It was a problem for a little while, but I've got it under control now. I think. I think I've got it under control now. Precision is important. It's the details that reveal the truth. It'll wear off soon.
This all started last week -- last week? Two weeks ago? More? I wasn't paying much attention to details then -- when I was at the supermarket. I bought things, food, a lot of things, but I remember the mushrooms. I think they started it. They had to have. That makes sense. So anything I remember being wrong at the supermarket is a trick, a false memory.
Yes. So it didn't start at the supermarket, not exactly. It started at home that night. I was opening up the plastic wrap on the mushrooms, sliding my fingernail through the plastic to separate it, when the container bit me. Or the mushrooms did. No, precision! I must have cut myself on the edge of the container, gotten the dirt from the mushrooms or the mushrooms themselves into the cut. Because I saw them move, not in a quick rattle like popcorn but in a pulpy, organic squeezing motion, like grubs squirming over each other.
I dropped the container, of course, and mushrooms rolled out all over my floor. No grubs, only mushrooms. Stationary, once they stopped rolling. I gathered them up, washed them off and put them on the cutting board. I must have missed some, of course. No, the order matters. That's not relevant yet. And I've fixed it now, anyway.
Dinnertime. Or just before. I washed the mushrooms, yes. Put them on the cutting board, cut them up, made -- a salad? Some sort of chicken breast dish? I don't recall. I wish I knew the details. I wasn't paying attention then. A man should know what he eats, though, yes? It all blurs.
Dinnertime, whatever it was. I ate the mushrooms. I had no reason not to. They hadn't really moved. I'm still certain of that. Mostly certain. Precision.
Bedtime followed. I dreamed of the supermarket, dark and shadowy. Glass crunched under my feet as I walked in, the sound loud in the empty aisles. I could hear a song, a quiet ethereal melody from the back, so I followed it. Louder it grew, a haunting tune, the words in no language I knew yet still just on the edge of meaning. I found myself in the produce section, looking down into the vegetables, and I saw the mushrooms writhing there. They moved as I had seen them move in my kitchen, a pale white mass pulsating as the mushrooms wriggled slowly over each other. They flowed like corpse-white lava, like a bubble of pus. And they sang as they moved, tiny mouths opening on each mushroom, each adding its own note to the song.
In my dream, I stood there for some time, entranced. Suddenly, light caught my eye and I looked up to see a dog staring at me, its hackles raised. I lifted my hands to show it I was not a threat, and the dog advanced slowly, growling. As it inched toward me, I knew that it was just closing the distance to leap. I had to stop it.
Even as it was eyeing me, I was eyeing it, looking for my own opportunity. When I judged the time right, I sprang forward and tackled the dog, rolling on the tiled floor with it as it snapped its jaws at me, seeking blood. I was fast, though, and pummeled it, beating it about the head with a Maglite. I hadn't had the Maglite before, but this is the way of dreams. You have things, then you do not. Dogs appear. And still the mushrooms sang, stopping only when the dog was still and blood covered us both.
I woke up then, naked in my bed as I always sleep. I thought no more of it until I saw myself in the bathroom mirror later that morning, with bruising all along the right side of my ribs. The dog struck me there as we tusseled, in my dream. I turned to get a better view, and the bruises faded. I could not see them when I turned back. A trick of the light.
I did yardwork that day and saw no one. I sharpened my mower blades and my hedge trimmers. I found a Maglite in my shed that I did not recognize. I assumed I had bought it at some point and forgotten about it. The lens was cracked, but it worked. I left it on the shelf.
That night, I had steak and mushrooms for dinner. I had not bought steak. I did not think of this at the time. Details. Precision.
The newspaper told of a break-in at a local supermarket, and a missing security guard. I tried to remember the dog from my dream. It was large, with blonde and tan fur. I couldn't remember its breed. Details. It was a dream. Things are blurry.
I spent the day in my attic. The house had a strange smell, which I thought might be coming from the heater. It had just turned on for the first time this year, and the house smelled earthy. I looked into the heater. Nothing seemed wrong. I changed the filter in case.
My phone rang. My boss wanted to know where I was. I was in my attic. He claimed it was Thursday, and he had been calling me. I told him I'd been sick, and would be in on Monday. I didn't ask him what Thursday it was. It should have been Sunday. I checked my phone to see twenty-seven missed calls. The phone also said it was Thursday. I left the attic.
Things had changed in the house. Beneath the cabinets, mushrooms grew. Dark stains covered the ceilings. I had been in the attic for days, it seemed. I should have been hungry, but I was not. If anything, I was overfull. Almost bloated.
Seven papers sat on the front porch. The wrong number. If I was right about the time, it would be no papers. If the day was Thursday, there should have been four, or eleven. I opened them to see the dates. Six of the papers were completely blank, rolled up newsprint without a drop of ink. The seventh was page after page of "Have You Seen Me?" posters. Adults, children, animals. I saw the security guard from the news. I saw my neighbor's children. I saw my boss. I saw dozens of people and animals I did not recognize. I looked for the dog from my dream and found him on the fourteenth page. His collar said "Eric." The security guard's badge also said "Eric." I thought about the Maglite. Details. I did not think about the steak.
I cooked and ate a mushroom risotto. I found hairs in it. My hair is black. These were red. My neighbor's children have red hair. I thought about the dark stains on the ceiling. I wondered what was in my attic.
The attic door was gone when I went to look. I checked every room in case it had moved, but each one had a smooth ceiling, marred only by dark stains. I drove to the hardware store and bought paint.
I checked my phone. It's Saturday. I have no more missed calls, so it must be this Saturday. I think. My ceilings are painted and the house smells of paint. The dark stains are gone for now. The mushrooms are cleaned up from beneath the cabinets. My refrigerator is full.
It was a problem at first, but I have it under control now. The newspaper was normal today. It talked of a manhunt, but my ceilings are painted and my attic door is gone. I'll be fine. My side still hurts, but I haven't seen the marks again. I'll go back to work on Monday and everything will be just like it always was. As long as I pay attention to details, nothing will slip. I have it under control now.
Submitted October 24, 2017 at 02:10AM by the-third-person http://ift.tt/2yMran1 nosleep
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