Almost Projecting

Last night I had a strange experience. In bed for the evening, I read until I was half-asleep. Then, after lights-out, I fell into what I can only describe as a waking sleep. My body was heavy and limp. My breathing was deep. My eyes were closed, yet I could still see around the room (it wasn’t in total darkness). I was asleep, but still conscious. I began to dream even as I could see around the room, like two movies superimposed upon one another. It was, without a doubt, one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. I felt like I was on the path to something higher, more intense, like an airplane at takeoff speed on the verge of leaving the Earth.

Just then, my daughter arrived to wake me and request a changing. After I tended to her, I returned to bed, unable to fall asleep, tossing and turning for a couple of hours.

Not sure what I did (or didn’t do) to bring this about, but I’d like to do it again. Has anyone out there ever experienced anything like this? I wonder if this isn’t some form of mild astral projection.

The day of my little trip, I remember having a very strong sense of spiritual optimism, as if answers to questions I’d long had were going to be answered soon, that I would soon experience some sort of illumination. I remember the intuition being so strong I got a little emotional.

Open the pod bay doors, Hal.

A Dream I Had

I’m in the small town I grew up in. I leave a grocery store carrying two plastic bags of stuff. I walk over to the street I live on.

As I pass a house where a friend of mine lives, someone opens fire with an AK-47. I’m hit. Three in the neck, two in the back, two in the ass. I’ve never been shot, but in the dream, it feels like hammer blows, with acid poured into the holes.

I make it to a house and try to take shelter. A man runs by and says “I’ll get him.” That makes me feel safe, so I stagger back to the store and crash through the doors.

“I’ve been shot,” I cry out. People scramble. What a mess I’m making. A middle-aged man in a fedora and raincoat runs into the store and comes over to help me. He helps me to my feet.

Instead of the hospital, he takes me to a small theater. A performance of some kind takes place on stage. As I scan the crowd, I notice something odd: every seat is occupied by somebody I know or have known—friends, lost friends, family, dead friends and family, ex-girlfriends, you name it. People I havent’ seen in years walk by as if I’m not there. Nobody recognizes me or says hello or inquires as to what I’m doing at this reunion with seven bullet holes in my body and blood spreading out underneath my chair.

I turn to my Good Samaritan and ask if we hadn’t ought to get my perforated ass to the hospital.

“No,” he says.

“But, aren’t I bleeding internally?” I ask.

“I doubt it.”

I accept his answer, even though there’s no way he can be sure. A few minutes later, I insist on going to the hospital anyway. He drives us. On the way, he speaks again:

“We really don’t need to go to the hospital.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I don’t think you’re going to make it.”

At that, I lose my temper, screaming at him for wasting time taking me to a play and saying I wasn’t bleeding internally. What a dumbshit. Then, I calm down. We’re at the hospital. I stumble out of the car and run through the hospital.

“Where’s my family?” I ask, searching for my wife and two daughters. “Where are they?”

I keep searching until everything goes dark.

I never found them.

Weird-Ass Dream

I need an interpreter for this one . . .

Last night, I had the strangest dream. I’m in an airport in Colorado. I’m chasing a woman who may or may not be my wife. I chase her outside onto the runways and she escapes by jumping a fence. I turn around and see two young women (a blonde and a brunette) standing behind me.
“She got away?” they ask.
“Yeah.”
“Well, we wouldn’t let you get away.”
(A good start for a dream.) They tell me there’s a party I’m invited to and they’ll give me directions.
(Jump cut)
I’m running through a strange park with cobblestone pathways and concrete walls topped with wrought iron fencing. A quivering male voice is half-singing/half-chanting the directions to me: “Two steps left, then run to the right, don’t slow down or you’ll run all night.”
I arrive at what can only be described as a mini-Victorian mansion in severe disrepair. My two new girlfriends are waiting inside the door. We are greeted by a woman whose legs are severed at the knee, and she clomps around on all fours like an ape. She is naked, and has huge breasts that each swing to their own rhythm. She serves us drinks.
Deeper in the house is a strange group. There are three men on the couch. Two look normal. The third, sitting in the middle, has a pale, triangular face and a pair of rat-like fangs protrude from his lips. They nod hello and seem friendly enough.
Next to them sits a man playing the guitar with his feet. He’s playing “Kathy’s Song” by Simon and Garfunkel, only he plays the song as if he’s writing it himself.
“I gaze beyond the rain-drenched streets.” He plays that line, nods, and writes it down.
“To England where my heart lies.” Sings it, nods, writes it down.
“Ain’t that a Simon and Garfunkel song?” I ask like a fuckin’ hillbilly tourist in New York.
A hush settles over the group. The guitarist shakes his head no, and goes back to his work.
Out of the blue, Rat-like Fangs Man asks me, “So what do you think of the Resurrector?”
Everyone looks at me. “You mean Jesus?”
The normal one next to Rat-like Fangs says, “Boy, was that the wrong answer.”
A guttural screaming sounds from a nearby room. It scares the shit out of me. The brunette runs in. I decide to get the hell out of there. The blonde directs me to a laundry chute. I climb in and she follows. As I climb in, I see an immense man in a blue security guard uniform stalking into the room. He’s carrying a knife.
“Go! Go!” the blonde screams. We hightail it up the laundry chute, and through it’s cracks I can see Big Blue Man holding his knife, looking for the right place to plunge it in.
Just as he is ready to stick me, my perspective changes, and it’s my hand plunging the knife. I’ve just stuck the blonde, and not in the good way.
(jump cut)
I’m standing outside the house, and I’m in the middle of some sort of cult meeting. Everyone but me is naked and hitting each other with switches. The brunette (did I say she was naked?) comes to me and hands me a book. The title of the book is “Three for Rocks”(no idea where that came from) and the author’s name is Troey (again, no clue). The book is wrapped completely in clear packing tape, and the sawed-off spine of an Ann Rice book is taped to it.
(Now I’m awake.)

Any takers??

I Had A Really Weird Dream

In 2000, an Alabama man, Rod Spraggins, began having dreams about a murdered woman. In his dreams, the woman told Spraggins that she had been murdered by her husband. The alleged murderer was at the time a candidate for city council, and Spraggins entered the race for the express purpose of accusing the husband of the crime.

In a public forum attended by 100 people, Spraggins not only accused the husband of murdering his wife, but dared him to sue if Spraggins was wrong.

The husband never sued and for good reason . . . he did it.

Those Damn Demons

Finally got to see “The Exorcism of Emily Rose.” I was anxious to see this film when I first heard of it, as I knew it was a dramatization of the attempted exorcism of Anneliese Michel, who died when medical attention was withheld during the ritual.
When I was a kid, one book I constantly borrowed from the library was “Mysteries of the Unexplained,” a Reader’s Digest book. It covers everything paranormal (up until about 1980, that is). I found a copy in a used bookstore a few years ago, and I still enjoy thumbing through it once in a while. One of the stories in the book that always haunted me was a short article about Anneliese, and I remember how tragic it seemed that this girl died in the grip of Satan.
Anyway, I told you all of that to tell you this: there was a scene in the movie——very well done and very scary, by the way——that brought back a chilling memory for me. Go lock your door and read on:
One night, about 6 or 7 years ago, I was in bed with my wife, and I woke up, unable to move. I could move my feet and hands and head, but it was as if metal cuffs restrained my legs, arms and neck. I felt a heaviness on my chest, as if someone were sitting on it. Indeed, at first I suspected that one of our cats might have been curled up there, but the cats—perceptive creatures that they are——were nowhere to be found. I struggled against my invisible bonds, but I was pinned to the bed. Oh, and no, I was not asleep. I have 34 years experience in sleeping and being awake—I know the difference. I began to panic, a state of mind I rarely experience. My hands and feet fluttered around helplessly. I tried to lift my head, and I felt something pushing against my mouth. I attempted a scream, but all I could manage was a muffled “mrrrrgh!” against the invisible hand muzzling me. It was enough noise to wake up my wife, and when she shot up awake, the spell was broken. I caught my breath, and didn’t sleep so well for the next few nights.
I can’t tell you what caused it, whether it was some odd brain activity or dark forces. All I know for sure is that it happened and scared me silly. One thing I did realize afterward is that what I experienced was a drop in the bucket compared to what poor Anneliese had to endure. I would guess that people under such a strange influence don’t much give a shit what’s causing it, they would just like it to be over.
If you have a similar story, I would love for you to share it.