When I was a boy, I suffered from regular nightmares. Every night — literally every single night — would bring a terrifying dream, and I hated going to sleep. One bedtime, when I was maybe 11 or 12 years old (I don’t quite remember), I prayed and pleaded with God to either make the nightmares stop or to make it so I wouldn’t remember my dreams anymore. Since that prayer maybe 30 years ago, I remember exactly four dreams; three of them are nightmares. This is the one that has stuck with me the most. I would’ve dreamed it in my late teens, but I remember it as if it was last night.
The screen door of the cabin claps and bounces as it closes behind me, and I call over my shoulder to the people inside, “Thanks again! You really do have a beautiful family.”
It’s a bright summer day. The sky is blue and not a cloud in sight, so I fairly skip down the long flight of steps from the cabin deck to the ground below. These woods are West Michigan woods — mostly pine, and the soil is sandy, and the smell of fresh water on the air tells me Lake Michigan is nearby, just out of sight on the other side of the dunes.
I’ve parked the car (an old woody station wagon) maybe a quarter mile down toward the end of the long, sandy driveway, close to the road. The woods press close enough to shadow the drive, and the air feels cool.
I’m about halfway to the car when I hear the unmistakable sound of something large crashing through the woods, and out from the trees to my right bursts a massive, black dog. Its head is at least as high as my shoulders, so it’s closer to the size of a small horse than a large dog — bigger than any dog I’ve ever seen. Its hair is long and shaggy, and it’s barking and growling as it runs straight toward me.
But I continue walking to the car, unafraid and undisturbed. I have a rolled-up piece of paper in my hands, and I wave it dismissively at the dog as it begins to circle me, barking and snarling and snapping its massive jaws.
From the woods to the left comes another dog to join the first, just as big and also with jet-black fur, except this one is sleek and short haired and lean, more like an oversized Dobermann. This dog, too, is barking and snapping, and it joins the first in circling me as I walk down the driveway.
By the time I near the car, there are five or six of these black dogs running around me — but I’m still walking down the sandy drive, unafraid.
I reach the car, and a man steps out of the woods nearby. He’s wearing jeans and a checked flannel shirt; his narrow face is tanned and deeply lined, weatherbeaten and leathery like an old cowboy. I know immediately that he’s the owner of these dogs, and for the first time, I’m afraid. A wave of terror washes over me, and I scramble to open the door and get inside.
I close the door and start the engine. The man is still walking toward me. The dogs are running circles around the entire car, now, still barking and snapping their jaws. I shift into drive and hit the gas, but the tires just spin in the sandy soil, throwing up a spray of dirt behind me. The man is still walking toward me. I’m frantic now, and I press the gas harder, but the rear wheels just sink into the sand. It’s hopeless.
The dogs stop circling as the man approaches the drivers’ side door. I put the car in park and lock the doors. He’s almost here. My window is down, and I hurriedly start turning the hand crank to roll it up. I’ve got to get it closed.
He’s at the car. I’ve almost got the window closed, but the man reaches his hands out to grab the top of the glass and stop it with his fingers. There’s a small gap at the top, maybe an inch or two. The man leans forward and says to me in a deep and raspy voice, “He’s going to get you, you know. He’s going to get you for your joy.”
He lets go of the window, turns, and calmly walks back into the woods. The dogs follow him. I shift the car into drive and slowly pull out of the driveway and onto the road, and I drive away with a terror that both grows inside me and sinks down deep, knowing that there’s something out there, there’s something or someone in the woods, a man or a beast or a spirit, and that it, or he, or whatever, is coming for me.
“He’s going to get you, you know. He’s going to get you for your joy.”
That’s it. I can’t imagine that reading it could give someone even a fraction of the terror that dreaming it caused me, or the sense of oppressive dread that it’s given me over the years. I don’t live in fear, and I don’t think of the dream every day, but I still wonder about the words and what they meant. “He’s going to get you for your joy.” He’s going to get me because I’m joyful? He’s going to take my joy, or the object of my joy? He wants my joy for himself? I’m still not sure. But it still scares me.
Josh Bishop Writes 