Chapter 44: S#8. Cloverfield (1)
by fnovelpia
S#8.
I was 10 years old.
Running barefoot through the dim woods, it wasn’t the cheerful mingling of lush vegetation but a gloomy forest thick with fog, rotten stumps, and moss.
I didn’t even know why I was running; I just propelled my short legs as hard as I could.
“Hehehehe…”
From somewhere, a chilling laugh echoed.
I stopped dead and looked back.
A man stood between the dark trees, wearing an old bowler hat and a striped sweater.
His face appeared burned, skin hanging raggedly.
Moreover, his hands were chainsaws.
He had severed both wrists, replacing them with two roaring chainsaws.
The engines roared savagely, the chainsaw blades spinning.
The man charged, his twin chainsaws swinging.
A shiver ran down my spine.
I ran again, not wanting to die.
Ah, that terrifying man was chasing me.
His laughter and the engine sounds grew closer.
I needed to escape quickly, but the ground had turned sticky, making it hard to move.
The forest morphed into a swamp; the mud swallowed my ankles.
I could run no longer.
Then, suddenly, the man’s laughter stopped.
The sound of the pursuing engines also disappeared.
Confused, I looked back.
The grotesque man was gone.
Where did he go?
I looked forward again.
“…Hehehehe……”
The man was right in front of me.
The twin chainsaws, in place of hands, roared.
I had no time to scream before the chainsaw blades cleanly severed my neck.
I woke up panting.
My hand went to my neck where the chainsaw had sliced; no wound was found, my head still firmly attached.
It had been a nightmare.
I was soaked as if I had completed a marathon.
The bed was also damp.
I got up and walked into the living room.
The fireplace warmed the room cozily; Dad was sitting in an armchair, reading the newspaper.
It was a comfortable atmosphere.
Dad turned the page of the newspaper and spoke, “You had a nightmare.”
I nodded.
The logs in the fireplace burned down quietly.
“Let me tell you about the Butterfly Dream,” he said sternly, eyes still on the newspaper.
There was a man.
He became a butterfly, fluttering joyously, his wings vivid and delightful.
But the flight was short-lived because it was a dream.
When he awoke, he suddenly doubted reality.
The man had become a butterfly in his dream.
So, could a butterfly also become a man in its dream?
Might all we believe to be real merely be a butterfly’s dream?
Am I dreaming a butterfly’s dream?
Or is a butterfly dreaming of being me?
That is the essence of the Butterfly Dream.
It felt like something out of a horror movie.
“Consider it sometime. Are you dreaming someone else’s dream, or is someone dreaming yours?”
A butterfly flew out of Dad’s mouth.
It fluttered up with unreal wingbeats.
Only then did I belatedly realize.
Our house has neither a fireplace nor an armchair.
Dad’s face melted away.
His flesh, like seaweed, dripped onto the floor.
In the armchair, nothing remained but pale bones.
But from his open mouth, butterflies continued to emerge.
One, two, then like a waterfall, thousands burst forth at once.
Their wingbeats filled the living room.
Frantically, I waved my hands to drive the butterflies away.
“Go away, don’t stick to me…”
Once again, I woke up panting.
A nightmare layered within a nightmare.
Is this what they call a dream within a dream?
I wiped the cold sweat left by the dream.
Leaning back against a cool wall, I was dressed in a black suit.
I looked up to see my dad’s face, the one that hadn’t melted away.
However, I couldn’t feel relieved.
It was merely a photo of Dad’s face—a memorial portrait.
This was a funeral home.
A long time had passed since then.
I had become an axe murderer from the 1980s.
Today, I visited the house next door, namely Reiko Ishikawa’s place.
The yard fence had reportedly been damaged overnight, likely the work of a homeless person rummaging through trash cans or a drug-addled raccoon.
Reiko asked me to repair the fence, and I happily agreed.
It’s good a way to get closer.
There might come a time when I need Reiko’s expertise.
I asked her, “Reiko, do you also interpret dreams?”
“Of course,” Reiko answered without hesitation, just as I had expected.
She knew everything there was to know about the occult.
“Do you need to consult about a dream, Summer?”
“It’s… I keep having the same dream.”
“What kind of dream?”
“I’m at my dad’s funeral.”
“Has your father passed away?”
“…Yes.”
My expression must have darkened somewhat.
Reiko tilted her head solemnly.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s all in the past.”
The funeral of my dad.
I’ve had this dream several nights in a row, but it felt more like a ‘replay’ than a dream.
There were no distortions typical of dreams; it flowed exactly as the actual experience had.
It was like watching a recorded video.
“Summer, did you meet the deceased in your dream?”
“No. It’s a dream that flows exactly as I remember. All I see are the memorial portrait and the coffin.”
“Then you don’t need to worry. It’s not a nightmare,” Reiko said with a gentle smile.
“A funeral signifies rest. This dream represents your desire for peaceful rest.”
“What does it mean if this dream repeats every night?”
“It means you are desperately in need of rest. Take a full day off, and you probably won’t have that dream again.”
I decided to trust the medium’s advice.
Just then, I noticed the pendant around Reiko’s neck.
It was a simple yet elegant design, with a large ‘W’ engraved in the center.
Feeling my gaze, Reiko showed me the pendant.
“What do you think, Summer?”
“It’s beautiful. What does the emblem represent?”
“W, it stands for ‘Wes’.”
Wes?
“It’s the name of a gathering. Mediums like myself meet for a casual cup of tea. It’s a social group.”
“That sounds cool. Kind of like the Illuminati.”
“Hehe, not quite. It hasn’t been around that long.”
“You never know, Reiko. It might become a powerful organization that controls the world one day.”
With that light-hearted banter, I removed the damaged fence boards and replaced them with new ones.
I was skilled at hammering, so the job was quickly completed in less than five minutes.
Reiko, examining the removed boards, spoke up.
“Look at this, Summer! It was definitely a raccoon!”
She pointed to the marks left on the board, three lines that looked like they were scratched by sharp claws.
I furrowed my brow.
“That’s strange.”
“Why?”
“Raccoons have five claws.”
The marks on the board had only three.
It wasn’t the work of a raccoon but some other beast.
With the forest nearby, it wouldn’t be strange for other wild animals to come down.
After parting with Reiko, I walked home, pondering about a beast with three claws.
Ever since I met Nancy in a strange forest, I haven’t had a moment to breathe.
With all sorts of bizarre incidents swirling around, I had to keep rolling through tough days.
Just as Reiko said, I need a leisurely rest.
Spending just one day without axes or monsters and simply taking a peaceful breather would be perfect.
Today was perfect for that.
“Come on, Summer!”
Ellen Strode exclaimed, her sunglasses giving her the appearance of a famous actress.
Today was our planned day to go to the beach together.
“Wait, wait! You can’t go without me!”
Nancy shouted from upstairs.
Since today was a day off from classes, she had decided to join us at the beach.
Ellen muttered under her breath, “Ugh, she doesn’t even like the beach. Why does she want to come along today?”
She seemed less than thrilled about her daughter’s decision to join.
Nancy hurried down the stairs, fully dressed up and stunningly beautiful.
As we stepped outside, I pictured the beach scene in my mind: the horizon shimmered as if sprinkled with jewel dust, and the shoreline was covered with soft golden sand.
Just the thought of being there with two beauties was therapeutic.
I already felt my fatigue dissipating.
The sky above was clear, without a single cloud—a day when missing the beach felt like losing out on half of life.
We got in the car and headed straight for the beach.
“Do you like the beach, Summer?” Nancy suddenly asked.
“I do, but I’ve only been a few times in my life.”
“Why?”
“My parents weren’t fond of taking me to places like that.”
We stopped at a red light.
Beside our car, an old, dilapidated truck that looked like it could have been made by dinosaurs stood still.
The dirty window of the driver’s seat slowly rolled down, perhaps to toss out a cigarette butt.
Suddenly, the driver’s arm stretched out.
“…Huh.”
I stared blankly as the driver’s hand extended from the window, three sharp blades protruding from it.
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