Making a Nightmare

This day’s been face masks, wildfire smoke, boredom and isolation. Night time is arrived and a certain loneliness encases me beneath the covers.

My wife’s already sleeping. I cannot.

Quietly, gently, I climb from bed, dress, slip out the door, into my truck, pulling from our drive. To the Truckee River I head, to a place known to be very ancient.

A place I visit often, especially when seeking refuge from my mind. The Court of Antiquity.

East on Interstate 80, beyond Sparks, beyond city lights, hidden in plain sight of the freeway. I slow to the road side, back into the ramp, now gated, barring vehicles.

Around the gate, down the ramp, I walk. But I am halted in my steps as a shrill scream pierces my soul.

My blood runs cold, body grows chilled, sweat breaks over my skin. I watch into the darkness, right hand palming the butt of my pistol.

My legs refuse to move, feet struck to the ground. Only my right arm moves, guiding that hand to the pocket of my jeans, for truck keys.

Nothing more’s heard other than cars, trucks, and 18- wheeler after 18-wheeler speeding 15-feet above and to the right. Not one occupant knows the primal drama  playing out below.

“A cougar, perhaps a panther.”

My courage rebuilds and I begin forward, that scream echoes again. The moon suddenly breaks through it’s smoky portière.

A wisp of white, moving, floating, that I catch sight of. A translucent body.

Fear becomes blind panic. I run back to my truck.

I’ve forgotten the gate, hit it with such force that I flip head first over, landing on my left shoulder, banging my head on the metal bottom.

No time for pain, I scramble to my feet, open my truck’s door, get in and lock it, fumble with the ignition, and drive away. That scream, that ghostly figure will haunt my dreams if I’m able to sleep.