At an old bookstore, you find a book that helps you interpret your dreams. But something is strange about it. You fall asleep reading the book, and find yourself in a dream that you cannot wake up from. What is it? And how will you snap back to reality?
* * *
Angela stomped her foot in frustration and stared in the mirror. The white dress festooned with lace was beautiful, but against alabaster skin and white hair all it did was accentuate her pink eyes. Why didn’t they make wedding dresses in black?
This was the third time she’d ended up back in the damned wedding dream. And that creep out there was not her Angus. He was another dreamshaper, like her. It was that book; it said it was about symbology and typology in dreams, but it should have been titled, “It’s a Trap.” She could feel the psychic remains of at least a half-dozen girls who had died in here.
Angela skipped ahead to the vows. She had that much control, at least. She looked at his perfect smiling face – no worry lines, just quiet anticipation. Ugh. She whirled and drove a two-inch spike heel into his groin. The mask of loving bliss shattered and he cast her out of the dream again.
This time she was under water. No problem; she sprouted gills and a sinuous fish tail. Her powers matched his everywhere except in the wedding dream. Predatory fish surrounded her. She turned them into guppies. Angela could feel his frustration as his plan failed.
He switched her to a falling dream. Below was a rapidly approaching fairytale castle, complete with courtyard, chapel, and … jackpot! She let herself hit, impaling her body on a rose hedge with razor thorns. Blood and agony were her world. She stepped out into her natural habitat: a graveyard.
Thorns clawed and tore at her flesh. She let them, and forced them to shape a scarlet and green gown of blood and vine. The rose in her hair was solely for looks. She smiled, showing off her tiny fangs.
The dead began clawing their way out of the graves. She took them as thralls with barely a thought, forming a wedding party of her own. She planted the dead girls’ spirits in her zombie bridesmaids. For later.
Angela looked at the pretty little chapel with its stained glass windows, its perfectly cleaned stonework and large oak doors. There was always a way back to the wedding dream. She regally processed toward it, bringing her entire entourage.
As she neared the chapel, vines rent the oak doors from their hinges. The organ music stopped. The groom turned and stared.
“It’s not a wedding without my family. Let’s do this.”
Angela glided down the aisle with her grisly wedding party. He tried to dispel them, but Goth styling was too deeply ingrained in her soul. Eventually she stood beside him, staring into his eyes.
She waited until the minister said the magic words.
“If there be anyone present who knows just cause …”
She smiled. “Your almost-dead brides have something to say.” The bridesmaids closed on him as he screamed.
She woke up and stretched, knocking the book onto the floor. It had been a good dream. Maybe she could try it again.