Daily Dreaming

I awoke in a small field, plain and grassy with trees in full spring bloom surrounding the perimeter. At the south west of the field a long, wide path led off in a straight line into the distance. Other than this, there was no exit. Still, it seemed peaceful and I felt no negative emotions – nor was I alone.

There were a couple of other people taking stock of the field. Not just anybody either. Colin Baker and Billy Boyd were wondering through the centre of the field at a leisurely pace, chatting and sharing a laugh. I regard both of these men fondly as a fan of their works, but as with most dreams the reasoning behind their appearance here was a mystery.

Another lady with a tan complexion and dark brown hair was also present, standing some distance from the three of us. Unlike the other two, I didn’t recognise her face and she seemed to possess a less friendly demeanour. I didn’t much feel like talking with her, and engaged in some small talk with the other two as we familiarised ourselves with our location.

The details of the day’s events are hazy, although at one point there was an argument over the use of the single block facility which had at some point emerged towards the southern end of the field. I can’t recall any details of the discussions that I had with the others either. In fact, this opening of the dream quickly seemed to dip out of focus as I became more and more intrigued by the south-west path.

Eventually I started making my way away from the goings on in the field and down the path, heading in a straight direction. To begin with the highlight was finding a large, forked stick that appeared almost like a trident, recently fallen from one of the large trees adorning the avenue. Yet eventually I realised that I was no longer alone. It was not Colin or Billy, or even the young lady, but my mother and some other people that she seemed familiar with but that I could not identify. Where they had come from I wasn’t sure, but I was glad of the company and our new group continued forward.

Discussion among the group quickly turned to an abandoned old nuclear site supposedly further ahead. Apparently there had been an accident there some years prior that had resulted in deaths, but the upper levels of this site had since been open to the public and my companions wanted to take a look. The name of the site was said to be Sellafield, which of course is the name of a famous nuclear site in the north of England; I can only assume my mind must have made a connection through association.

As we came towards the end of the path we entered a standard looking street familiar in many English towns. On a street corner in front of us was a large, decrepit looking building. It looked like an old Tudor-style townhouse from the outside, but fortuitously we recognised it to be the nuclear facility and headed into the building via a side door that was unlocked.

Immediately inside the door, the interior was strangely in the style of an quant, rustic inn. For some reason this obvious discrepancy between reputation and appearance didn’t bother any of us, and we made our way from the bar room through a narrow corridor further into the building. At the end of this stood a small atrium with machinery and screens surrounding the perimeter, more in keeping with my admittedly shallow knowledge of power station design.

Pausing to examine the apparatus, I was struck by rows of images flickering on one large screen that resembled those displayed at memorials depicting the victims of disasters and accidents. As I browsed the images, my eyes suddenly froze on one towards the centre-right – a picture of myself and my sister as young children, sitting on a grassy patch and smiling at the camera. Were these images supposed to be of the victims of the accident? I couldn’t understand what was going on – how could I be up there if I was here, looking at myself. None of my companions, including my mum, seemed to notice, and for some reason I didn’t feel that I wanted to know the answer.

Leaving my questions behind in the atrium, we carried on through another corridor surrounded by glass and came to a semi-circular room with a stone floor and metal walls. There was a metal door built into the far wall, but we recognised this to be the furthest point open to visitors and made no effort to continue. As we milled around pondering where to go next, mum called out that she had found a hatch leading down and to the left.

I hesitated, but something pushed me to suggest just looking into the hatch. It opened with relative ease and we peered into the dark gloom inside. The immediate view was of an almost cave-like structure rather than anything man-made. However, only a few feet ahead the darkness quickly became all-encompassing and I had to reach for my phone to shine a light for further viewing.

Doing so was a mistake. Dark patches of what looked like aged blood and bones were strewn across the floor. The silence from the group was palpable – no words, barely even a breath. We had looked upon something that we were not supposed to see. A collective acknowledgement that this was enough, we closed the hatch and hurriedly made our way back through the glass corridor, past the atrium and into the bar room.

Or at least, I did. It dawned on me as I arrived back at the bar that none of my companions were with me, even though we had been together seconds prior. More strange still, the bar now seemed to be packed with regulars, drinking and bantering as if I had stepped into a Saturday night at the local. Not knowing what to make of this bizarre turn of events, I decided to head to the bar.

Doing so proved more of a challenge than I thought. As I stepped into the room, two burly looking men began to bicker loudly over the general noise of the crowd. Soon this bickering turned to shouting, then to a full blown fist fight. Other pub-goers were knocked over and began getting involved, until the whole place was in an uproar. Never one to enjoy a fight, I panicked and dashed for a safe spot by a nearby window.

Near the window, I found myself staring at an old wall-mounted landline and quickly began ringing the police. I reeled off the details of what had happened in a hushed manner, all the while scanning the street outside for any sign of help. With the phone still in hand, I spotted blue-shirted officers heading in my direction.

Whether or not they were answering my call, I don’t know. The dream tailed off here, leaving this strange series of events behind.