"Justice in a Dream":
I was a respiratory therapist at Edgewater Hospital in Chicago, and life there was steady—long shifts, beeping monitors, and the hum of the hospital keeping us all in rhythm. Teresita Basa, another therapist, was someone I saw almost daily in 1977. She was kind, with a soft voice and a warm smile, always ready to share a quick story about growing up in the Philippines, just like me. We weren’t best friends, but we’d chat during breaks, maybe about a recipe or how strange it felt to be so far from home. Her presence was comforting, familiar.
Then, in February 1977, everything changed. I was in the break room when Maria, another nurse, rushed in, her face pale. “Teresita’s dead,” she whispered, her hands trembling as she clutched her coffee mug. “They found her in her apartment. Stabbed. Someone set her body on fire.” The words hit like a punch. My stomach twisted, and I sank into a chair. “How could this happen?” I asked, my voice barely audible. Maria shook her head. “No one knows. The police are here.”
The hospital turned chaotic. Police officers moved through the halls, their radios crackling, asking questions. “Did you know Teresita well?” one officer asked me, his pen hovering over a notepad. “Not really,” I said, my throat tight. “We talked sometimes, about work or home. That’s all.” They scribbled notes, but I could tell they were grasping at straws. No leads. No suspects. The idea that someone could do this and vanish made my skin crawl. That night, I checked my apartment door three times before bed, my hands shaking as I turned the lock.
A few nights later, the dreams started. At first, they were vague—just a voice calling my name in the dark, soft but urgent, like someone trying to warn me. I’d wake up with my heart pounding, my sheets damp with sweat, feeling a chill that lingered on my skin. I told myself it was just the stress of the murder, the way it hung over the hospital like a shadow. Everyone was on edge, whispering about who could’ve done it. “It’s so scary,” Maria said one day, her eyes darting around the cafeteria. “To think someone could get away with this.”
But the dreams didn’t stop. They grew sharper, more vivid. One night, I found myself in a dim room, the air heavy, like it was pressing down on me. Teresita stood there, her face pale, her eyes wide with fear and sorrow. She wore the same blue scrubs I’d seen her in at work, but they were tattered, stained. “You have to help me,” she said, her voice trembling, almost a whisper. “My killer is still free.” I woke up gasping, my chest tight, my hands clutching the blanket. It felt so real, like she’d been standing at the foot of my bed. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself it was just a dream.
The next night, she came back. “It’s Allan Showery,” she said, her voice clearer, sharper. “He works at the hospital. He came to fix my TV, but he killed me. He stole my jewelry and gave it to his girlfriend.” I bolted upright, my heart racing so fast I thought it might burst. Allan Showery was an orderly, a tall, quiet man who moved through the hospital like a ghost. I’d seen him in the halls, always keeping his head down, his eyes avoiding mine. Once, I’d caught him staring at me in the cafeteria, and his gaze sent a shiver down my spine. Could he really be a killer?
I tried to push the dreams away, but they kept coming, night after night. Each time, Teresita’s face was more desperate, her words more urgent. “Tell the police,” she’d say, her voice echoing in my head even after I woke. I started dreading sleep, lying awake for hours, listening to the hum of my apartment’s heater, wondering if I was losing my mind. Was it really Teresita, or was my brain playing tricks? I’d read somewhere that dreams could piece together things you didn’t know you knew, but this felt too specific, too real.
One evening, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I told my husband, Jose, while we sat at the kitchen table, the dishes from dinner still between us. “I keep dreaming about Teresita,” I said, my voice barely steady. “She says Allan Showery killed her. She says he stole her jewelry and gave it to his girlfriend.”
Jose, a doctor at another hospital, put down his glass, his brow furrowing. “You’re under a lot of stress,” he said gently. “The murder’s got everyone shaken. Maybe your mind’s just… processing it.”
“But it’s so clear,” I said, my hands twisting the napkin in my lap. “She keeps saying the same thing. What if it’s true?”
He leaned back, his eyes searching mine. “If it’s bothering you this much, maybe you should tell the police. Just to get it off your chest.”
“They’ll think I’m crazy,” I said, my stomach knotting. “Who’s going to believe I got this from a dream?”
He reached across the table, his hand warm over mine. “If there’s even a chance it’s real, you have to try. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t.”
I nodded, but doubt gnawed at me. The next day, I passed Showery in the hospital hallway. He was pushing a cart, his shoulders hunched. His eyes flicked up, meeting mine for a split second, and I felt a cold wave wash over me. My hands trembled as I hurried to my station. Was I imagining things, or was there something in his stare?
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I called Detective Stachula and asked to meet. At the police station, I sat across from him, my palms sweaty, my heart thudding. “I know this sounds strange,” I started, my voice shaking, “but I’ve been having dreams about Teresita. She says Allan Showery killed her. She says he came to fix her TV, stole her jewelry, and gave it to his girlfriend.”
Stachula leaned back in his chair, his pen tapping his notepad. “Dreams?” he said, one eyebrow raised. “That’s… unusual. You’re sure about this?”
“I know it sounds crazy,” I said, my face burning. “But it’s so specific. I can’t ignore it. Please, just check it out.”
He scribbled something, his expression unreadable. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll look into Showery. But I’m not promising anything.”
I left the station feeling like a fool, wondering if I’d just made a mistake. What if they laughed it off? What if Showery found out I’d pointed at him? That night, I barely slept, my mind racing with images of Teresita’s face, her voice echoing, “Tell them.”
A few days later, my phone rang. It was Stachula. “We checked into Showery,” he said, his voice calm but serious. “He was at Teresita’s apartment that day, supposedly fixing her TV. We talked to his girlfriend, and she had jewelry that matched what was missing from the scene. Showery confessed. He killed her.”
I froze, my hand gripping the phone. “He confessed?” I whispered.
“Yeah,” Stachula said. “We found a memo in Teresita’s apartment, something about ‘A.S.’ and getting tickets. It led us to him. The jewelry sealed it. He’s in custody.”
I sank onto the couch, my mind spinning. It was true. Every detail from the dreams—Showery, the TV, the jewelry—was real. He was arrested, and later, he pleaded guilty to murder. They gave him 14 years.
The dreams stopped after that. I never saw Teresita again in my sleep. I went to her grave one afternoon, standing quietly by the headstone, the grass soft under my feet. I whispered, “You got justice.” A strange peace settled over me, but questions lingered. Was it really Teresita speaking to me, or was my mind piecing together things I didn’t know I’d noticed? Maybe I’d heard someone mention Showery fixing her TV, or seen him acting strange, and my brain turned it into dreams. I’d read that stress could make your mind dig up hidden details, like a puzzle solving itself.
At the hospital, things slowly went back to normal, but I’d catch Maria’s eye sometimes, and we’d share a quiet look. “You did something brave,” she told me once, her voice low. “I don’t know how you knew, but you did.” I just nodded, unsure how to explain it.
Showery was gone, locked away, but I still double-check my locks at night. Sometimes, I wake up in the dark, my heart racing, listening for that voice. I wonder if it was my intuition, my subconscious, or something else I’ll never understand. All I know is justice was served, but the memory of those dreams still sends a chill down my spine.
"Red Coat in the Black":
I sat on the edge of Eryl Mai’s bed, tucking the quilt around her small frame. Her stuffed rabbit, worn from years of cuddling, lay clutched in her arms. She was ten, with bright hazel eyes that usually danced with curiosity, but tonight, they were wide, shadowed with something I couldn’t place. “Mummy,” she whispered, her voice barely above the creak of the floorboards, “I had a funny dream last night.”
I smoothed her dark hair, trying to keep my voice soft. “What kind of dream, love?”
She shifted, pulling the rabbit closer, her fingers twisting its floppy ears. “I went to school, but… there was no school there. Something black came down all over it. It was all gone.” Her words hung in the air, heavy, and a cold prickle ran down my spine. I didn’t know why it unsettled me so much—dreams were just dreams, weren’t they?
“Just a dream,” I said, forcing a smile that felt thin. “You’re safe, Eryl. The school’s fine. Try to sleep now.” I leaned down, kissing her forehead, her skin warm against my lips. But as I switched off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness, her words clung to me like damp cloth. Something black. I shook my head, telling myself it was nothing, just a child’s imagination running wild.
It was October 20, 1966, in our little village of Aberfan, nestled in the Welsh valleys. The coal mine was the heart of our world, its rhythm dictating our days. Miners like my husband, John, went down into the earth each morning, while the rest of us—wives, mothers, shopkeepers—kept the village humming. Above us, on the hills, loomed the spoil tips, great mounds of coal waste from the mine. They’d been there as long as I could remember, hulking and silent, part of the landscape. But lately, I’d heard whispers at the butcher’s or the school gate. “Those tips are too close,” Mrs. Evans had said last week, her voice low as she glanced at the hills. “They don’t feel right.” Others brushed it off, saying the National Coal Board checked them, that they were safe. I wanted to believe that, needed to.
The next morning, I stood at the stove, stirring porridge while Eryl Mai sat at the kitchen table, her spoon poking at her bowl. She was quieter than usual, her plaits loose from sleep, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth’s faded flowers. John, already in his miner’s jacket, his helmet tucked under his arm, gulped his tea. I hesitated, then mentioned Eryl’s dream, hoping he’d make it feel small. “She said something black covered the school,” I said, keeping my tone light, though my stomach twisted saying it aloud.
John paused, his mug halfway to his mouth, then gave a small chuckle. “Kids and their imaginations, eh?” He glanced at Eryl, who didn’t look up. “The NCB checks those tips. They’ve been there years, love. Nothing’s coming down.” He reached over, ruffling Eryl’s hair. “You’ll be fine at school, won’t you, cariad?”
She nodded, but her lips stayed pressed together, her eyes still on her bowl. I watched her, a knot forming in my chest. “Maybe she should stay home today,” I said, almost to myself, my hands gripping the dishcloth tighter than I meant.
John shook his head, standing to grab his lunch tin. “Don’t fuss. She’s got lessons—spelling test today, isn’t it, Eryl? Can’t miss that over a dream.” He leaned down, kissing her cheek, then mine, his stubble rough against my skin. “I’ll see you tonight.” His boots echoed on the linoleum as he left, the door clicking shut behind him.
I looked at Eryl, still poking at her porridge. “You feeling all right, love?” I asked, sitting across from her.
She shrugged, her voice small. “I don’t want to go to school today.”
My heart skipped, but I pushed it down. “You’ll be fine once you’re there. Your friends will be waiting—Bethan and all the others.” I stood, clearing her bowl, trying to sound cheerful. “Come on, let’s get your coat.”
We walked to Pantglas Junior School, her small hand in mine, her schoolbag bouncing against her back. The village was alive—kids shouting, running ahead, their laughter mixing with the clatter of milk bottles outside doors. Mothers stood in clusters, some chatting, some hurrying off. At the school gate, I met Mrs. Thomas, her son David tugging at her hand. “Morning,” she said, but her eyes flicked up to the tips, dark against the hill. “They look closer today, don’t they? Bigger, somehow.”
I laughed, though it sounded hollow. “You sound like Eryl. She had a bad dream about the school—something about it being covered in black.”
Mrs. Thomas’s face tightened, her grip on David’s hand tightening too. “Funny you say that. David woke up crying last night, said he didn’t want to go to school. Kept talking about something falling.” She shook her head, like she was trying to shake the thought away. “Probably nothing.”
We stood there, watching the children stream through the gate, their voices bright and chaotic. Eryl lingered beside me, her hand still in mine. “Can I stay with you?” she asked, so quiet I almost missed it.
I knelt, looking into her eyes, those same wide eyes from last night. For a moment, I wanted to say yes, to turn around and take her home. But the bell rang, sharp and insistent, and the other mothers were waving their kids inside. “You’ll be fine, love,” I said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Go on, Bethan’s waiting.” She nodded slowly, then slipped through the gate, her red coat disappearing into the crowd of children.
Back home, I threw myself into chores, scrubbing pots, sweeping the floor, anything to keep my hands busy. But Eryl’s words kept creeping back. Something black came down all over it. I tried to laugh it off—silly, really, letting a dream get to me. But every time I passed the window, my eyes drifted to the tips, their dark shapes looming on the hill. They’d always been there, hadn’t they? Solid, unmoving. The NCB said they were safe. John said so too. Still, my hands shook as I hung the washing, the pegs slipping from my fingers.
By mid-morning, the knot in my chest had grown, a heavy, gnawing thing. I stepped outside, wiping my hands on my apron, and stared at the hills. The tips stood there, silent, massive, like they were watching. I thought of Eryl, sitting at her desk, maybe writing her spelling test. I thought of her dream. My feet itched to move, to go to the school, to check on her. But what would I say? That I was pulling her out because of a dream? The other mothers would think I’d lost my mind.
Then it came. A low rumble, deep and wrong, like the earth itself was groaning. The ground trembled under my feet, a faint vibration that made my teacup rattle on the table inside. I froze, my breath catching, as the sound grew—a deafening roar, like a train bearing down. I ran to the door, my heart slamming against my ribs, and looked up. From the hill, a black wave was moving, fast, unstoppable, a thick mass of slurry sliding toward the village. Toward the school.
“No,” I gasped, my legs moving before my mind caught up. I ran, my shoes slipping on the pavement, joining others—mothers, fathers, neighbors—all running toward Pantglas. Screams pierced the air, mixing with the horrible grinding of the slurry as it tore through houses, swallowing everything in its path. My lungs burned, my voice raw as I screamed, “Eryl!”
When I reached the school, it was gone. Where the neat brick building had stood was a sea of black mud, thick and suffocating, dotted with broken desks, books, shards of glass. People were everywhere, shouting, digging with their hands, shovels, anything they could find. I stumbled forward, my hands sinking into the cold, wet muck, clawing at it. “Eryl!” I screamed, my voice breaking. “Where are you?”
Mr. Davies, a neighbor, grabbed my arm, his face streaked with dirt. “We’ll find her,” he said, his voice shaking, his own hands trembling as he dug. “We’ll get them out.” But his eyes were wide, panicked, and I knew he was saying it as much for himself as for me.
Hours dragged on, endless, blurred. Rescuers arrived—miners from the pit, police, volunteers from nearby villages. They worked in a frenzy, pulling children from the debris. Some were alive, coughing, crying, their faces smeared with black. Others were still, too still, their small bodies carried away on stretchers. I stood frozen, my hands caked with mud, my eyes scanning for Eryl’s red coat, her dark plaits, anything. Every shout from the rescuers made my heart leap, then crash when it wasn’t her.
Mrs. Thomas found me, her face pale, tears cutting tracks through the dirt on her cheeks. She grabbed my hand, squeezing hard. “They’ll find her,” she said, her voice breaking. “They have to.” But her eyes darted to the growing pile of blankets covering small shapes, and I knew she didn’t believe it. Her David was still missing too.
It was late, the sky darkening, when a rescuer called out. “Here! We’ve got another!” My heart lurched, and I pushed through the crowd, my legs weak. A man, his face grim, knelt in the mud, gently lifting a small figure. It was Eryl, her red coat dulled with sludge, her plaits matted against her pale face. I fell to my knees beside her, a sob tearing through me. “Eryl,” I whispered, touching her cold hand, her fingers limp in mine. “Oh, love, I’m sorry. I should’ve listened.”
They carried her away, and I sat there, the world hollow around me. The rescuers kept working, their shouts and the clatter of shovels fading into a dull hum. I don’t know how long I stayed, staring at the mud, seeing her face in every shadow.
That night, in our silent house, I sat in Eryl’s room, holding her stuffed rabbit. Its fur smelled like her, like soap and sleep. Her dream had come true, exactly as she’d said, and I hadn’t stopped it. I kept seeing her at breakfast, her quiet voice, her plea to stay home. I’d sent her to school, believing it was nothing, believing the tips were safe. The guilt was a weight, heavier than any coal tip, crushing me from the inside.
The village changed after that day. We buried our children, our neighbors, our futures. The tips were cleared, laws were passed, but none of it brought Eryl back. Every night, I hear her voice, small and scared, telling me about the black that would come. And every night, I live it again—the moment I let her go, the moment I didn’t listen to her dream.
"The Fifth Night" :
I’ve always thought dreams were just my brain tossing around random thoughts, like a jumbled scrapbook of the day. But after what happened a few weeks ago, I’m not so sure anymore. It started with a dream so vivid, so real, it felt like I was trapped in it. And soon, it turned my quiet, predictable life into a creeping nightmare that clung to me like a shadow I couldn’t shake.
I’m a nurse at St. Mary’s Hospital, and I often work late shifts, sometimes until the early hours. One night, after a grueling 12-hour shift, I dragged myself home, my legs heavy and my eyes burning from exhaustion. I live in a small apartment complex on the edge of town, a brick building with a parking lot out back, surrounded by tall, overgrown hedges that block out most of the streetlights. That night, I collapsed into bed without even changing out of my scrubs. As soon as I closed my eyes, the dream hit me.
In it, I was walking through the parking lot toward my building. The air was thick, and the only sounds were my sneakers crunching on the gravel and my own uneven breathing. I clutched my keys, their jagged edges digging into my palm. Then I heard it—footsteps behind me, soft but deliberate, matching my pace like an echo. I stopped, heart pounding, and turned, but the lot was empty, just shadows swaying in the dim glow of a flickering streetlight. I kept walking, faster now, my bag bouncing against my hip. The footsteps followed, closer. I fumbled with my keys, and they slipped, clattering to the ground. As I bent to pick them up, a shadow loomed over me, tall and silent. Hands grabbed my shoulders, rough and strong, pinning me in place. I screamed, and the sound jolted me awake, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst. I could still feel the phantom grip on my arms, the cold metal of my keys in my hand. And in the dream, my car radio, parked nearby, was playing “Moonlight Road,” an old jazz tune I hadn’t heard since my college days, its mournful saxophone cutting through the silence.
I sat up in bed, my scrubs damp with sweat, and checked the clock: 3:17 a.m. I told myself it was just stress—long shifts, too much coffee, not enough sleep. But the dream felt different, like it was trying to tell me something. I got up, double-checked my apartment door’s deadbolt, and tried to shake it off. By morning, I’d convinced myself it was nothing.
But the dream came back the next night. Same parking lot, same footsteps, same shadow. The details were sharper now—the faint smell of cigarette smoke in the air, the way the hedges rustled as I passed, the flicker of the streetlight casting jagged shadows on the pavement. Each night, it ended the same way: the hands grabbing me, my scream, and waking up gasping. By the fifth night, I was dreading sleep. I started leaving the TV on low, hoping the background noise would drown out the dreams, but it didn’t help.
I told my coworker Jenna about it during our lunch break in the hospital cafeteria. The room was buzzing with the clatter of trays and the hum of tired voices. “That’s creepy,” she said, stirring sugar into her coffee, her scrubs wrinkled from a long shift. “But it’s probably just your brain working overtime. You’ve been pulling doubles all week.”
“I know,” I said, picking at my sandwich. “But it’s the same dream every night. It feels so real, like I’m actually there. I can smell the smoke, hear the gravel.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Smoke? That’s specific. Maybe you’re picking up on something from work, like a patient or something.”
“Maybe,” I said, but I wasn’t convinced. “It feels like a warning.”
Jenna leaned forward, her voice softening. “Look, you’re exhausted. Try parking closer to the building for a while. And maybe take a day off. You’re scaring yourself.”
I nodded, but the unease stayed with me. That afternoon, I started parking under the streetlight near the entrance, where the lot was brighter and the hedges farther away. I checked my car’s locks twice before heading inside, and I bought a small can of pepper spray to keep in my bag, just in case. But the dreams kept coming, relentless, each one more vivid than the last.
Last Tuesday, I had to work a double shift—16 hours straight, my feet aching and my head foggy. It was past 1 a.m. when I finally left the hospital. As I pulled into the parking lot, my stomach twisted into a knot. The streetlight was flickering, just like in my dream, casting unsteady shadows across the gravel. I parked as close to the building as I could, under the light, but the lot felt wrong—too quiet, too dark. I grabbed my bag, my pepper spray tucked inside, and started walking, my keys gripped tightly. Every step echoed in my ears, and I kept glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see someone.
Then I heard it—crunch, crunch, crunch. Footsteps on the gravel, slow and steady, just behind me. My breath caught, and I walked faster, my pulse roaring in my ears. The footsteps kept pace. I spun around, heart in my throat, but the lot was empty, just the hedges and the flickering light. “You’re imagining it,” I whispered to myself, but my hands were shaking. I kept moving, almost jogging now, my bag slapping against my side. My keys slipped from my sweaty fingers and hit the ground with a sharp clink. As I bent to grab them, I smelled it—cigarette smoke, faint but sharp, cutting through the night air. My dream flashed in my mind: the shadow, the hands, the scream. I snatched my keys and sprinted to the building, my fingers fumbling with the lock until I was inside. I slammed the door shut and leaned against it, gasping. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I nearly dropped it. A text from an unknown number: “Careful where you step.” My knees went weak, and I slid to the floor, clutching my phone.
The next morning, I called Jenna before my shift. “Something happened last night,” I said, my voice shaky as I paced my apartment. I told her about the footsteps, the smoke, the text. “It was exactly like my dream.”
“That’s not just creepy, that’s terrifying,” she said, her voice tight. “You need to call the police. Like, now.”
“I don’t have proof,” I said, staring out my window at the parking lot. “Just a text and a bad feeling.”
“Get a dash cam for your car,” she said. “They’re cheap, and it’ll record anything weird. And don’t go out there alone at night until this is figured out.”
I bought a dash cam that day and had it installed by Friday. The dreams didn’t stop, but they changed. Now, when the hands grabbed me, I saw a face—my ex, Ryan. We’d dated for a few months last year, but he got too intense, always wanting to know where I was, who I was with. I broke it off, but he didn’t let go easily. He’d send texts late at night, show up at the coffee shop I liked, even leave notes on my car. I thought he’d moved on, but now I wasn’t sure. In the dream, his face was cold, his eyes glinting with something dark as he watched me struggle.
On Sunday, I worked another late shift. I was on edge, checking the lot before I even got out of my car. The dash cam was running, its red light blinking steadily. I parked under the streetlight, my pepper spray in one hand, keys in the other. As I walked, the gravel crunched under my feet, and I held my breath, listening. Then it came again—crunch, crunch, crunch, closer this time, like someone was just behind the hedges. I didn’t look back. I ran, my keys jangling as I unlocked the door and threw myself inside. My phone buzzed as I locked the door: “Getting faster, aren’t you?” I called the police right then, my hands shaking so badly I could barely dial.
An officer showed up within the hour, a tall man with a calm voice. “Start from the beginning,” he said, pulling out a notepad.
I told him everything—the dreams, the footsteps, the smell of smoke, the texts, and my suspicions about Ryan. “He used to smoke,” I said, showing him the texts from unknown numbers. “And he’s been following me before. I thought he stopped.”
The officer nodded, his pen scratching across the page. “Do you have any other evidence? Security cameras, anything like that?”
“My dash cam,” I said. “I got it a few days ago. It might have caught something.”
“Perfect,” he said. “We’ll need the footage.”
I handed over the memory card, my hands still trembling. The next afternoon, they called me to the station. They’d reviewed the footage and saw a man in a hoodie following me across the lot, staying just out of the streetlight’s glow. The image was grainy, but the height and build matched Ryan. They also traced the texts to a burner phone he’d bought at a gas station. When they brought him in, he broke down, admitting he’d been following me for weeks, waiting in the lot to “talk.” He said he just wanted to scare me, to make me need him again. But the police found a knife in his car, tucked under the front seat, and they charged him with stalking and intent to harm.
The dreams are less frequent now, but they still come sometimes, waking me with that same choking fear. I park under the streetlight every night, check my dash cam, and keep my pepper spray close. I don’t know why I dreamed about the attack before it happened. Maybe my brain picked up on Ryan’s texts, the way he’d been lurking, things I didn’t consciously notice. Maybe it was just a coincidence. But every time I hear “Moonlight Road” on the radio, I turn it off, my heart racing, just in case.
Tags:
Story