Hello all, I’m glad you have been enjoying my dreams. These are actual dreams from a journal I’ve kept for the last ten years — they’re not fiction and they’re not meant to tie into the Broodhollow story at all — I’ve always been fascinated by dreams, and just wanted an outlet to share them. Although reading back over them, I can see some obvious themes emerge.

I’m driving a car, a white pickup truck, through an intersection. Two frat boys run across the intersection illegally as I nearly hit them. But instead of hustling across, they stand in the center of the street, and like matadors, olé my car through.

The point of view changes — now I’m in a different car. In fact, I’m in the car behind the white pickup that just went through. I see the two frat guys screwing around in the intersection ahead. This time, as I drive through, they take a position on the right side of the street. Blue beams shoot from their hands, but rather than being startled, I know it’s a prank, or an illusion.

I drive past them, but suddenly I’m no longer in a car. I’m now standing in a hallway in some house. In front of me is the real driver of the white pickup: an overweight Midwestern housewife. We both push shopping carts, which is what our cars have become. We turn around to “go back,” but behind us is a very long, dark hallway, terminating in a barred opening, pouring in light, presumably from the intersection we’ve just driven through.

Rather than investigate that, we venture further into the house. Immediately on the left is a small bedroom, cluttered with papers and trinkets. A large oval mirror hangs on the wall, above an old dresser. To the left of it sits a bizarre little goth doll, with a large sign above it reading “Melting Prison Lady.” The housewife and I continue on to the right, and I’m already aware that I’m dreaming, and according to dream logic, I know I will probably be forced to watch the Prison Lady Melt in some nightmarish way later on.

As we explore the house, the housewife constantly mutters comments like “wow, what a weird place… I was just driving, and here we are! I mean, it’s so strange!” I stay politely quiet, interpreting her rambling as a response to anxiety. I don’t know what else is in this house and I don’t want to make too much noise.

We see a tiny kitchen through a doorway, green- and brown-toned everything, a very early ’70s sensibility. On the green fridge door, magnets hold many, many family photographs in place. The photos feature another housewife-looking woman, who looks unremarkable except for enormous, dark, glassy, staring compound-insect eyes. A homey wooden sign with letters burned into it, also affixed by magnet, identifies her as “Eye Wife.”

Having seen this, we hear a sound coming from the small bedroom. We turn around to look. By now, the housewife I’m with is visibly scared and hesitant, and moans to herself about how she doesn’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here either.

We look into the bedroom where the sound came from. In front of the oval mirror, with her back to us, was a woman who says genially, “I didn’t hear you folks come in.” We cannot see her face. The housewife I came in with moans in horror: “Ohhhhh… PLEASE DON’T BE EYE WIFE!”

The woman in front of the mirror turns to face us abruptly — and her face is completely normal. She says, “What are you talking about?” and turns back to the mirror, hiding her face from us once more.

And then she slowly turns her head back toward us very purposefully, and I know goddamn well this time it is going to be Eye Wife.

I did not see Eye Wife, because my dream immediately changes to a very distorted view of a park, or some outdoor scene with a patio and sunlit field of grass, but as if viewed through a badly warped and cracked lens. I wake up.