The Tower upon the Lake
I write stories out of the bad dreams that I have. This is a story based on a dream that I had around 2008.
Riding down the hill, it appeared as though the forest was ablaze as the dwindling sunlight fell on the autumn leaves. At some distance, he could see the lake, placid and shimmering.
He made his way towards the lake, going off the beaten trail. Twigs and dried leaves crackled under his bicycle as he made his way down the muddy soil. The forest grew quieter the closer he drew to the lake; there were no birds chirping, nor any other creature in sight.
He dismounted close to the edge of the lake and rested his back against a tree. Looking on towards the island at the centre, he noticed something that he hadn’t seen before; not in any map or picture of the forest: rising just above the crimson and yellow trees was a tower, built of dark weathered stone and devoid of any windows.
He stood up and walked around the edge to get a better look but it was barely visible.
The sun was now behind the canopy of trees and it wouldn’t be long till nightfall.
He removed his shirt and shoes and took a step in the lake and gasped; the water was ice cold. He waded in, ripples spreading slowly across the lake and then he swam towards the island.
He climbed out on the other side, shivering violently, his teeth chattering. The woods were dense here. He made his way quickly towards the tower. There was no path that led to it, the building simply erupted from the ground.
He arrived at a pair of ancient wooden doors with black knockers. a faint golden light shone through the gap. Seeking warmth, he pushed the door. It opened with a loud, ominous, metallic groan. Had there been any birds in the adjacent trees, they would have flown away - but there was no sign of life on this island but himself.
The door opened to a stone hall, the floor covered with a thick layer of dust. His eyes were immediately drawn to a tapestry that hung at the centre: strands of golden silk stretched from the top to the tower right down to the floor. The strands were woven together to form images and writing in a cryptic language. The tapestry billowed hypnotically, illuminated from the faint light that shone through the gaps in the ceiling.
He walked towards it, unable to look anywhere else and was able to recognise the images: illustrations of men with spears hunting a giant creature of some kind, illustrations of men throwing wood into a giant fire. His eyes continued to move upwards until they reached the top of the tapestry and that’s when they widened in horror.
Hanging from the ceiling and spanning its entire size was the largest spider he’d ever seen, covered in white and grey hair and all eight eyes fixated on his slow retreat.
He fell backward and found that he could no longer get back up; his legs and arms were stuck to translucent strands that were hidden in the floor. He writhed and struggled to break free, but there was no hope! He looked back up to see the spider slowly crawling down the side of a wall.
He could no longer move his neck. He was paralysed. He could see the moon through the rafts from where the spider had hung. The view was soon obstructed by the sight of two giant pincers clicking excitedly. Then, in unison, they struck.
As the last light of the sun disappeared so too his life.
So, one thing that I like to do is to try to figure out which events in my real life inspired a dream.
I believe this story draws from back when I lived in Kuwait. I used to ride my bike in the evening, looking for abandoned houses. Once I’d find one and ascertained that they really were empty (yeah, some people like the abandoned house look, I guess), I used to sneak inside.
I’d try to picture the family that lived in the house based on the things they’d left behind: toys, posters on the wall. I’d even found a diary at one point, though it was in Arabic, and I couldn’t really understand it.
As for the golden tapestry made out of spider silk, I’m pretty sure I saw a documentary about a museum where small tapestries made out of spider silk are on display.
In my dream, those small tapestries were on display all along the walls of the tower, and I was amazed at how beautiful they were. When I saw the giant tapestry hanging in the centre, I thought, ‘Wow, I wonder who the artist is,’ and then my heart began to beat out of my chest as it suddenly dawned on me that this museum and all of its artwork was a trap; the spider was right behind me! That’s when I woke up.
