Another Dream, Part Two, by Andrea Carr


I decide to get up. This is what I usually do so I can stop torturing myself with the ever-present thoughts in my head.

I wonder what it means, this dream, the last dream. This is my mind’s way of trying to sort things all out. I had already demonstrated some abilities with friends, so it really couldn’t be denied.

I talk to them without talking. I can hear their thoughts or feel what they are feeling emotionally. I open the door before they knock sometimes, as if I can hear my name being called as they approach.

“How did you know, I was about to knock and when?” My visitors often ask.
“Just a feeling,” I’d say, but in my head I can hear that particular person’s voice.

When I have asked, if they called out on approach, the answer is “No” always. I can’t tell the difference from when, someone actually does. It’s exactly the same experience.

A friend once said, “Yes, but not out loud.” We laughed. I was happy to hear that. He had heard me speak of this before so he tried to send me signals. I never got them — only when he was locked out of the building where I lived because he actually, called at my window. Some people I get a partial or no connection with.

I might text to one of my friends with my cell phone, a message that just comes to mind at that moment. It could be the answer to a thought one of my friends said, they were having right then. They tell me about it; I don’t realize in the moment. I only know I have to tell them. If I ignore doing so, it bothers me until I do.

But unlike all of this, the man in my dream is literally trying to tell me something.
The reoccurring dreams in the past have always progress to the worst fear and confusion, I’ve ever experienced. I’m forced, in these dreams, to deal with what I fear most — like drowning and being in the dark — before I wake up in terror.

The length of the dream gradually will increase, adding each of the elements I fear one at a time unless, I solve the haunting riddle. I have to figure out what it represents and often, I can’t understand the meaning.

Alternately, by making it to the end of the dream its over which can take a while.

Once, I had a dream that lasted about a year.

Its dark; I don’t feel safe — that was the first couple nights.

It’s late and my car breaks down. I don’t know exactly where I am. I need help. I have to decide, after looking at my cell phone that’s now dead, to wait or get out and walk.

I wake up because there’s a car passing.

Then the next time as I’m deciding to get out and look for a telephone booth I notice the same car that passed a few minutes before. There’s a man inside. Fearing the strange man, I gasp and wake up.

Ultimately, I get out of the car. As I slam the heavy old door it starts raining. I’m cold. Its dark and I’m scared. I start walking and see the same car again. The strange man is not inside now, but his car is parked behind my car. No one is inside. I’m upset about being in the situation thinking I could have avoided it somehow, mad at myself.

I think, “If I didn’t like old cars so much, maybe I wouldn’t be here.” I have a 1972 280-SE Mercedes in my dream, just like the car I really drive. I love my car, it’s a classic still beautiful with all of it’s original parts, everything. Sometimes, I sit in it and don’t drive when stressed or locked out.

A friend said to me once, “Anything can break at any time because of its age,” after I admired his classic car. “It’s meant to be a second car, if you ever get one.” He was right.

But in this dream the car is not the point. I wonder where the man is.

I walk faster. I can’t see anyone around. I’m by the beach, waves are crashing. I’m soaking wet by now. I pass closed storefronts with street lamps along the sidewalk. I want to stay near the lights, but no help is there. I can hear a furious ocean throwing waves at me.

Use your head, I think. Get help quick. Get out of this situation.

I look behind me and all around. I put my keys between each of my fingers – I remember this from a self defense class my father forced me to take. Anyway, I see a pier off in the distance. Every storefront is still closed and I still don’t see that man from the car anywhere.

Why would he stop here? I’m the only reason.

The pier is dark but I’m certain there has to be a phone booth there. So I run into the darkness that I hate and fear, across damp sand toward the pier.

The sand would wake me up sometimes because I have to take my shoes off to get traction and its cold and wet on my feet.

That went on for months.

Not every day, thankfully but I never knew when it would come to me. Sleep wasn’t my friend, not anymore. Sleep became very much like a boyfriend you are in love with but whom he has become is someone violent. He is unreasonable and not the person you met at first — best way I can describe it. You want the love you felt from him back in the beginning — it’s the greatest feeling in the world, but you can’t have it because his love turned bad. It’s no longer what’s right. But, you want and needed it to feel better before now. Because, you are remembering when, it was good for you.

Okay, so I make it to the pier. Now, as I run I notice someone behind me, also moving quickly. I can hear him on the sidewalk.

I won’t know when he gets near. I won’t be able to tell any longer how close he is because he’ll have reached the sand. I try to move as fast as I can.

Anyway, the point is I start to get that feeling like when you reach for someone and you try to grab them but just miss. I feel the air and the movement of a large hand swiping down my body. It goes from the back of my neck to the middle of my lower back every time he does it – I jerk forward just out of his grasp.

I try to scream, I can’t. I’m letting out this sound that is saying, “Please” hoping he can tell I’m pleading for my life — because I really want to live. I’m not goanna be an easy kill. I’m going to fight back until one of us is dead, leaving evidence of not having given in.

At this point, I hear him telling me to stop. I can’t believe he expects me to listen. He must be crazy, probably is. I run up three wide concrete slabs to the pier steps. I leap each one in a single stride.

I’m at the mouth of the pier, its ready and waiting to swallow me. I see a phone booth. I have to run down the middle all the way to the end. The booth holds the only light on the pier; the lamps along the pier are all burned out. The ocean crashes up over the sides. I’m in a rainstorm and it’s almost pitch black. Only the full moon lights my path.

I have to decide in an instant if I should turn and fight or if I can make it to the booth running barefoot on concrete. I decide to try. With this man on my heels, I drop my shoes which I’d planned on using as a weapon. I push myself beyond anything I ever thought possible, pumping my arms with my hands open flat. The man’s voice gets louder.

I risk a glance over my shoulder.

He has on a raincoat; he’s a dark silhouette wearing a hat like a detective-type of character, you know what I mean.

After years and tears of my own terror in this dream, I finally make it to the phone booth. I slam the accordion door open, hop inside and close the door. I grab the phone off the hook and realize I have to dig for change. I don’t have time. Then I remember that you can dial the operator for free.

I have no dial tone. I’m clicking, clicking, and clicking the receiver flap. The door behind me opens a crack.

I hear the operator, “May I help you?”

I have to keep him out. Without a second thought, I slide down the back of the booth and sit on the floor holding the door closed with my legs.

“Let me in.” He says.

I yell at the operator, “I need help!” but I don’t know the address — where I am. “There’s a man trying to force his way into the elevator.” I know it’s a phone booth, but that’s what I said.

That part of the dream lasted for ages.

That’s the moment when I started sleep walking again. I used to do it when I was about four. I remember my mom trying everything to get me to stay in my bed and to go back to sleep. I never could. I would wake my sister up every time. We had a shared bedroom but had to sleep in the dark. I would get in bed with her.

But that wasn’t the end. When the stranger pushed the door open wider I felt vulnerable and helpless.

“There’s a man in here. I don’t want him here. He’s been chasing me forever.” I shout into the receiver. “He’s trying to get in the phone booth. I believe he wants to hurt me.” I tell her the exit I used to get off the freeway. Tell her I’m not far from the exit and describe my surroundings.

“I know where you are.” She says.

The base of the phone is inches above my head. The door flies open. My eyes close. I’m still sitting on the floor with my knees in front of my chest, my arms wrapped around my knees with my face buried in them. I only know that should he touch me, with the first blow I’d go crazy on him.

When I open my eyes a hand reaches out, like he’s expecting me to grab it.

I’m crying and ask, “What do you want? The police are on the way.”

“Yes,” he said. “I know. I called them.”

“What? What kind of crazy are you?” He looks puzzled.

“I wanted to help. I saw your car broke down. I was in my store near where you left your car. I figured you could use a hand.” Then he asks, “Why were you running?”

“To get away from you.” I say.

“Why?” he asks again, with his hand still out waiting for me to grab it. I do.

And that was the end.

I decide to get up. This is what I usually do so I can stop torturing myself with the ever-present thoughts in my head.

I wonder what it means, this dream, the last dream. Something in my life needs to be dealt with. This is my mind’s way of trying to sort it all out.

I know if I have several nights of this, I won’t be able to sleep from worrying about it. Then, when I finally do sleep from exhaustion my sleepwalking begins again. Dealing with the difficulty, determining what is really happening and what is not, goes right along with it all.

It gets quite difficult at times trying to tell the difference. The places and situations are all so real. I’m not an animal, or flying. There’s nothing to give clues that I’m dreaming.

When I sleepwalk it only makes things worse. I start having déjà vu when I’m awake, talking to people. I know exactly, what will be said…

I know exactly what everyone will say.

And yet, when I ask if we’ve had this conversation before, they always say no. But, I have had it before — without them knowing.

How else would I know?

I need to figure out what the déjà vu has to do with my dreams. It’s odd to wake up with your eyes open, with someone in the room; in mid-conversation and not remember letting them in or what we were talking about. No matter how many times it happens, it’s still unsettling.

I started sleeping in my clothes a long time ago. I also slept with the light on just in case anyone was there when I woke up… I didn’t remember inviting in.

I’m terrified of the dark because of it.

I’m gonna have to start to making sure the chain is on the door before I go to sleep… so I can try to keep myself inside. I hate waking up outside. It seems I have more trouble with the chain on the door when I’m awake than when asleep.

It’s usually walking on the cold ground that snaps me out of it. I forget my shoes and my keys. So I’ll be locked out. Then comes the walk next door to my neighbors apartment where I keep a spare key. Or wait till morning and have my manager let me back in.

It’s annoying whichever turns out to be the case.

I’ve made meals for people, I’ve even driven my car, but I always manage to make it back to my apartment safely.

Back in bed I shiver. I pull the covers up over my head and say, “Move over here,” though he’s never warm to cuddle with — his feet are always cold. I hate it when he tries warming them on my legs. But, I still want him close.

It’s then I notice no one’s there.

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Another Dream by Andrea Carr

#ghost #ghost story #psychic

Today had ended like any other day: I wake in the wee hours about 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning sitting straight up in bed because someone’s poured a cold glass of water on me. Panicking, I look around making sure the light is still on, am I alone.

It is.

Who would wake me up that way? But no one is with me now.
I realize I was dreaming.

I go to the bathroom wondering why, I woke up so startled.

Back in bed, I look at my phone – no one has called.

I start thinking about the dreams I just had. They’re not unpleasant, just sketchy bits and pieces of people I don’t know
in a restaurant near my place.

When this has happened in the past, it’s never been good… especially when the dream starts repeating.

I’ve been having the same dream every night for about a week now. This recurring dream usually means I have a problem to resolve if I am dreaming with the focus on me. But, if not and I am around strangers and I don’t talk or see someone I know who is the focus.

Then I have a message to tell them. I don’t know who has the problem or what it is this time.

I do know I am tired of him waking me up. I never remember how at first.

I need to answer a question, which too often, isn’t apparent what it is I am being asked.

You see, this is not the first time this has happened.

I feel what may happen in the near or distant future beforehand. In dreams or thoughts I call visions. I say may happen because fate can be purposely or unknowingly altered and changed by whomever is going to be affected.

That’s where I come in to warn about such things, to others. It isn’t always bad news. I feel most compelled to deliver those messages so it can be changed. If I don’t it bothers me with uneasiness for a long time.

I’m a messenger of some sort, I guess.

For example if I told you not to fly, the plane will crash. You get off that flight your outcome has just changed. You could choose not to believe me also, then crash with the plane. Or whatever other variable can be managed. Perhaps, you are a pilot?

The events I see are as of the present circumstances, at that particular moment.

Visions that come to me in my dreams; I don’t always know what it is I’m dreaming of until it happens again.

The man in my dream is literally trying to tell me something.

I can see his lips move; he’s not far away but I understand nothing… as he approaches my table I mouth, “Slow down. What are you saying?”

I don’t know or even recognize him. We are in a crowded restaurant I frequent, in Torremuelle, Playa. Near where I’m living in Malaga.

Its full of strangers. I’m mostly ignoring him because, I think he isn’t actually talking to me – at first. I’m the only American in the place; they seen me before everyone knows this because, I stick out when I speak. They are amused by my Spanish speaking attempts.

We are on the beach watching waves and having dinner – which is exactly what I’d been doing before coming home and going to sleep – drinking Sangria with dinner was an everyday occurrence, almost.

He is not speaking my language; Spanish is obviously his native tongue.

I can’t understand him; not because I don’t know Spanish I don’t know what he’s saying because, I can’t keep up. He’s speaking too fast and by the time I turn to look behind me. After, seeing no one there I turn back around and realize I’m the only one he could be talking to. Every thing starts to move in slow motion now.

I open my mouth to speak and he’s gone – but he’s left a piece of paper folded in a perfect square on the table in front of me.

I don’t pick it up, though I am curious about it. I just look at it there noticing the perfect square it’s folded as.

Thinking, when could he even had the time to fold it so precisely. He didn’t. So he must have known who I am and prepared it for me before coming. I wondered.

Then, for some reason I stand up abruptly reaching out toward him as if to say wait. But he’s disappeared, just like that. I try to catch him, looking to see which way he went. In the process, I spill a drink all over my table. I look down and the paper is soaked.

Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with terrible disappointment. Mouthing in slow motion, “No damn it!” I abruptly wake up – hmmm…

I still fear them; the recurring dreams of my past.

I remembered, that dream’s details thinking about it now, there’s a man I needed to tell someone about. I don’t know who I need to tell or why. I just know I’m tired of waking up. The man with the paper is trying to tell me who it is and what to do.

Weird, I’m just weird.

What’s bothering me? To whom do I need to give a message this time? I lay back thinking it over.

My dreams affect waking life.

In unseen, but no less profound ways, I remember experiences that haven’t happened yet. Not when awake, anyway. Therefore, reality of what is actually happening becomes clouded without improper sleep. I lose the sapient ability to discern the difference between the two realities.

I asked my mother about it once.

“You’re psychic.” She’d said. “Our whole family’s like that.” I’d been relieved to know Schizophrenia did not run in the family. “You can turn it on and off you know.”

I didn’t know.

Randomly experiencing the intrusions while asleep or awake, is draining. The energy it takes from me to allow both realities to talk and not influence my behavior acts like a magnet. I don’t know how to get relief.

And she didn’t say.

So,other than trying to ignore it when awake or not able to sleep until exhaustion from avoiding the nightmares became the only way to sleep – that and using drugs. I got the impression from my mother that how to deal with it is idiosyncratic.

It’s more than a little unnerving. Having things come in your head about people you are looking at usually talking to at the time. A friend telling me about a upcoming job interview. I am knowing instinctively, at that moment the outcome of the interview.
Should I tell them?

I can see the outcome of future events, mostly in mid-conversation. Or one of my friends will intrude into my thoughts, with strong feelings around them – I have a message to tell them but I don’t understand what the message means. I tell them about the pictures in my head. 9 times out of 10 they understand it even if I don’t. I feared being wrong if it was death and stayed hesitant to reveal this to anyone.

I’ll describe someone they know, which comes to me in waking dreams (if I don’t miss it all together or misinterpret the vision). But I always realize later the association from what I saw, when it happens again.

The problem is how to know when I’m only dreaming? Why isn’t it clear, especially if I have to tell others? I hesitated to speak of it, most of my young life. It confused me.

No one in my family ever admitted knowing about it or said they had these types of experiences. I looked for clarity in books about intuition and various other topics. But books about these matters are sparse. I believed psychics were crystal clear with the message signals they received – they understood and knew everything. But I didn’t. I was fairly certain my mother must be lacking the knowledge; unknowing is more of a correct term or category for us to fit.

Until I met someone.

We dated for a few years before going our separate ways, but not before he validated what my mother had said.

He was a different type of person. I felt comfortable talking about my experiences with him. I’d never met anyone like him before. He was familiar with the type of thoughts that bombarded me. I had “vibes” about everything – that’s what I called it anyway. He had the type of consciousness needed to discuss such things without more confusion surfacing. Or him thinking I lost my mind.

I would explain it, “It’s, that feeling you get when you know, afterward, what you should have done but before doing anything.”

Like following your first mind. Haven’t you ever said, “I should have followed my first mind.” After you done something that you regret because it could have been avoided so easily. If you had only listened to your thoughts on what to do about it at first.

I lowered my voice, “If It’s ever ignored, the consequences are severe and long.”

“Do you mean hindsight?” he said.

“Yes, in a way, but its foresight.

For example, you are driving home from work and ponder should I stop off at the store or go home first. You think to go home first, but it’s a fleeting thought; desire talks you out of it. Emotions effect it, also. So, then you think if, I go home first I won’t come back out once I’m changed and comfy there. I will start dinner etc.

So you turn left instead of right and then get pulled over for speeding. You think, “I knew, I should have gone home first.”

It’s the nudge beforehand you ignored. For some reason I know it’s right and I need to listen to it not only for myself but others also. It’s like that – except I’m being nudged so often, asleep or awake, about anything and everything that it’s wearing me out. I’m exposed to it in life constantly. Can you imagine?”

“No,” he said. “No wonder you need help with it.”

He introduced me to a psychic friend of his who explained that there are three types of psychic abilities: present, past and future.

“Most psychics don’t do future,” she’d said. “It doesn’t always happen how you see it – it’s because of the set of circumstances at hand changed or misinterpretation.” And because we can change our fate, or circumstances, means we don’t have to accept the outcome. That’s the one good thing about being able to do future.

“You need to nurture the development of it get acquainted in order to understand the signals,” she explained. “Learn to associate what they mean so you can understand what the signals are for you. What a vision means to you in order to be accurate with the insight.”

It is mostly instinctual and how you feel about those instincts. It gets easier especially, when you learn no one lives or dies because of your visions.

“I have to practice using it?” “Study it?”

“Yes,” she said. Like anything else you want to understand or be good with using, there isn’t another choice. “If you want to get better at using it and stop torturing yourself by figuring out ways to deny it.” It’s a gift all psychics need to become familiar with their abilities. Embrace who you are be strengthened or drained from fighting it.

She also told me about two books my friend had given to her previously, a few years before our conversation at the time. They were on the subject of psychics, but she’d given them away. I needed to know about others like me: how their dreams were involved, what the common denominators were. I was excited to know there are books about it. I wrote down the titles to try and find them later.

I searched everywhere for those books: thrift stores, malls, libraries, you name it.

One Saturday morning I got up and went out to hunt garage sales in my area. I wasn’t looking for the books, I liked looking for anything.

But I found them…

Not one but both book titles were there, together. I couldn’t believe it. It had been over a year since I’d spoken with her. I checked my piece of paper – I still carried it around with me.

Those were them.

Not only were they the correct titles but when I opened the book my friend’s name was inside the cover. They were his books. The exact same copies she spoke of. Later, when I showed him the books he was speechless. So was I. I asked my friend to call her.

I didn’t expect what she had to say. “There are ways of making things happen by staying in the energy of what you wish to produce.”

“Are you saying I made those books available?” I asked.


I thought, if I can do that; I can do anything, I’m going to get rich “Let’s go gambling.” I laughed at the thought.

That was over 25 years ago. We never spoke again, except once when I needed validation with a disturbing vision. She interprets present; it was before I knew that I’m never wrong with what I see. Thank God, it can be changed.

Come back later on this week to read the rest of the story. Tweet this.

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