behind me. For a moment I expect, welcome, death. A blade's whisper, and I can sleep forever. Then the bag once again slides over my head, blocking out what little light remains. As I sob in the darkness, the end of all I've ever known like an open wound in my mind, the figure walks away, turning off the small lamp on the way.

*CLICK*