While not food related at all, I’ve been having vivid dreams lately and I decided to share one with you.  So, grab a nice cup of tea and enjoy…

Last night, I dreamt that I lived in a remote section of woods, somewhere in Northern Maine, near the ocean.  A group of people – separatists and religious fanatics – built a large communal house on top of a steep hill, on an island near the edge of a forest.

The house was beautiful.  Made from old cobblestones and brick they collected from early 18th century ruins from around New England, the house featured 20 bedrooms, a huge two-story communal kitchen (the kitchen alone was larger than most homes) with wood stoves and multiple fireplaces.  In fact, there were nearly twelve chimneys throughout the whole house.  They built a large communal courtyard facing the ocean where they held group meetings, prayer sessions and their children played games.  They did not incorporate electricity, running water or any modern conveniences into the home at all. These people lived a rustic and religious lifestyle.

No one had ever visited the Island.  We could see it from afar when hiking through the woods or sailing by in a boat, but these people wanted complete isolation from the rest of the world and made it clear that outsiders were not welcome.

Sometimes, we would see them, dressed in puritan-like outfits, singing and dancing in a large circle in their courtyard.  Occasionally, faint chanting could be heard through the woods — chanting that sent chills up your spine.

The house looked like it was too tall for its foundation and that it would topple over in a wind gust.  By just looking at it, the house felt creepy.  It left you with a feeling in the pit of your gut that made you want to run far away.

For years, these people lived their lives on their island in tandem to ours.  One day, a young girl came into town.  Dressed in a white bonnet, and grey dress with a white apron, she looked like a ghost stepping out of time. 

“Are you okay miss?” I asked, leaving the comfort of our warm town café to greet her and bring her in out of the cold.

All the townsfolk gathered near the windows of their shops and homes and began to whisper.

“Is there somewhere I can stay?” she asked nervously.

I lead her inside the café, sat her down and brought her a cup of tea. Everyone gathered around her as I sat in the booth across and asked her what was wrong.

“Everyone’s gone.”  She said.  “There is no one left but me.”

She drank her tea quietly. 

“What’s your name?”  I asked.

She answered me but for some reason, her name escaped me from the moment she said it. I couldn’t remember it.  It was gone.

If felt like an eternity until the sheriff arrived, although only five minutes had passed. The Sherriff began to talk with the girl.

“You say they’re gone, where did they go?” he questioned.

“It is not safe there.  I can’t go back,” she informed him.

“Did someone hurt them?” he asked.

“No”

“Did they leave the Island?” he continued.  “Did they travel by boat or foot?”

“No sir.  I don’t know.  They are just gone,” she retorted in a blank, matter of fact tone while she sipped her tea.

The Sherriff – a burly, practical man — contacted the coast guard and they visited the island while we sat with the otherwise quiet and hollow looking girl.

Molly, the waitress, took over caring for the girl.  I put on a pair of hiking boots and made my way through the woods.  I climbed up to the top of the mountain peak just across from the island, where I could watch the investigation.

The coast guard’s big red helicopter hovered over the tiny island like a dragon while boats encircled the empty compound.  The island looked deserted. As though everyone had picked up and gone a hundred years ago.  The house leaned on an extreme angle to the right.  It looked swollen, bloated, as thought it would fall straight into the ocean at any moment. 

The police and coast guard searched for about three hours, then turned their air and water craft around and left.  

I made my way back to town and met the Sherriff at the police station.  He looked at me and shook his head.

“There’s nothing there,” he uttered.  “No one has lived in that place for ages.”

He abruptly turned and left.

Several days passed.  Life in our little town went on as usual.   The girl stayed in a small room above the café as Molly’s border.  But, the curiosity of the house sat, unsettled in everyone’s mind. 

My family, along with others, decided to take a boat over to the island to check it out.  We touched ground in the large courtyard.  They hung volleyball net off to the side.  There were various woodsheds and tool sheds throughout the perimeters of the property, and to our right, we found a large stone staircase leading up to the house.  Next to it, we found a door that brought us into a storage facility.  The builders of the structure hollowed out the inside of this massive rock to create a series of passages and storage chambers.  There were no windows, just tunnels t traveling through the belly of the rock into the main house.

My Aunt, uncle and two cousins took the steps up to the main house, while my mother and brother stayed outside.  My cousin Michele and I braved the inner chambers of this old house and studied their belongings.  We felt like ungracious guests snooping in our host’s closets as we fascinatingly explored the stores of canned preserves, dried fish, and root vegetables. 

The tunnels emerged into a large stone pantry that made up the first floor of the communal kitchen.  It had several old fireplaces, a door to the outside, and the base of a grand wooden spiral staircase leading to a second floor.   At the top of the stairs, we found ourselves in an old galley, with pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, large wooden work surfaces that could accommodate many cooks, three separate woodstoves and two fireplaces with shelving for pots and bar for rotisserie.

The air inside the house tasted stagnant.  Dust blanketed every crevice.  We felt a quiet malevolence all around us as if the house barely tolerated our presence.

To the left of the kitchen, we found a large sitting room, with various games and sitting areas.  Next, we found a prayer room, with pews and a pulpit.  Behind the pulpit, we saw a large stone picture window facing out into the ocean.  The water looked rough, choppy.  The wind blew wisps against the sea, creating tufts of white waves and spray that scratched against the windows of the old stone house.

We headed toward the bedrooms when we realized that no one else traveled with us.  We couldn’t find anyone else around at all.  We began calling for the others,

“Mom?” I shouted. “Marilyn? Where are you?”

We quickly made our way through the bedrooms.  We found old clothes in the closets. Each bed was made with handmade quilts and comforters but everything looked grey.  The color washed out of all the materials in all the rooms we found, as though the house sucked the colors from the cloth.

Our tensions mounted.  Michele and I could not help but feel as though we were alone on the island.  Where did our family go?  We looked out the windows to find our boat still there, but no people to be found, anywhere.

We noticed the floor shifting underneath us, like a beast grumbling.  Something was definitely wrong.  We were in danger.  We felt like the house itself wanted to swallow us whole.

“Mom!”  I called “Michael, where are you?” 

Somehow, calling their names kept the house at bay.  Now running through the hallways, trying to get out, Michele and I stopped breathlessly in the prayer room.

“I think we can get out through the kitchen,” I gasped.  “I remember a door there.”

“Okay,” Michele nodded.

I glanced down on the pulpit and noticed a parchment with a list of names. 

“Wait a minute,” I said.  “I think this is the list of the names of everyone that lived here.  Most of the list looks water damaged, but I think I can call out some of the names,” I explained to a frightened Michele.

“Michael Anderson, Lonny Williams Purdy Nickols…”  I went pale. “Purdy Nickols was the name of the girl in the café.” The color left my face.  And then, there, in front of me, amongst the list of residents were my own family’s names. 

I suddenly realized, “Michele, this house takes inventory of everyone that enters it.  It tries to claim and consume them,” Michele’s fear turned to terror. 

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“Run!”  We began to run down the stairs toward the pantry.  Michele made her way out first.  I stood there, at the threshold of the doorway and with my pocketknife, cut out the names of my family from the list.  Cutting through the paper felt like trying to cut through leather, as though I were breaking a deeper blood tie. 

I forced my way through the paper cutting and ripping with my blade until I severed -my family’s names from the remaining parchment, and left the rest of the parchment behind.  I stepped outside the doorway.  At that moment, the house began to collapse. 

I ran down the stairway,  and glanced out at our boat.   I saw my family safely standing in the courtyard called to me to get out, quickly.

We watched as the house caved in upon itself.  Big chunks of rock fell into the ocean, leaving nothing left standing except the foundation.

My family and I got back into our boat and sailed away, leaving the island behind in ruin.  Then I woke up.