Knock Knock
Vines of ivy partially cover the brick walls of the sprawling, two-story mansion. A modest sign on the manicured lawn reads ‘The Dreamers Resort’. I’m excited and a little nervous too, as I walk up the winding stone path and into the lobby, overnight bag in hand. The marble and polished oak decor would have you believe this is a typical 5-star hotel, when in fact, its innovative technology pushes it way beyond. Their virtual reality accommodations are renowned in the writing world for unlocking hidden ‘inner stories’ from a deep dream state. Lately, dream writing is all the rage … even producing several best sellers.
A scrawny man with exceptionally hairy arms steps into the room when I ring the bell for service. Something about his bulging eyes and pointy face makes me think of a bug. His name badge, slightly askew, identifies him as ‘Harold’. I wonder if he is just another eccentric writer, down-and-out like me.
“Welcome to Dreamers — a guaranteed story with every stay. May I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Annie Caldwell.”
He types something into his computer. “Ahhh … yes. I have you down for one night, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Are you aware that one night only gets you a short story?”
I nod. At $500 a pop, one night is all I can afford since I haven’t written anything successful in ages. This is my last effort to jump start my writing before I permanently give it up as a career choice and go find a job. One night will have to do.
“It says you’ve chosen to stay in the Redneck suite. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Have you decided on a genre?”
“Comedy. No, horror.”
He runs one hand through black, slick-backed hair and looks at me over his glasses. “Are you sure?”
I sigh, “Comedy.”
I don’t like the way his beetle-bug eyes are boring into me, like he’s extracting the real truth from my mind — that what I really want is to write horror, but I’m too afraid to jump right into a nightmare without knowing what I’m up against here.
“Okay Ms. Caldwell, looks like everything is set to go. I just need your signature here, then we’ll get you hooked up.”
“Now, follow me please.”
Fascinated, I wave my hands in front of my eyes as he leads me down the hallway. The virtual reality contacts that are now embedded in my eyes are quite trippy. I wonder if I have kaleidoscope eyes.
“You’ll soon get used to them,” he says as he unlocks the door.
I step into a room decorated to resemble the trashy front yard of a backwoods “redneck” trailer house, complete with a moonshine still. I smile. Perfect. On the porch, a hound dog is snoring to a nature soundtrack playing in the background. An old, empty refrigerator is tipped on it’s back in the middle of the room. The bed! I’ll be sleeping in a refrigerator? Oh my gosh, this is funny! I walk over and pat the dog on the head but my hand goes right through him.
“A hologram.” he says, “One of many. We find the more realistic the surroundings, the more effective the writing experience.”
It all looks and sounds so real. I wish I could take these contacts out and see what the room is really like, but I don’t dare. I wave my hand through the trailer and a tree. What looks like an outhouse is located behind some trees. I casually walk over and wave my hand only to be met by solid wood. “Ouch!” I look inside. “Are you serious? This is the bathroom?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.
“We pride ourselves on authenticity. We want our guests to have an accurate perspective of their chosen subject. You know … ‘Write what you know’? It enhances the creativity.” He points to a bucket. “If you need water, just move the handle up and down on the hand pump there by the bucket.”
“Can I change my room choice?” I ask, half joking, but ol’ bug-eyes is not smiling.
“As soon as this door closes behind me, your experience will begin. You have 24 hours. Oh, one last thing,” the strange man says, “if you want to add an erotic element to your story, simply proceed in the nude. Have an inspirational night.”
I decide to skip the erotic twist. I want t’ laugh, but not at th’ expense of mah own nudity.
Ah kick off mah shoes an’ go t’ change into sumpin mo’e comfy. In mah bag ah find a tube top an’ ‘daisy duke’ shorts. Hey, whar’ did this hyar stuff come fum and whut in tarnation’s wif this here silly accent? Ah check out mah new look in th’ mirro’ thet hangs on th’ outhouse door an smile on account o’ ah sees ah’s missin’ quite a few of mah teeth. Ah laugh so hard ah bout split mah gut. Ah say t’ mah refleckshun, “Yo’ sho’nuff is a cutie.”
A cornfederate flag, duct taped on a len’th of PVC pipe is flappin’ in th’ wind over th’ trailer. Thet figgers. A jug of moonshine sits on a cable-spool table. Ah touch ev’rythin’ t’ see whut’s real an’ whut’s not. Thar’s a Styrofoam coola held togither with duct tape, sittin’ next t’ a lawn chair. Upon investigashun, ah find it full of cheap beer. Ah reckon it’s real inough. Th’ nature soun’s is now intermin’led wif far-off banjo moosic. Thet’s a li’l unsettlin’.
Ah take a slug off th’ jug of moonshine spewing it right back out. Holy hell, thet shit’s bad. Thank goodness fo’ th’ beer. Ah crack open a can, rip open a bag of pawk rinds an’ set down t’ read th’ book of knock-knock jokes ah foun’ layn’ on th’ table. Dang, I feel funny!
A knock on th’ door startles me awake. Ah head fo’ th’ door, but th’ dang houn’dog is now layin’ in front of th’ door growlin’ an’ snarlin’, barin’ his teeth at me. Goose bumps grow on th’ back of mah neck. “Whut in tarnation’s wrong, buddy?”
Knowin’ he’s not real ah proceed t’ th’ dore an’ find th’ knob won’t turn. Thet’s when th’ hologram houn’dog bites mah leg!
Ah call out, “Hey! Th’ dore won’t open an’ sumpin’s wrong wif th’ houn’dog, as enny fool kin plainly see! Ah may need some he’p in hyar.”
Damn it, Annie, stop talkin’ like thet! This here ain’t funny no mo’e, ah say backin’ away frum th’ growlin’ houn’dog.
Another knock. “Whos thar?” I call.
“Luke.”
“Luke who?”
“Luke behind yo’ an’ yo’ll see!”
About thet time ah hear dore hinges whinin’ behind me an’ turn t’ see th’ peculiar bugman fum th’ front desk a-comin’ fum th’ outhouse towards me. What in the hell is he doing in the outhouse? He shouldn’t be in my room! This is creepy! Terrifying clacking noises are amplifying from his spider-like mouth as he scuttles quickly toward me. His eyes have become enormous, multi-faceted and bulging. As I back away, I stumble and fall into the fridge-bed which is no longer a bed. He climbs in on me and with one sting to the neck, I’m paralyzed. He duct-tapes my eyes and mouth with his hairy, insect-like arms and slams the refrigerator’s door shut. No!! Not funny! Bring back the funny accent! The banjo music! Anything! Panic seizes my heart but the only struggling I manage is in my mind. What the hell happened to my comedy?
Somehow I’ve crossed over into the horror genre. I can’t breathe. The more I deny it, the tighter my nightmare coils around my gut and into my mind, suffocating, until everything becomes a big, silent, black hole. Am I dead?
I scream.
“Please let me wake up! Please!! This IS just a dream, right?”
I hear Harold on the other side of the fridge door say, “Too late! You’re dead — another victim in my horror novel.”
“What? Nooo, I’m supposed to be the writer! Comedy … remember?”
“You’re no writer! You are nothing but a figment of my imagination — a fictional character. Your life is just a paragraph in my book, a few sentences, words, letters … dead.”
Come on, Annie! This is YOUR dream. Don’t let this be the end. You can still turn this around! Think about it. You are only as dead as you think you are.
Ah feel aroun’ mah head. Thar is no silly tape on mah eyes or mouth, nor is thar a dore on th’ fridge. Ah was a suffocatin’ mahse’f wif th’ blanket over mah haid is all.
“Knock, knock.” at the door.
“Who’s thar?” ah holler.
“Harold from the front desk.”
I shudder.
“Harold fum th’ front desk who?”
After a long pause, I hear, “It’s Harold. Harold, from the front desk. Sorry to bother you Ma’am, but due to a power bump we need to restart your program. We are sorry for any inconvenience.
