Interloper

I'm sitting in my living room enjoying a pipe and a fire, and there's a knock on my door. I was startled at first, and thought for a moment that it may have been an auditory hallucination. I folded my paper and listened more intently. Surely enough someone was rapping at my front door. I was a bit unnerved but more so curious. I was not expecting any manner of company and it was past most Jehovah's Witnesses bedtimes. I put on my slippers and tied my robe around me tighter and approached the front door. "Coming, I'm coming," I yelled at the door as another series of slow patient knocks struck the wood. I undid the lock and turned the knob to behold one of the most bizarre sights I've ever laid eyes on.

A rather short man, wearing a black top hat along with an immaculate set of formal evening-wear, stood smiling on my doorstep. He wore a small black bow-tie at the top of his white dress shirt and he leaned forward on a black cane with a gold orb at the top, and he was peering at me – I assumed - through a pair of very dark crimson pince-nez glasses. Black gloves clung smartly to his hands and when I had scrutinized him fully he tugged playfully at the corner his Salvador Dali-esque mustache. "Greetings," he expressed warmly, "allow me to introduce myself. I am the one who has been stealing your dreams."

"Excuse me?" I said a bit taken back.

"Yes, I regret to inform you that I am the one who has been stealing your dreams. May I come in? It's dreadfully cold out here and I would love to warm my chilled bones."

"Uhhh," I stalled, forced to consider an extremely odd situation in a small amount of time. He seemed completely benign in appearance and manner, so despite my better judgment I took a long draw on my pipe with squinted eyes and let him in. He walked through the entryway with his cane tucked under his right arm and he hung his hat on one of the coat hooks near the door. His hair black hair was neatly brushed to the sides and top of his head.

"Oh thank you ever so much, I've been out a long while tonight. Do you have any tea, perchance? I have many miles before I sleep, and would love a cup of tea."

Who was this sharply dressed intruder, and why was he demanding shelter and tea? Most perturbing of all, why did he claim to be stealing my dreams?

"Yes... Of course. I'm afraid I haven't a large selection of tea. Do you have a preference?"

"Any will do thank you, any will do."

I led him into the living room and beckoned him to take a seat in a high backed chair near the fire across the one I was interrupted in earlier in the evening. He seemed content to rest in the chair, so I politely told him the tea would only be a minute. I went into my kitchen, rifled through a few cupboards and produced a white coffee mug and a black coffee mug, both of which I filled with water and put in the microwave for three minutes. During this brief interlude I walked back into the living room to make sure my curious guest was comfortable, and not pilfering all the valuables in my home. He was sitting in his chair with one leg crossed over the other and beamed at me when I walked into the doorway. "The tea will be ready soon. Do you need any sugar or anything with it?" I asked. He politely declined and bid me to take my time.

I spent the remaining time alone in the kitchen stewing about why I was doing any of this, and why I hadn't ushered him away from my doorstep with a broom just minutes ago. The obnoxious beeping of my microwave stirred me from my reverie and I brought the two cups into the living room on small matching plates with tea bags on each one. He thanked me profusely and took the black mug. He set his tea bag in his mug and I watched him tie the string on the bag around the top of the mug handle as he placed it into his tea.

I sat down opposite of him, placed my tea bag in my cup, and decided to get right down to business. "So you've been stealing my dreams?"

"Yes, I'm afraid to say that I have. It's nothing personal, by any means, but I have indeed been stealing them."

"All of them?" I inquired.

"No, not all of them, but some of them. Good ones, bad ones, I even stole some of your nightmares for you."

I still had no idea what this man was prattling on about. "If you were stealing my dreams, wouldn't I know about it? I've never seen you in my life... or... Sleep... I- suppose."

"Not in your life you haven't seen me, and all your dreams I've been in, I steal. I'm very good at stealing dreams."

"I don't believe you, and I think I may ask you to leave." I was becoming impatient with this interloper and was starting to be more and more convinced that he belonged in, or had escaped from, an asylum. If not for the immaculate wardrobe, and immaculate facial hair, I would have turned him out long ago.

"Please sir, I mean you no harm and do not mean to anger you, although I can see how someone would be upset about having their dreams stolen. What about that dream you had where you were in your car on the highway and you were worried you weren't going to get home in time to fix your water-heater? Do you remember that?"

"Yes... Yes I do! I had that dream days ago, how on earth did you know that?"

"Or that dream you had where you were dressed like Marlin Brando, even though you didn't look a thing like Marlin Brando - and you knew it - but you still maintained you were dressed like Marlin Brando, and at the climax you ended up killing a library full of police, only to the denouement where you got into an argument with your girlfriend when she called the lighting fixtures on the walls ‘lamps’ and you corrected her that they were ‘sconces’. "

"Good God! I had that dream weeks ago! That was ridiculous, and they certainly were sconces. The police thing was a little peculi... Wait a minute! How do you know about that?"

"I know al of your dreams, and I didn't steal that one. I know all your dreams, like that one you had where you spent a gratuitous amount of time arguing with your friend over Andrew Jackson's tenure in office. You remember those ones because I didn't steal them. Sometimes I only steal part of your dreams too."

I squinted my eyes at him like a panther does before she leaps on prey to make a kill, and puffed my pipe. "This is completely absurd."

"I'm afraid this is all true, despite how shocking it must be for you. Whenever you wake up in the morning and you don't remember what you dreamed, that's a dream I stole from you."

"What do you do with them?" I asked aghast.

"I take them back home and put them into my machine."

"What does your machine do with my dreams?" I was slowly becoming more terrified.

"It turns them into light, so we can have daytime where I live."

This comment made me stare at him blankly: as a stone faced statue I studied him painfully, carefully, looking for any hint of mischief or subterfuge on his part, but their was none to be gleaned. He just sat there untroubled as ever with a glowing smile on his face, which I felt, was starting to border on insouciance.

"So, let me get this straight. You need to steal my dreams, so the sun can rise wherever it is you live?"

"To put in layman's terms, yes."

"God in Heaven! Well, what if I don't want you to steal my dreams? Maybe I like my dreams!"

"I'm afraid that is purely out of the picture, and would have most unforeseen consequences. You don't really want to know everything you dream, do you?"

"Of course I do! I mean, what if I indeed do? What if I strike you dead where you stand? Hypothetically of course."

"I'm afraid no one would benefit from that. You really don't want to know some of the dreams you have. People are never meant to know every dream that they have."

I puffed on my pipe, and began trying wrap my mind around this while he sipped his tea and looked at the fire. The fire reflected eerily in his deep crimson glasses and his cane was held at an angle across his leg. Upon closer examination, I noticed the orb atop his cane had an intricate eyeball carved into it, and it was staring right at me. When I looked directly at it, I felt like it was staring straight into my brain. Or through the gateway of my eyes.

"I am sorry to be the bearer of this news, but it is true. People are never meant to know all of what they dream."

"Well, why the hell not?" I questioned. I was starting to feel as if I had been burgled in some grave manner, as if all my life's riches had been slowly, secretly thieved.

"Because dreams are more important to you than you realize. Where there is no sleep, there is no dream, and where there is no dream, there is no life. Your dream is all you have drank in from life, everything you have tasted, smelled, touched, heard or seen, except it's a twisted reflection of what you lived. Your mind can pick up subtle cues from this surreal interpretation and it ingrains them into your consciousness. Imagine your mind as a device that lets you learn from your mistakes and triumphs- while you sleep."

I was horrified at what this Faustian gentleman was proclaiming. I puffed my pipe wearily and took a sip on my bland tepid tea. I had completely forgot what flavor the tea was, and by now it tasted like warm paper bag water. I looked at my companion’s face, which was seemingly wry with amusement, and noticed his tea was still steaming with heat. He held his pinky out with his glistening black glove as he composedly sipped his tea. The bastard.

"That's really all well and good, but you still haven't answered my question," I grunted.

"The matter of why you can't know all your dreams? Well, to put simply, you wouldn't be the same person. You may be better, or you may be worse. I cannot judge, I merely secretly steal your dreams so I can feed them into my machine."

"Why did you come here? I honestly wouldn't believe any of this if you didn't know my dreams."

"I came here to tell you only that I have been stealing your dreams, and if you haven't been observant, will continue to steal them. I'm very sorry there's nothing you can do about it."

"But concerning what you said-- you said dreams translate into my consciousness, and if you've been stealing them... then you've been changing who I am!" I realized it as I said it and was mortified as the last words left my lips.

"I should have known you wouldn't understand. I obviously only steal the dreams I'm supposed to, so you remain who you are irrespective of my intrusions. Don't think of me as some invisible hand guiding your life; to do so would be asinine."

I noticed I was puffing an unlit pipe, so I struck a match and summed up as much equability as possible and re-lit it. I sucked on my pipe heavily and caught notice of his infernal cane- I was certain that the oculus was stealing all of my thoughts. I tried to compose myself by not thinking of anything this absurd man, or whatever he/it was, and it helped admirably.

"Very well then," I said maintaining my countenance, "I suppose I should thank you for telling me this. I guess I've always been curious as to what I dreamed of when I woke up and couldn't remember it."

"Oh! Think nothing of it," and as he said it I thought I could almost perceive a hint of withheld knowledge, as if I was at the end of a cruel cosmic jest. And as I was entertaining this farcical being in my living room, I figured that was just what it was.

"I should be thanking you for being a most gracious host: providing me with hot tea and a warm fire. I should say I feel much better, and should be able to carry on all the more miles I need travel." And with that he took a small sliver pocket watch out of his vest and gazed at it through his deep crimson glasses.

"I fear I have tarried long enough. Once more good sir, I thank you for all your benevolence."

He stood up from his chair and I stood from mine, puffing my pipe and tightening my robe. I showed him to the door, and when I opened it a gentle winter wind blew in, carrying a large amount of big fluffy snowflakes.

"Good luck on your travels," I bid him as he stepped off my porch.

"May life treat you well from here sir! May you have a goodnight --- and sleep peacefully," he called has he trod down my front walk. I thought his last words rang with dour undertones, but I dismissed it as the wind. I watched him walk down the street all the way until the winter darkness claimed him entirely.

I returned to my chair, puffed my pipe drearily and pretended to read my paper. The words merely hit my eyes and dissolved there. My thoughts were occupied with what had just happened, and whether any of it had really happened or not. I picked up my tea and a tremor of terror shook through my body when I realized I would have to take his tea mug back to the kitchen. I was deathly afraid that the horrible thing would still be piping hot when I looked at it, but thankfully it was not. I apprehensively approached the mug and nervously picked up the plate it was on. I was afraid it would burn my hand when I touched it. It was only half full of tea, and it was very dark because the tea bag was still hanging in the tea, tethered to the mug handle. Strange, I thought, the only other person I ever knew to do this was a piano teacher I had when I was very young. I took both sets of cups and placed them near the sink, and despite the early hour I was very weary. I started up the stairs, and half way up a dreadful feeling came over me. I looked down the stairs and an abhorrent sight greeted me. That insidious man had left his top hat here. The night had gone on long enough as it was, so I decided to leave the intrusive object where it was until morning.

That night I retired to a most troubled and unsettled sleep where I dreamt only... of blackness. I woke up for work in the morning and when I looked at my coat hooks, the hat had vanished.