The Hell Butterfly

I Love My Weird Ill Dreams

Since just before Christmas my family have all, at some point or another, been quite violently ill. My Mum’s coughs were so harsh she was forced to vomit every other day. I then got a brief but brutal stomach bug that had me up vomiting all night. This same bug then got my sister two days later. But while this illness was swift and effective, we have all fallen victim to the more persistant slow burner – the chesty cough. What began as a sore throat became a mild cough. This developed into a harsh rattling cough that made me lose my voice, and I am now at the stage where my lungs physically ache. It hurts to lie down, and this has made sleep very hard. Breathing is difficult and so my brain is not entirely relaxed when I finally drop off. But I’m okay with that so long as it lets me sleep. And last night, not only did I manage to sleep, but my far-from-relaxed brain gave me some weird and wonderful dreams.

I am in a library. all the shelves are a luxurious orange-brown, polished. The books, too, are of a rich brown colour, leatherbound no doubt. From my angle the room is an ‘L’ shape. I am standing along the base and at the top of the line is a set of glass doors. I see my friends outside. Among my ‘friends’ is one recognisable face, though the others I adam_bartonquickly forget: the face I recognise is Adam Barton from Emmerdale. But I am getting ahead of myself, I have not actually noticed this yet. I am just about to figure out why I am in a library when a half-naked Native American Girl in full headdress, loin-cloth and carrying a spear appeares before me. Suddenly my chest feels as though a force is crushing my lungs. She is no ordinary human, but a Shaman type, a magical apparition if you will. I fall to my knees. My hand clutches my chest. She speaks,

“You are to be mine.” The voice is not young, nor entirely audible. It is a genderless voice, echoing off the walls, reverberating in three different eerie whispers. “You will hereby belong to me. But first you must complete the tasks. First, you must kill for me. You will be affected as appropriate by the last song you heard, and then you will begin.” Her last words are inaudible as, at that moment, Adam Barton has noticed my pain and is running through the doors to come to my aid. I do not hear what he says either. I only see him crouch beside me, lips forming words I will never know, and then I am running. I am low to the ground, across a road, through a city centre in seconds and then I slow to a walk.

It is here, crawling along the pavement that I realise what she has said: “You will be affected as appropriate by the last song you heard.” According to my Dream Knowledge, the last song I listened to was Hungry Like the Wolf by Duran Duran. Now I understand. The Shaman girl has turned me into a werewolf. Somehow I know I still look human, people on the street opposite watch me with trepidation. I scare them. I can hear myself growl, feel it even; it rattles in my chest like a motor. I admit I feel powerful. I am the predator. I feel the teeth with my tongue, they are sharp and taste like blood. I feel it running from my lips, down my chin, hot and delectable. My arms and legs move under me. Wherever I am, I have begun the hunt. My shoulder blades roll under my skin as I lower myself to the ground and stalk forward. My muscles are strong and I feel the animalistic ecstacy of being alive and being a killer.

Then I see them. Two menFinn Barton Cover Photo looking for me. Somehow I know they were my friends. There is a recognisable feeling of happiness, that indescribable connection between two close companions. I only recognise, or at least only remember, one of the two men: Finn Barton, also Emmerdale. Apparently I have some form of connection with the family, yet I feel closer to Finn than to Adam. Something about him feels stronger than for Adam: Finn cares for my safety in a way I didn’t feel when I saw Adam. Finn and the other man have spotted me. They are below me, further down the hill. They know I must be stopped, but they won’t shoot, won’t harm me in any way. Dream Knowledge tells me they are smart but humane and will try and find a way to turn me back, break the Shaman’s curse before I kill someone. The blood on my mouth must mean I have injured somebody, but they are still alive. I can tell Finn has hope. But this does not change anything: I am a werewolf and my instinct is to kill. In this moment, the only thing I know is the hunt, and he has justtumblr_mdrbdeJkaT1re1unjo4_250 become my prey.

My limbs ripple with the sudden energy I need to sprint at him. For a moment, Finn looks scared, but then I see resolve in his eyes. I do not seem surprised by his reaction, such is the closeness of our friendship, but as I lunge for him, mouth wide to pierce his jugular with my pearly whites he changes. In a split second I see him lower his centre of gravity, raise his arms and bare his own fangs. He too is a wolf. Yet he is not a wolf like me. I am a werewolf, but he is of the Fae wolf shifters. Essentially, he is of the same species as Dyson from Lost Girl. I feel my body connect with Finn’s and then all goes black.

When I come to I am motionless on the ground. I am covered in blood, though whose blood I do not yet know. The world is the wrong way around, I am too exhausted to turn my hed and thus I see everything from the wrong angle. Across the road, on a grassy bank, Finn and the other man are digging furiously and loose soil tumbles to the pavement below. They are frantic and some of their words float down to me.

“We must find the bones … only hope … she’s looking for them … change her back.”

Once again aided by Dream Knowledge I can understand the conversation. While some part of me belived it was I who was seeking the bones, I feel perhaps it was my weak state that had me misunderstanding the pronoun ‘shtumblr_mwlzehhVZS1qafea7o3_r1_500e’. It was, in fact, the Shaman girl who was seeking the bones They were hers. Just as Sam and Deam would have done in Supernatural, Finn and the other man were digging up the Shaman girl’s bones in order to salt and burn them. This would destroy her spirit and break the curse she had placed on me. She would no longer claim my soul and I would transform back into my human form. If I had have killed anybody before they could break the connection I would potentially have remained that way forever, a werewolf whose soul was owned by the spirit of an evil Shaman. Finn had activated his wolf in order to disable me. Now I felt the throbbing in my neck. He had imitated my attack but was quicker on the draw and more masterful in his technique. He had pierced my neck deep enough to stop my attack, but not enough to kill me. He had merely made me too weak to pursue the hunt.

I did not see the flames, nor hear the Shaman’s screams as her spirit was incinerated. I did not see them re-bury the bones. After hearing the snippets of conversation I had passed out again and when I awoke once more it was to see Finn cradling me in his lap. He was holding my neck to stop the bleeding and attempting to keep me awake. I remember beginning to feel the fear of death. It was this that tipped me off first to the fact I was human again. My vision was blurry from fatigue and tears, then I think I whispered his name. As the werewolf I had recognised him by the sentimental connection only, but now I was human again I knew his name. He assured me I was safe and I felt it. A few seconds later I woke up.

Up until now there have been only two things which I know give me odd dreams: white chocolate and illness. While white chocolate tends to give me extremely vivid nightmares, illness tends to make things just a little bit wacky. Not bad, just wacky. Last night’s was a gem among dreams. In fact, I enjoyed the premise of it so much I’m tempted to turn it into a short story. Perhaps a piece of Supernatural/Lost Girl/Emmerdale crossover fan-fiction. At least I know nobody would have written anything like it. You can’t make this stuff up.

What was the last weirdly wonderful dream you had? Is there anything that triggers your strange dreams?

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