Random: a silly, long and detailed dream

Listening to people describing their dreams is boring. Listing to me talking about my own dreams are even more boring. That’s why I rarely share my dreams with people, even if I was in mood to make them suffer (I’m not that cruel). Last night’s dream was so vivid that I told W all about it. 

The story in the dream is rather organised, which is surprising. When I dream, it’s a bundle of fragments. Pieces of pieces and pieces of other pieces, all jumbled up. And I don’t remember most of them. Just vague impression of this and that. This one, it is an actual adventure. Almost a plot, even. Quite bizarre. It’s as if I watched a film. It’s that organised and vivid. It’s riddled with some plot holes and a lot of silly moments. To be honest, it’s so bad it’s practically a spoof. 

W reckoned I should write it about it on this blog before I forget. On this day next year I might read and think, “What the fuck, Maili? Were you on crack?” Or laugh my head off.  I thought why not. All my comments will be inside brackets.

The Dream 

There is an abandoned mansion on a clearing in the middle of a forest.

(Think the Sherwood Forest. I’m trying to recall a similar building. Will google now. All right, this is the best I could find: Copped Hall. Imagine a similar building with a wide stone staircase entrance with two lion statues on pillars at the base. It has a hot house and the landscaped garden with a maze at the back. All is on a clearing in middle of a forest. At entrance of the forest, there is a tall brick arch with iron gates and a drive through the forest to the clearing where the mansion is.) 

It hasn’t been lived in since the day Princess Victoria was crowned as England’s queen. (I googled to find out when she was crowned. Wikipedia says 20 June 1837 and she was eighteen years old.) No one knows why the Lincott family has disappeared.

The Lincott family was a quiet, respected family that kept to themselves. They seemed to have simply abandoned everything and disappeared. The locals are baffled, but eventually decide the family has moved abroad on government business because although he’s retired, Mr. Lincott–the head of the family–was a foreign agent for Her Majesty’s government.

The locals do think it’s strange Mrs. Lincott hasn’t told anyone they were moving. She’s always been the friendly sort; eager to share details of her family life. Once in a while she shared flowers and products from her garden and the hot house. Yes, it simply isn’t like her to disappear without a word. Still, the locals tell each other, “But then again, you know how posh people are. Some can be so queer. What can we say? Remember the late Miss Yates from Crosswell Hall? Ooh, yes. She was a peculiar creature, indeed.”  After some weeks, the curiosity about the Lincotts’ disappearance slowly dies away. 

After some twenty years, the mansion is still left abandoned. It is the year when Queen Victoria’s husband died. (Googled again. Wikipedia says the year is 1861, which surprised W and me because it’s only ten years later than the “some twenty years” range.)

The locals, while coping with the mourning period of the country, start to wonder about the mansion. No one has ever broken into the mansion, which is a surprise to everyone. Other abandoned houses had been broken in by opportunists, burglars and the desperate. But this one? It’s never been touched. No broken window. No signs of neglect. It looks as if it’s still in residence. The locals start speculating whether it’s haunted. 

A local police officer gets annoyed with these rumours that seem to cause a slow-burn hysteria among the locals. He makes an announcement that he’ll pay a visit to prove that all these rumours are nonsensical. He cycles up the hill into the forest where the mansion is.  

After a couple of hours he hasn’t returned. The evening arrives, but he hasn’t yet. The locals at the pub start to get nervous. Is he all right? The night comes after. The local bobby still hasn’t returned. His wife enters the pub, fretting about his welfare. 

A bunch of locals decide to go up the hill to the mansion to check if he hasn’t had an accident on the way down. Or perhaps he’s fallen through a rotten part of the wooden floor somewhere in the mansion. They bring along fire torches and some weapons, in case there’s someone dodgy in the house. A mad squatter, perhaps.  Although it’s almost midnight, there is the bright moon to guide them up the hill to the gate entrance, through the dark forest and there, the mansion. It looms against the black-navy sky and the moon.  The police officer’s bicycle lies upright against a staircase pillar with a stone lion on top.  

Ah, he might have an accident! Still, the locals don’t feel brave enough to enter the mansion. There is no light in any windows. It’s completely dark inside. They mutter among themselves, debating whether to go inside to find him or not.  One of them says he’ll go back to the village and get more people with more lights. The bigger number, more safe they would be. They agree.

The local dashes through the forest, down the hill and to the pub in the village. Although it’s well after the closing time, the pub landlord keeps it open for the locals to huddle together and brood.  The local quickly enters and tells them that more help is needed. They gather more fire torches. Around ten of them go up the hill, through the dark forest, to the mansion. 

They arrive to find the original group of locals gone. They aren’t waiting outside the mansion. No light inside the mansion. No trace of them is around. The group seems to have disappeared.

The second group of the locals sense there’s something seriously wrong with this picture. One suggests they should return in the morning. They agree by hurrying back down the hill to the village. On the way they assure each other that the original group is investigating in rooms where they couldn’t see their lights from the outside. They will return soon, yes yes. 

They huddle in the pub through the night, waiting for the original group to return. The morning comes and the original group hasn’t.

They aren’t keen, but they did promise they would check when the morning comes, so they go up to the hill to the mansion.  In spite of their cautious calls, there’s no response. The original group and the police officer have simply vanished. The sole member of the original group notices the police officer’s bicycle has disappeared as well. Once they assert no one has touched it, reality dawns on them. Panic time. 

At the government’s HQ in London, a group of men hold a meeting to discuss a certain incident at Westcotte (I guess this is the name of the village) that seems to be firing up the imagination of newspaper reporters and the public across the country. Twelve men and a police officer  disappeared without trace that night. Unknown to the public and the media, the government has already dispatched one of their men to investigate, but he’s also disappeared. Hence the emergency meeting.

With the country suitably in mourning for the late Prince Albert, this matter as a distraction simply wouldn’t do. It’s an insult to Her Majesty, even. It has be resolved as quickly and quietly as possible. Furthermore, the men are truly curious about the fate of Mr. Lincott and his family. Has he done a runner?

If so, why? Has he committed treason by passing on classified government information to the country’s enemies? There was an investigation at the time of the disappearance, but the country was caught up with an expensive and human-crunching war. (Which war? Fuck knows.) Besides, Mr. Lincott was retired. If he wanted to sell the information, it’d be useless to interested buyers because what he might know would be terribly out of date.  Therefore, the mystery of the Lincott family’s disappearance was allowed to fade with time.

But with the Westcotte incident and now this, the missing investigator. People are starting to notice the strange mystery of the mansion. Some newspapers are starting to speculate. Were Mr. Lincott and his poor family murdered? Are they supernaturally responsible for these disappearances? Where are these villagers’ bodies? How have they been taken? So many questions are starting to circulate, slowly gathering up a speed.

Yes, it’s better to stamp out the fires about the Westcott incident fast–and at same time, solve the mystery of the Lincott family and the missing investigator. However, the government cannot afford to lose any more good men, not while there are so many jobs to do around the world on the behalf of the crumbling British Empire. 

After some pondering, one suggests they ought to call in a certain suspended agent to do the job. One of them arches his eyebrow and asks, “And who is that would be?” The suggestion maker pauses and while clearly dreading the reaction, replies, “Rockwell, I’m afraid.”  

The questioner exclaims in shock, “Rockwell? Good God! That damn bleeding bugger should stay where he is. In Hell! We’re not having that wretched son of the devil’s strumpet back here again, surely! Didn’t we banish him to that dreadful place for what he did?” One mildly murmurs, “Scotland isn’t all that dreadful, sir. It’s quite civilised these days.” But his input is roundly ignored as the questioner rants about Rockwell’s notorious misdeed.  (Exactly what the misdeed was, I don’t know.) 

Someone states, “Well, Brock still hasn’t made the effort to get in touch. We must assume he’s missing or dead. If Rockwell won’t do, who else would you miss the least if he were to die?” The protestor snorts and turns away to a window while chomps his pipe angrily, and broods rather darkly. Probably thinking it’d be nice if Rockwell did him a favour by stumbling off a cliff and break his neck or something. If that didn’t happen, then this Westcotte investigation will finally kill him off.

(here at this part I can’t remember much except there is a ship sailing bravely through a storm or two. I do remember (vaguely) Rockwell getting drunk and somehow sleeps with a married woman in her cabin while her husband spend the night yabbering with other passengers in the dining room. Oh, yeah! I remember now: at one point, the very much naked yet very much married woman coyly says, “You certainly can rock well, Mr. Rockwell.” and giggles. I think I cringed at this very cheesy line in my sleep. If I didn’t, I should have.) 

Blah blah. Rockwell arrives in the village with his assistant sidekick at his side. The sidekick is James Cutting, the athletic type. He was the best sportsman at his old school. He would spend all his spare time on football, boxing and rugby. Short but stocky, the kind that can cannon through a crowd with ease. That type.  

Rockwell is the military or gentleman type. Well dressed and a bit vain, I think. The kind that prefers talking his way out of trouble. The fighting, he leaves that sort of job to Cutting, but when necessary, he can fight. Has the eye for women, certainly, as he loves charming women into swooning over him, which is probably why the man earlier hates his guts. Probably had an affair with his wife/fiancee or daughter or sister. 

(I just realised something. Rockwell, Cutting and (who’ll come later) George Bond? Rock (Rockwell), paper (Bond paper) or scissors (Cutting). It’s the usual way of settling a debate or decision between myself and my husband. Do I need a shrink to analyse this?)  

Anyroad, Rockwell and Cutting chuck their luggage into their rented room above the pub and spend time wandering around the village, interviewing various locals for more details about the mansion, its owners, and the incident that night. They all have stories to tell. Rockwell eventually decides that there must be a gang hiding in the mansion. Cutting agrees.

Cutting manages to talk two local men into agreeing to assist them carrying boxes of investigative tools (what, I have no idea). They equip themselves with cool-looking weapons (similar to those weapons in Van Helsing). The hired men bring in a horse and a cart that will carry their boxes up the hill. All men will go on foot. 

Half way up the slope, two local men are increasingly and visibly nervous and just before the gated entrance at the top of the slope, they loudly admit they couldn’t go further on with Cutting and Rockwell. They babble about how they have families to support. One of them says his wife is expecting the sixth child and would kill him if he dared to go ahead. Blah blah.

Rockwell lets them go with instructions: if he and Cutting don’t return within forty eight hours, alert the government HQ and while they’re at it, “Do be a good man and send a telegraph to (I can’t remember this part). The message: “I’m finally in Hell. Join me A.S.A.P.” You may recoup the costs from my solicitor at Longworth, Downworth & Sons of Marrow Square.” 

After nodding agreement and vowing they will follow the instructions, they scurry down the hill. Now it’s just him and Cutting.  Cutting pulls the reins of the horse to prop it forward with the loaded cart following behind. Rockwell walks next to the horse at leisurely pace through the open gates of an tall arch onto a drive into the forest.

Even though it’s a bright day, the forest is dark and creepy. And yet, Rockwell cheerfully whistles a song while Cutting glances around as if they were touring nonchalantly through the Crystal Palace. The kind that would very much offend the menace of the forest for not respecting its job. 

And that’s the end of what I could remember the dream clearly.  ::sad panda:: From that point onwards, I could only recall these fragments in no particular order: 

• Weird symbols and writings on some walls in the mansion. I could only remember one phrase: “Upon the moonlit shore, ye shall find her in the cradle of dawn.” I remember this because Cutting asked Rockwell what he thought it might mean. Rockwell stated, “Whatever it might mean, Cutting; please make sure he will never again inflict his poetry on my sensibilities. Otherwise, I’ll be on trial for murder. It wouldn’t do my already ruined career good.”  Cutting asked, “But sir, isn’t that a riddle of some sort?” Rockwell eyed the written phrase for a moment and closed his eyes as if he was starting to have a headache. 
• Cutting grappled with a dark figure on the rooptop of the mansion above the attic while Rockwell shouted instructions through the attic window. Cutting was on the edge of being pushed off the roof when he shouted, “Can’t you see I’m busy right here?!” Rockwell peered out far enough to see what was happening and said, “Oh. Right. Carry on.”  (See my eyes rolling hard at this cliche.)
• All windows slowly and quietly opened and closed in perfect synchronisation while Rockwell and Cutting slept in their bedrooms. 
• While in the massive reception room Rockwell sensed something, turned round and saw a dark figure in the doorway. He eyed the dark figure for a moment and said, “Rockwell at your service.” The dark figure suddenly attacked him at top speed. After successfully fought it off, Rockwell – bloodied and exhausted while sitting up on the floor – said with annoyance, “What a rude introduction.” 
• A hand slowly came through a floral wall to reach for Cutting while he studied a small statue that he picked up from a small round table next to an armchair. Rockwell noticed and instructed Cutting to move round the table, but slowly and quietly.  Cutting did as he was told to. Once he was around the table, he looked at the wall. As soon as he saw the hand slowly disappearing back into the wall, he dropped the statue and his jaw in shock. I think Rockwell said, “I see. Not a gang of smugglers, then.” Cutting slowly turned to him with his jaws still hanging open in shock. Rockwell nodded to show he was shocked, too. He looked at the wall where the hand was and muttered, “What a bloody nuisance.” 
• The police officer was found at the base of a tall, exotic tree in the mansion’s hot house. Roots of the tree wrapped around his body.
• A country gentleman (the splitting image of actor Leon Askin) eyed Rockwell with suspicion and then huffed up as if he’s made a decision. He said, “Sir George Bond, a proud and devoted servant of Her Majesty, the British Empire and its civilised world.” Rockwell and Cutting stared at him. Bond said, “So. What do we have here? Hm?” Rockwell and Cutting glanced at each other briefly and looked away while sniggered to themselves. This pissed Bond off and so he sneered, “You’re living up to your well-earned reputation, I see.” Rockwell responded, “Favourably, I hope?” Bond smiled tightly and said, “Ah. Well, let’s put it this way, Mr. Rockwell. I would rather drown my daughter in a bowl of the morning rain than permitting her enter the promixity of your presence.” A pregnant pause. Bond continued, “Pardon me for digessing. A-hem, a-hem. Right, what was I saying…? Ah, yes. Give me one bloody good reason why I shouldn’t have you shot for breaking into my good friend’s property.” Rockwell swiftly answered, “A ghost. There’s a ghost in your good friend’s property, Sir George.” Bond stuttered, “A what? A… a… a coat, did you say? Why in Heaven would you break into my good friend’s property for a bloody coat? Good grief! Johnstone…Johnstone! Bring in my gun!” 
• A dark-haired woman (in a black-and-dark-green bonnet) hic-cupped. She looked out of a window and said under her breath, “I’ll have you hanged, drawn and quartered the moment I see you, you bounder.” (Believe it or not, I don’t believe she was referring to Rockwell.) 
• Cutting punched a mass of darkness squarely in its face. It stilled as if it was surprised. Having realised that his punch didn’t knock it out, Cutting said, “Bugger.” Rockwell looked at him from distance. Cutting looked back and shouted, “Run!” He and Rockwell dashed out of the room before the mass realised what was happening. 
• The woman (the hic-cupping woman from earlier) scowled and punched Rockwell’s face hard enough to knock him off his feet. He elbowed himself off the floor as he rubbed his chin with his other hand. He said, “Just what did I do to deserve that, Vie?” (Vie = short for Violet.) She gasped and snapped, “Do you not know? You rotter!” and swiftly kicked him in the face. Rockwell yelped and covered his face with his arms as she tried to stomp on him. Cutting came to Rockwell’s rescue by dragging her well away from him. (OK, I was wrong. Her comment earlier was referring to him. I have a very strong feeling she is Rockwell’s wife.) 
• A local man beamed with pride as his aged dog barked a tune. Rockwell and Cutting gaped at the dog.  

Not knowing how the story ends kills me.

The black figure was creepy, though. I wonder if it’s taken from the famous haunted house on Berkeley Square?  I think so. Unless it’s a tribute to Creature from the Black Lagoon. ::laugh:: I hope so because the idea of my imagination being that capable of creating something so creepy worries me. 

It’s strange that I still can remember these people and the details clearly. I rarely remember my dreams. I’m wondering if it’s from a film I once saw and eventually forgot. The dream is far too detailed and vivid for me to create from imagination alone. I have always been imaginative, but not that imaginative. Must investigate.