The last time that I can remember waking up in a cold sweat, terrified to open my eyes and convinced that what I just experienced was real, I was, at most, around 12 years old. I remember this dream only because I had the unfortunate displeasure of having the same dream more than once. In this dream my house was a haunted house ride at Universal Studios – except that it was truly haunted. The guests were acting as security guards and watching security monitors throughout the queue. I don’t really remember what happened on the ride. I do, however, vividly remember that my upstairs closet, where we keep towels, sheets, pictures, and other random junk that doesn’t have a home elsewhere, was a restroom. Pretty insignificant, I know. However, sitting next to the toilet was a plate of pickles, yes pickles. And a sickly, skinny, misshapen greenish colored arm would reach out of the toilet searching for this plate, then quickly snatch one of the pickles up and return to wherever it had come from.
I know that that is not all that scary, but believe me; I was terrified to go to the bathroom after that.
Since that dream that I had when I was around 12, my nights have been pretty uneventful. As a matter of fact, I am lucky if I even faintly remember that I dreamt at all.
Recently this has changed.
This summer during my family’s tour of old southern cities we stopped in Charleston, S.C. Charleston is absolutely amazing. It is hands down one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen. It is old and the city works hard to maintain its elegance. Charleston glows with southern charm and hospitality; and you almost have to be southern, or raised by southerners to understand and appreciate it. Being raised by southerners, I fell in love with Charleston the moment we drove across the first bridge.
We had just come from Savannah, where I had been entertained with flyers for ghost tours. Since Charleston is even older and bigger than Savannah I thought this was not something to be missed, so I hounded my mother to go on a ghost tour with me. She insisted that she was afraid of ghosts and graveyards, and I said I was too, but that we would be there together, so it couldn’t be that bad. She soon gave in.
Flipping through the flyers I was overwhelmed with so many different options for tours. There was a tour that took you through the old dungeons of Charleston, and through the graveyards and different places people have sighted ghosts. It’s not that I necessarily believe in ghosts, but it’s a different side of history – these aren’t the stories you read about in history books.
We decided to go on “The Dark Side of Charleston” tour. It was not a ghost tour, but it was ‘rated for mature audiences only’. Our tour started in a downpour that was over within 5 minutes, but it helped set the stage (“It was a dark and stormy night …”). Our tour guide showed us through downtown and the open market area. A family had donated about five huge open air market buildings to the city many years ago under the condition that the property would never be used to sell slaves.
Our tour guide also showed us where the red light district had been. He explained the politics behind it and how it had been established by the law enforcement and politicians of that day. He took us to the first whorehouse of Charleston. We were told some pretty comical stories about pimps hiding children under the floor so that while the john was being ‘entertained’ the children could quickly go through the john’s belongings and steal any extra cash or valuables he may have had with him.
There were “mattress girls” who carried straw mattresses on their back, like we carry backpacks, so their place of work was portable. A guy walking down the street who saw her could flick some money at her; she would set up shop right then and there and would get to work.
Our tour guide showed us where people were executed after being convicted in the court of marshal law and where they were executed after being convicted in a court of municipal law. There was an amazing intersection in town on which each corner there is a representation of the four areas of law: Federal, Municipal, Marshal and God’s law.
Many of the streets in Charleston are the original streets from when it was first built. The street where all of the slaves were sold is one such street. It is all cobblestones. It was painful to walk on. I can’t describe to you how eerie and dirty I felt standing there. Only a hundred and some odd years ago people were selling other humans right where I was standing.
Our last stop was a church. This was my favorite part of the whole tour. It was the first time that I wasn’t afraid of a graveyard, and ever since exploring it I haven’t been afraid.
The church was beautiful. The sky was a dark grey and was reflecting the city lights so it looked as if the clouds had their own glow. The church was round. Not round as in one big circular room, but more like a four- leaf clover type round. Apparently the church was built this way because people thought that the devil hides in corners.
I loved our tour. Once we were back in our room I immediately called my dad and told him every single story I could remember, every single detail that I had been holding onto just so I could recount our time to him.
I don’t know what happened on that tour, but I am convinced that something changed within me. Since we left Charleston I have had many sleepless nights. As a matter of fact I had one such night last night, which caused me to miss my 195a class this morning. I wake up in cold sweats terrified to open my eyes and terrified that if I don’t I will slowly drift back into another such dream.
The most terrifying I have had, which was so bad I woke myself up because I was crying, was about a little girl whose dad slaughtered her. She had managed to hang on so that she could haunt her old home and slaughtering anyone unfortunate enough to cross the threshold.
I remember that entire dream so intensely.
When I first walked into this old Victorian like building, there were these periwinkle blue, tiny flowers spinning on the floor as if they were floating on air. Like the air that was cradling them was slowly pulling them along making them dance just inches above the ground.
Just seconds later I’m filled with terror as I try and leave the house. I manage to make it out of the house, but now I am standing on this field at the bottom of a hill below the house. I can’t force myself to tear my eyes away from the house as I watch my friends being torn limb from limb by the ghost of a seven year old. Blood is spraying all over the glass windows as their screams fade.
What has left the most impact from that dream was the sudden flip from an image so beautiful and peaceful into something so horrid and miserable.
Usually my dreams involve zombies or something like them, which is what I dreamt about last night. However, it is not the creatures that make my dreams disturbing. It is how the people I am dreaming about handle the situations they find themselves in.
For example, more often than not, the people in my dreams are my immediate family, including myself. Last night, my mom knew that these bad people would be coming for us. There was something about a trip to Wall Mart. There was a huge earthquake at which point I ran away to find my boyfriend, because when I called his phone it said that I was trying to dial a Maryland number. (I don’t know so don’t ask). As we stood in my neighbor’s yard chatting it up about what had just happened, we watched a huge 747-with Halliburton written on its side fall apart as it was crashing. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in my room because strange noises were disturbing my sleep. For some reason there are at least 15 people congregated in my room. They all look possessed but blind as a bat. I manage to sneak out of my bed past them. Before I can leave the room though, I have to find something buried in my closet under a pile of shoes. I find it, though I’m not sure what “it” is, and lastly I play with the thermostat before leaving.
I run outside and tell my mom what has just happened. She’s still at the neighbor’s house acting like nothing unusual has just transpired. She says that she is going to go take a look and make sure that I wasn’t acting too hasty in my decision to arm the bomb that she had set up through out the house in our central air system.
Once she is inside the house, she calls me saying that I was wrong and everything is all right. She never gets the chance to explain to me who the hell those people were, because right then our house blows up.
In my dream, I am running around frantically as my big sis walks into my real room to wake me up and tell me that I have class in 15 minutes, I look at her and say no way in hell can I go to class.
Nope. I don’t function well after a night like that.
I know what you’re thinking, because I assure you I’m thinking the same thing at this moment, “that was ridiculous and not even close to a scary dream”. Yes, I see that now, but when I woke up in a cold sweat, that was not what was racing through my mind.
I wonder what it was that I heard or smelled, or saw in Charleston that woke up that part of my mind that enjoys scaring the crap out of me. I am convinced that whatever it is that is different about me changed in Charleston on that walking tour at midnight.
I wonder if that part of me will ever roll over and go back to sleep, so that I may again have a peaceful nights rest.
I know that that is not all that scary, but believe me; I was terrified to go to the bathroom after that.
Since that dream that I had when I was around 12, my nights have been pretty uneventful. As a matter of fact, I am lucky if I even faintly remember that I dreamt at all.
Recently this has changed.
This summer during my family’s tour of old southern cities we stopped in Charleston, S.C. Charleston is absolutely amazing. It is hands down one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen. It is old and the city works hard to maintain its elegance. Charleston glows with southern charm and hospitality; and you almost have to be southern, or raised by southerners to understand and appreciate it. Being raised by southerners, I fell in love with Charleston the moment we drove across the first bridge.
We had just come from Savannah, where I had been entertained with flyers for ghost tours. Since Charleston is even older and bigger than Savannah I thought this was not something to be missed, so I hounded my mother to go on a ghost tour with me. She insisted that she was afraid of ghosts and graveyards, and I said I was too, but that we would be there together, so it couldn’t be that bad. She soon gave in.
Flipping through the flyers I was overwhelmed with so many different options for tours. There was a tour that took you through the old dungeons of Charleston, and through the graveyards and different places people have sighted ghosts. It’s not that I necessarily believe in ghosts, but it’s a different side of history – these aren’t the stories you read about in history books.
We decided to go on “The Dark Side of Charleston” tour. It was not a ghost tour, but it was ‘rated for mature audiences only’. Our tour started in a downpour that was over within 5 minutes, but it helped set the stage (“It was a dark and stormy night …”). Our tour guide showed us through downtown and the open market area. A family had donated about five huge open air market buildings to the city many years ago under the condition that the property would never be used to sell slaves.
Our tour guide also showed us where the red light district had been. He explained the politics behind it and how it had been established by the law enforcement and politicians of that day. He took us to the first whorehouse of Charleston. We were told some pretty comical stories about pimps hiding children under the floor so that while the john was being ‘entertained’ the children could quickly go through the john’s belongings and steal any extra cash or valuables he may have had with him.
There were “mattress girls” who carried straw mattresses on their back, like we carry backpacks, so their place of work was portable. A guy walking down the street who saw her could flick some money at her; she would set up shop right then and there and would get to work.
Our tour guide showed us where people were executed after being convicted in the court of marshal law and where they were executed after being convicted in a court of municipal law. There was an amazing intersection in town on which each corner there is a representation of the four areas of law: Federal, Municipal, Marshal and God’s law.
Many of the streets in Charleston are the original streets from when it was first built. The street where all of the slaves were sold is one such street. It is all cobblestones. It was painful to walk on. I can’t describe to you how eerie and dirty I felt standing there. Only a hundred and some odd years ago people were selling other humans right where I was standing.
Our last stop was a church. This was my favorite part of the whole tour. It was the first time that I wasn’t afraid of a graveyard, and ever since exploring it I haven’t been afraid.
The church was beautiful. The sky was a dark grey and was reflecting the city lights so it looked as if the clouds had their own glow. The church was round. Not round as in one big circular room, but more like a four- leaf clover type round. Apparently the church was built this way because people thought that the devil hides in corners.
I loved our tour. Once we were back in our room I immediately called my dad and told him every single story I could remember, every single detail that I had been holding onto just so I could recount our time to him.
I don’t know what happened on that tour, but I am convinced that something changed within me. Since we left Charleston I have had many sleepless nights. As a matter of fact I had one such night last night, which caused me to miss my 195a class this morning. I wake up in cold sweats terrified to open my eyes and terrified that if I don’t I will slowly drift back into another such dream.
The most terrifying I have had, which was so bad I woke myself up because I was crying, was about a little girl whose dad slaughtered her. She had managed to hang on so that she could haunt her old home and slaughtering anyone unfortunate enough to cross the threshold.
I remember that entire dream so intensely.
When I first walked into this old Victorian like building, there were these periwinkle blue, tiny flowers spinning on the floor as if they were floating on air. Like the air that was cradling them was slowly pulling them along making them dance just inches above the ground.
Just seconds later I’m filled with terror as I try and leave the house. I manage to make it out of the house, but now I am standing on this field at the bottom of a hill below the house. I can’t force myself to tear my eyes away from the house as I watch my friends being torn limb from limb by the ghost of a seven year old. Blood is spraying all over the glass windows as their screams fade.
What has left the most impact from that dream was the sudden flip from an image so beautiful and peaceful into something so horrid and miserable.
Usually my dreams involve zombies or something like them, which is what I dreamt about last night. However, it is not the creatures that make my dreams disturbing. It is how the people I am dreaming about handle the situations they find themselves in.
For example, more often than not, the people in my dreams are my immediate family, including myself. Last night, my mom knew that these bad people would be coming for us. There was something about a trip to Wall Mart. There was a huge earthquake at which point I ran away to find my boyfriend, because when I called his phone it said that I was trying to dial a Maryland number. (I don’t know so don’t ask). As we stood in my neighbor’s yard chatting it up about what had just happened, we watched a huge 747-with Halliburton written on its side fall apart as it was crashing. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in my room because strange noises were disturbing my sleep. For some reason there are at least 15 people congregated in my room. They all look possessed but blind as a bat. I manage to sneak out of my bed past them. Before I can leave the room though, I have to find something buried in my closet under a pile of shoes. I find it, though I’m not sure what “it” is, and lastly I play with the thermostat before leaving.
I run outside and tell my mom what has just happened. She’s still at the neighbor’s house acting like nothing unusual has just transpired. She says that she is going to go take a look and make sure that I wasn’t acting too hasty in my decision to arm the bomb that she had set up through out the house in our central air system.
Once she is inside the house, she calls me saying that I was wrong and everything is all right. She never gets the chance to explain to me who the hell those people were, because right then our house blows up.
In my dream, I am running around frantically as my big sis walks into my real room to wake me up and tell me that I have class in 15 minutes, I look at her and say no way in hell can I go to class.
Nope. I don’t function well after a night like that.
I know what you’re thinking, because I assure you I’m thinking the same thing at this moment, “that was ridiculous and not even close to a scary dream”. Yes, I see that now, but when I woke up in a cold sweat, that was not what was racing through my mind.
I wonder what it was that I heard or smelled, or saw in Charleston that woke up that part of my mind that enjoys scaring the crap out of me. I am convinced that whatever it is that is different about me changed in Charleston on that walking tour at midnight.
I wonder if that part of me will ever roll over and go back to sleep, so that I may again have a peaceful nights rest.
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