Read Online Agonal Breath (The Deadseer Chronicles Book 1) by Richard Estep - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Estep
Tags: Paranormal Fiction
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half is filled with the pain of losing them all over again.
That sort of dream is a real rarity. When you get one, hang onto that sucker and cherish it. It’s a genuine gift, and most people don’t recognize them for what they are — a true, honest-to-God, accept-no-substitutes miracle. They get out of bed, hit the shower, and wash away everything but the smallest lingering traces as they go about their day. The mundane wins out over the spirit world every single time.
There are lots of books out there that promise to tell you the meaning of your dreams, as though they can somehow divine your future for you based upon the random firings of electricity in your neurons. Now, I’m not saying that dreams don’t have meaning; sometimes, they’re the only way for your always-watching subconscious to tap your conscious mind on the shoulder, give a discreet cough, and say: “Hey, dumbass – are you paying attention to any of this stuff?”
Far more often though, dreams are simply your brain’s way of taking a dump, if you’ll pardon the expression. I mean, think about it. Your mind takes in a lot of information each and every day. A lot. And every last bit of it either needs to be processed, discarded, or both. When do you think that happens? That’s right, usually when you’re tucked up in bed at night, snoring up a storm, when your mind is finally free to start working on the mental housekeeping chores.
Even the nastiest, most terrifying brain-bender of a nightmare can usually be put down to nothing more than your body processing and dumping a lot of excess garbage imagery.
Usually.
When I opened my eyes and found myself surrounded by nothing but darkness, I assumed at first that I had just woken up in my bedroom. It didn’t take long to realize that all of the familiar, comforting stuff was missing, though. There wasn’t a Marvel or Lucasfilm product in sight.
I was in bed, and this did look like a bedroom, but that’s about as far as the similarity went.
As my eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, I could just about make out the dimensions of the room. It was actually slightly larger than my own, with two ways out – one being a doorway right behind the bed, and the other a huge opening at the end of my feet, which seemed to lead out onto some sort of brick balcony. There was no door or window of any kind between me and the great outdoors. I could hear the sound of crickets chirruping from somewhere out beyond the edge of that balcony, and as my hearing began to settle down and adjust, I could hear other nocturnal critters moving about and calling out to one another out there.
The next thing I heard was the coughing, coming through the wall on my right. This was not the light cough of somebody who’d picked up a dose of the seasonal lung-crud; this sounded more like the poor unfortunate cougher was trying to hack up a lung. The cough had a harsh, rasping quality to it that set my teeth on edge. It echoed from the balcony walls outside. Whoever it was, they surely weren’t long for the world if this was what their lungs sounded like.
As if on cue, there came another cough, but this time much fainter and further away along the balcony. It sounded a lot like the first one had, though, cruel and grating on my nerves, that sort of nails-on-a-chalkboard sound that made you want to wince in sympathy for the owner.
I sat up slowly. My legs were covered by crisp white bedsheets, which actually felt as though they might have been starched. The mattress seemed like it was old and lumpy, much worse than the one on my own bed. I could see what looked like an iron bedframe at the foot of the mattress, and confirmed it when my toes brushed up against it as I shifted position.
Where the hell was I?
Well, I wasn’t going to find that out by laying in bed. Swinging my legs around, I got a bit of a jolt when my bare feet came into contact with the cold, hard floor. Hobbling slightly as I found my footing, I wandered
That sort of dream is a real rarity. When you get one, hang onto that sucker and cherish it. It’s a genuine gift, and most people don’t recognize them for what they are — a true, honest-to-God, accept-no-substitutes miracle. They get out of bed, hit the shower, and wash away everything but the smallest lingering traces as they go about their day. The mundane wins out over the spirit world every single time.
There are lots of books out there that promise to tell you the meaning of your dreams, as though they can somehow divine your future for you based upon the random firings of electricity in your neurons. Now, I’m not saying that dreams don’t have meaning; sometimes, they’re the only way for your always-watching subconscious to tap your conscious mind on the shoulder, give a discreet cough, and say: “Hey, dumbass – are you paying attention to any of this stuff?”
Far more often though, dreams are simply your brain’s way of taking a dump, if you’ll pardon the expression. I mean, think about it. Your mind takes in a lot of information each and every day. A lot. And every last bit of it either needs to be processed, discarded, or both. When do you think that happens? That’s right, usually when you’re tucked up in bed at night, snoring up a storm, when your mind is finally free to start working on the mental housekeeping chores.
Even the nastiest, most terrifying brain-bender of a nightmare can usually be put down to nothing more than your body processing and dumping a lot of excess garbage imagery.
Usually.
When I opened my eyes and found myself surrounded by nothing but darkness, I assumed at first that I had just woken up in my bedroom. It didn’t take long to realize that all of the familiar, comforting stuff was missing, though. There wasn’t a Marvel or Lucasfilm product in sight.
I was in bed, and this did look like a bedroom, but that’s about as far as the similarity went.
As my eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, I could just about make out the dimensions of the room. It was actually slightly larger than my own, with two ways out – one being a doorway right behind the bed, and the other a huge opening at the end of my feet, which seemed to lead out onto some sort of brick balcony. There was no door or window of any kind between me and the great outdoors. I could hear the sound of crickets chirruping from somewhere out beyond the edge of that balcony, and as my hearing began to settle down and adjust, I could hear other nocturnal critters moving about and calling out to one another out there.
The next thing I heard was the coughing, coming through the wall on my right. This was not the light cough of somebody who’d picked up a dose of the seasonal lung-crud; this sounded more like the poor unfortunate cougher was trying to hack up a lung. The cough had a harsh, rasping quality to it that set my teeth on edge. It echoed from the balcony walls outside. Whoever it was, they surely weren’t long for the world if this was what their lungs sounded like.
As if on cue, there came another cough, but this time much fainter and further away along the balcony. It sounded a lot like the first one had, though, cruel and grating on my nerves, that sort of nails-on-a-chalkboard sound that made you want to wince in sympathy for the owner.
I sat up slowly. My legs were covered by crisp white bedsheets, which actually felt as though they might have been starched. The mattress seemed like it was old and lumpy, much worse than the one on my own bed. I could see what looked like an iron bedframe at the foot of the mattress, and confirmed it when my toes brushed up against it as I shifted position.
Where the hell was I?
Well, I wasn’t going to find that out by laying in bed. Swinging my legs around, I got a bit of a jolt when my bare feet came into contact with the cold, hard floor. Hobbling slightly as I found my footing, I wandered
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