Frost Dream

It was a frostbitten night, the sort where walking not only makes a sound but also hurts your feet. He was not walking, but even running he could feel the cold claw up through the soles of his shoes. On and on through the shimmering forest he ran, the frozen floor crunching beneath him, the odd twig or melting leaf thrown into the air as he went. A lone wolf howled in the distance, and his breathing came hard and heavy, like the air itself were trying to get away from him as quickly as possible. It was the same run he made each and every night. From behind he could hear the heavy gallop gaining, closer and closer. There were no shadows cast, no light from the moon, but he could make out the trace outlines of the trees, like gnarled and terrible claws reaching all about, trying to snatch him from the ground as he went. Still the galloping came closer, closer, as his lungs ached and his footing became more and more uncertain. He slipped into a tree, his shoulder striking hard against the trunk as his head hit a branch, seeming to wrap around him. He stumbled back, out of the grasp of the terrible silver shape, and started again at a full sprint, trying desperately to worm his way between the cold, grizzled soldiers standing to attention all around, ducking under boughs, splashing through streams and brooks, the water stinging his thighs and chest. It was close now, and he could hear it breathing as his heart pounded in his ears like a bass-drum.


“Another nightmare?” his wife, Candice, asked him as she spooned some scrambled egg onto the burnt toast she was going to offer him for breakfast.

“No,” he said, still feeling the chilled sweat on the back of his neck as he took his customary place at the small table. “The same one.”

“You can get help for that you know,” she set the plate in front of him. “Mrs Kennedy had problems with nightmares once, but she went and saw someone about it, a hypnotherapist.” She paused to sip some coffee.

“Must we have this same discussion morning after morning?” he said angrily, stabbing at some of the egg and watching the ketchup he had put on it seep off like water from a sponge.

“No need to be testy,” she replied calmly, pushing aside a lock of her crimson hair, “and don’t interrupt me. She says she hasn’t had a problem with nightmares since. I can ask her to give you the number if you like.”

“They’re all charlatans and con artists.” He glanced towards the clock. He was glad he had work to go to in less than an hour. As much as he loved her, Candice was becoming intolerable. It seemed like it was almost a religion for his red-haired wife. She had always been one for gossip and trying out whatever it was her friends, especially Mrs Kennedy, suggested. He was surprised that she had not as yet come up with some excuse to go and see this hypnotherapist herself. “Besides,” he shovelled some food into his mouth, swallowing quickly and lifting his mug to his lips, inhaling the strong scented coffee stewing within, “you know I can’t afford it. This’ll blow over sooner or later.”

Candice looked reproachfully at her husband, and he feared for a moment she was going to shout at him again over something he considered of little to no importance.
“You should stop complaining about it then if you’re not going to do anything about it.”

It took a lot of effort on his part not to point out that she was the one who always seemed to bring up his recurrent nightmare. Maybe, he thought on his way to work, he would have stopped having it three or four years ago if she did not keep harping on.


“How did I let you talk me into this?” he asked as he and Candice sat in the waiting room of a Dr. Eddings, hypnotherapist. She sat there reading one of those tattered, aged magazines, leafing through the pages and soaking in the articles. She said nothing, and sat cold and hard. He thought back to the previous morning and remembered the shrieks and curses she used.

“You get yourself to see him or we’re through. I am not spending the rest of my life with a man who spends most of every night thrashing about in his sleep screaming for his mother. It’s rude and impolite, not to mention the fact it probably wakes up the entire street as well.” Given the circumstances he though it prudent to at least try this suggestion from his wife.


“So, Mr. Bryan,” the doctor started. He had brown hair in an almost military cut, was in his early to mid-thirties and his blue eyes seemed to suggest he was relatively new to not only the field of hypnotherapy, but the world of work in general. “The form says that you suffer from a recurrent nightmare. How long ago can you remember having this particular dream?”

He told him.

“And do you recall anything particular about the day you first had this nightmare, say, for instance, any particular stress or concern, or anything you may have seen or done that was out of the ordinary?”

“Nothing that I recall,” he replied in that monotone manner which is often employed by people who do not want to be in the presence of someone trying to make a psychological difference in their lives.

“Was there any particular stress or trauma at home, work or in your family shortly before this time?”

He answered that there had not been anything out of the ordinary, and secretly thought through some answers to possible questions. Yes, he liked his mother as a child. No he was not bullied by goldfish or chipmunks. Yes he had a normal childhood doing all the normal childhood things. It was with some regret that he had to forego the first two of these answers (especially the one about the chipmunks) and kept in the same white manner of speaking.

“Tell me a little more about this dream,” the doctor told him. “Describe for me the very beginning.”

He described the woods being cold and dark, a harsh frost on the ground and clinging to his body. He was running, the cold air biting at his bare skin. He wore a plain white t-shirt, splashed with mud and something black and sticky, and a pair of cotton shorts with a drawstring soaked, untied and slapping his inner thigh. He felt an uncontrollable fear, and he could taste blood in his mouth, as if he had already been running as hard as he could for mile after mile. He could hear an owl hooting, the sound carrying and echoing through the trees.

“Hmm. You are sure that you cannot recall any trauma or stress from any point in your life?”

He ignored the urge to shout at the good doctor. “No, nothing out of the ordinary.”

Dr. Eddings looked at him for a few moments, jotting down some notes as he did so. “What I would like you to do now,” he said, “is to make yourself comfortable and relax. Many patients find laying down helps. Are you comfortable? Good. Now, close your eyes, and relax. Listen to the sound of my voice. I want you to picture the scene you described for me a few minutes ago. You are running through the forest on a dark night. Something has frightened you. Describe to me what happens as you see it happening in your minds’ eye.”

“I’m running,” he started. “The trees are quite densely packed and it’s difficult to move.” A wolf howls in the distance as he runs, a heavy galloping behind him. “I lose my footing and hit a tree.” He placed his hand on his left shoulder, the one which, in his dream, he hit against the tree. “The tree… it’s trying to grab me, but I get away from it. The whole forest is alive…”

“Go on,” the clinical doctor said.

“I can hear it… it’s getting closer… no... I can’t.” he snapped his eyes open, springing upright like one of those fake skeletons on a haunted-house ride at the fair. A cold sweat ran down the back of his neck, and his breathing was hard and heavy.

“What was the last thing you remember about the dream?”

He took a few moments to compose his thoughts, giving his breath a chance to calm itself. He looked at the doctor, and felt an unnatural hatred for the man who he had only met less than forty minutes before. “I remember hitting a tree, and running on. I ran through a stream, and felt as if something was bearing down on me.”

“And then?”

“That’s everything. I wake up still running and the whole thing repeats itself night after night.”

After a decent pause, Dr. Eddings turned to his patient. “I have a theory,” he started, “with cases such as yours. It could be that you started having this nightmare at a time of some stress, but were so scared by it that you never finished the dream. Of course, most people at some point in their lives have a dream that they never finish. In some instances though I have heard that people are able to stop having the recurring nightmares or dreams after they have finally been able to finish whatever the dream is, coming to some conclusion.” He paused again, looking straight at his patient. The clock on the wall ticked inexhaustibly onward. “Because we only have a few minutes left I don’t think there’s anything we can do today, but how would you feel if we met again and I helped guide you to the end of the dream? Yes? Good. If you fix an appointment with my secretary, that will be great. Have you been prescribed sleeping tablets before?”

He nodded.

“Have they had any effect?”

“No.”

“I don’t know if there is anything I can suggest other than to keep a record of your dreams from tonight until we meet again. Maybe some more information will come to light in them and we can start to put together some pattern or logic in the dream to help rationalise. Thank you for coming to see me, Mr Bryan, and I’ll see you at our next appointment.”

He slept fitfully that night.


He could hear the wolf howling in the distance as he ran through the forest, the earth in places hard whilst in others his footing was unsure in the mud. The only thing that was constant was the cold, stabbing into his feet and legs as the wind whipped his bare arms and face. It felt to him like his face had been cut in a dozen places by the wind and the ever-reaching branches. The moon gave no light, and he could hear, ever closer, the hard, fast gallop echoing in amongst the trees behind him. He slipped, and a tree seemed to grab him as he fell. He pulled himself away, more terrified than anything he could describe. A cold sweat trickled down his neck as the water from the stream splashed up and seemed to freeze against him, trying, he thought, as desperately as it could to hold him in place. Deeper and deeper into the forest he ran, the trees coming thicker and quicker towards and beyond him. He turned sharply, as the lone wolf again howled. He could hear coming from a side the thud of the wolf running, and his heart leapt higher in his throat, almost choking the very life from him.

He slid down a bank, running up another stream, the stones cutting his calves and shins and the water stinging the fresh cuts, freezing his feet even more than the ground had done. Suddenly, the taste of blood still in his mouth, he saw and heard the wolf as it leapt into the stream ahead of him, its shadowy outline turning as it landed and tearing straight for him, jaws agape and a terrible, salivating sound coming from the open mouth. As it leapt to attack, he ducked out of the way, and heard the wolf crash down into the water behind him. Not daring to look back he scrambled up the bank, a yelp followed by sickening snaps coming from the river. The galloping was coming closer, but it seemed to be hovering deliberately some distance back. He could hear that whatever it was was faster than he was, and a new fear gripped him as he realised that it was playing with him. He could have sworn that he could hear and smell the hot breath of his pursuer behind him as he twisted and turned, the tree roots seeming to slither through the frozen undergrowth.

We’ve got to wake him up

At last he reached some semblance of habitation, a crude log cabin set in a clearing. He made towards it, slamming through the door and bolting it behind. He looked out of the window, and saw a single, reflective light coming towards him at alarming speed. It stopped quite suddenly at the window he was looking from, and he started back. He could hear a sinister laughing. It was like a crow cawing, a wolf howling, a vulture shrieking and a man in madness cackling all in one. His whole body was rigid as he lay on the floor, his eyes transfixed on the light. Suddenly it blinked out of sight, and he could hear something pounding at the door, the wood starting to creak and moan like the dead themselves. With an ear-shattering split the door broke, splinters flying everywhere as the terrible light flew straight at him.

It was late spring, the weather fair, with a refreshing breeze blowing over the grass and flowers. A couple stood close together, the woman with a small child in her arms. They had been happily married for two years. In front of them was a gravestone. The woman placed a small bunch of flowers in front of it, as the child played absentmindedly with one of the drawstrings of his coat. With a sigh, the mother took the drawstring from his hand and faintly smiled at him. Her husband placed his arm gently around her shoulder, whispered something in her ear, and led her at a stately pace away from the graveside.