Spirits of the Wicked

I don’t believe in ghosts, he told himself yet again as a blurry image flooded his unconsciousness. It was otherworldly, haunting, and familiar.

What could this be if not ghosts? Was this a premonition of some kind?

Maybe, he relented to the “dream.”

The ocean was rough, the waves crashed against the rocks of the island. A storm prevented boats from landing or casting off. The ocean tossed itself to the rage of the sky. The sky was almost black from the clouds, and it was night. The waves lacked their deep blue-green colors of daylight, replaced with nearly black water. He was on the coast of the Atlantic.

The rain poured down from the heavens hard and thunder drowned out the sound of the waves. Lightning occasionally illuminated the darkness.

Even amidst the storm, she waited.

A woman dressed in a white nightgown armed with an oil lantern was standing near the edge of the island, balancing on jagged rocks. Her back was to him, and her hair was loose, hiding her facial features from him. She was somehow apart from her location, not getting wet from the rain despite being outside.

She gazed off, into the sea. She was waiting for something. Or someone.

Of which, he could not be sure.

He was behind her, also somehow separate from the dream. He was unaffected by the weather and the wind.

With her back to him, he could only try to close the distance, and hopefully catch a glimpse at her face. But he couldn’t get closer; each step pushed her further away.

But it was that dream again. He had this same dream for five years now.

Each time he dreamt this, he would get oh-so-slightly closer to her. And then further away again. The proverbial one step forward, two steps back.

“Please turn around,” he pleaded with the mysterious woman whose back he became acquainted with.

He never was close enough to try to talk before - the noise of the storm nullified the sound of his voice until he was much closer… as close as he was finally, at this very moment in time.

She heard him.

She turned to face him.

As their eyes met, he was stunned. She was beautiful with long wavy blondish brown hair to her bust, and large brown eyes. Her frame was slender and she was tall - even barefoot on the wet rocks.

“Find me,” she whispered, through full, beautiful lips.

“What?” he breathed, still stunned by her face.

“Find me,” she repeated softly.

The coast behind her morphed from a cold, rainy, rocky coast to a street - still raining and storming, across swamp land, to what he assumed was New Orleans.

More specifically, it was a cemetery. He was being shown the grave of Marie Laveau - the infamous Voodoo Queen of New Orleans.

Find me.

She was beginning to fade. Taking the time to recognize the location, to try to recognize the grave alerted his mind toward waking up. He wanted to stay, but he could not anymore.

Colton awoke in his bed at his apartment. He was sick with a fever, and staying inside and resting made him restless. His imagination was running rampant with too much time on his hands.

Normally, he disregarded dreams. He was a rational man who believed only what could be explained logically. At least given his own particular recipe of logic. But this dream was different. It instructed him. It gave him clear instructions, and he had nothing to lose by traveling to New Orleans for the weekend.

He knew deep in his bones he could not ignore her, but anxiety filled his mind. What if the dream really was calling him; what then?

If she approached him on the street out in public, he would be lost in her presence. He was instantly drawn to her. Being a “dream character” made him question his perception of reality. Could his dreams be data finding a logical order unconfined by waking responsibilities?

Had his fever made him delirious?

He took a moment to consider his options; he was not due back to work until Monday and it was Friday early morning and he always planned on one day traveling to the city.

And she called him.

Other than his anxiety about meeting her, and his reservations about acting on the instructions of a dream, he really had no good reason for not wanting to go.

He was, afterall, taking the week off of work, planning for a stay-cation when he got a fever.

He shrugged, desire to explore the unknown clouding his better judgment. He quickly packed an overnight bag with just enough clothing to last the weekend. He hurried from his boring apartment with only a nearly dead houseplant for company.

He started his car, bringing up a navigation app. Four hour drive to New Orleans, without a more specific destination in mind.

“I’m coming, whoever you are…” he said to no one in the car with him.