Dream Couch

This is a story for the

Surfing with the Alien

writing event.

'Farahd,' the thing whispered.

During the day, the world's background noise drowned out the damnable sibilant beckoning. But late at night, he couldn't help but hear its seductive moans and desire to be touched.

"Why did I let her put it there?" Farahd growled as he fought the incessant psychic siren hidden at the rear of his workshop, the converted three-car garage.

'Touch me, caress my body, can't you hear me, Farahd?'

"I fucking hear you!" He screamed before clamping his hand over his mouth. Farahd hated cursing, and it appalled him that the damn thing drew out that side of him. His skin broke out in a cold sweat as his fingers closed around the metal puck-shaped container in the pocket of his smoking jacket. No one wore the antiquated garments any longer, but it made him feel nostalgic, like a modern-day Humphrey Bogart or the famed occultist Niles Lindstrom. The cough drop box contained the drug that granted him nocturnal peace by suppressing his REM sleep and keeping him from dreaming. The thing in his workshop had a nasty knack for slithering into his sleeping mind and turning dreams into nightmares. Farahd twisted the circular lid, removed one of the homemade lozenges, and popped it into his mouth. The narcotic would make him sleepy and then keep him docile for six hours.

'Farahd, why do we play this game? You know I'll win in the end. I always succeed,' it purred. The infernal thing took delight in how she pronounced succeed, making it sound more like suck seed.

"Bitch," he said as the first yawn manifested.

Farahd awoke six hours later and immediately felt the hangover-like effects of the drug. He was dehydrated, shaky, and irritable since being deprived of the healing process of REM sleep. He fixed and filled a to-go mug with coffee for his morning walk through the park. If the gods were kind, the weather would be agreeable, and there wouldn't be too many people to encounter. It wasn't that Farahd didn't like people, but they instinctively picked up on his work and displayed outward signs ranging from crossing the street to verbal abuse. Farahd would do as he always did, ignore them, and move on. The psychic stink, as he thought of it, clung to him, and no bath or shower could remove it.

The wind picked up as the clouds took on a faint greenish tint. Farahd stopped and looked around to see people seeking shelter indoors. He knew better than to stand beneath a tree, but before he could take more than a few steps, his world went white, Farahd found himself knocked down and staring up at a gunmetal grey sky, and a moment later, it began to rain.

"Are you alright," the gorgeous woman asked as she offered him a hand up. "I'm sorry, my English is not so good."

"You speak very well, and thank you," Farahd replied while he tried to regain his balance and see if he were hurt. "I wonder what happened? Damn, my watch isn't working."

"Lightning, you were near where it struck the ground," she said. "Would you like a coffee, my treat? Did I say that correctly?"

"Yes, and once again, thank you. There is Macy's Diner nearby. I'd love something to drink."

"My acquaintances call me Cleo."

"I am Farahd."

They found the diner full and had to wait to get a booth. While they stood in line, Cleo quizzed Farahd about himself.

"Since we are just standing around, how about we get to know each other better? What do you do for a living? Do you have a career?"

"No, only work. I think of myself as a physical historian. I restore antiquities, relics, and hand-me-downs that have seen better days."

"That is so interesting," Cleo said. "Do you work for a museum?"

"No, I am a private contractor. My partner is the one that finds objects in need of repair, and I fix them. Simple."

Cleo shook her head and gently disagreed with him. "Did you go to a trade school to learn your craft?"

"No, I apprenticed with my father and grandfather since I was a boy. Between them, they passed on quite a bit to me. A booth just became available. Shall we sit?"

Cleo and Farahd sat at the booth as the server wiped down the surface and handed each a menu. Farahd's stomach growled, and he thought he had put off breakfast long enough. After placing their orders, it was Farahd's turn to question Cleo about herself.

"What does a gorgeous woman like yourself do for a living?"

"Flatterer, I am a professional traveler. Thanks to an ancestor's wise investments, I can indulge my wanderlust. This year I am touring your country. I want to see it before things turn sour. The current political climate isn't healthy, and I may not be able to return for some time."

"You speak English very well. What is your native language?"

"French, but you may find this unusual; I collect dialects like some people buy souvenirs. I possess a knack for linguistics, and they come to me quite easily. It makes travel much easier when you can speak with the locals in their tongue. Are you working on anything interesting?"

"Several, actually, and I have a client arriving tomorrow from London to pick up a unique object that has been a joy to restore. I can't say any more since my customer's privacy is paramount. I hope you understand."

"Absolutely. Ooh, our food has arrived. Eat up."

The pair ate silently, and Cleo watched the clinical way Farahd approached his meal. Eat bite appeared to be measured carefully, chewed slowly, and savored to its fullest. He seemed to surprise her when she least expected it. Cleo waited until the meal had ended before speaking again.

"The weather is beginning to clear; take my business card, and if you want to walk a park or museum, or show me the sights, give me a ring. It has been a singular pleasure."

"Thank you, here; let's exchange prisoners as it were," Farahd said, handing her his card.

As Farahd took out his wallet, Cleo rose and walked to the exit just as the sun peeked out from the clouds. The diner was awash in its illumination. Farahd turned to see Cleo push open the diner's door, and that's when he saw it, Cleo's shadows, all three of them.

The walk home was uneventful, and Farahd's thoughts were abuzz with possible explanations for what he saw. Once he reached his workshop, his effort turned to the last-minute touches the treasure required before it went to its new home. He was about to remove the protective tarp when one of his neighbors called out to him.

"Hey, Farahd, I'm glad I caught up with you," Harry Melvin said. "Is the book ready?"

Book. How could anyone call Eithorn's Esoteric Encyclopedia a book? The single volume held the collected works of a dozen of the most revered occultists spanning four centuries. It wasn't as well known as the Necronomicon by the Alhazred, the Malifacarium, or the dreaded Al Azif. But this obscure tome had been the life's work of the great adventurer and scholar Adolphus Eithorn. He made Indiana Jones look like an amateur. The volume's last twenty pages describe Eithorn's visits to places like the Plateau of Leng, the Dreamlands, and even shadow-shrouded Yogguth. Unknown to Harry, Farahd had spent the last six months restoring and rebinding the book and copying every page by hand. Farahd also happened to be a gifted calligrapher. He meticulously labored to create his version of the tome for his private collection. The main difference was that Farahd not only copied the text but illuminated key portions with drawings inspired by the various authors.

"Two more days, and it is all yours," Farahd replied. "The new cover I crafted fits your design to the letter. Your family crest adorns the front, while the spine is inlaid with silver and accented with three flawless blue-white diamonds."

"Perfect, I knew you were the right man for the job. The second half of your payment will hit your account upon delivery."

"Thank you for bringing it to me; working on such a rare find has been a joy."

Farahd opened the garage door and found Rasputin, the kitten, waiting for him.

"Mow?"

Farahd scooped up the kitten and placed him on his shoulder. He regaled the cat with the morning's events while Rasputin nuzzled the other's cheek and purred. Farahd scratched Rasputin behind his ears while he continued to talk.

"Today, I will finish it," Farahd said. "How often does one come across a papal commission?"

"Mow?"

"Thanks to Gemma and my contact at the Vatican, I learned which pope hired him to do the work. Did I forget to mention the artist's name? Let me tell you this, Leonardo Da Vinci himself carved the frame. How about that? A lost treasure of his, and I brought it back from the brink." The kitten rolled onto its belly for rubs, and he continued. "Where was I? Oh, right, Pope Solomon, the First and only of his name, contracted Leonardo to design and construct a thing of beauty. After you are satisfied, I'll let you see it. You are so spoiled, you know that, right?"

"Mow!" Rasputin purred.

"I never heard of Pope Solomon until I read Warwick's Vatican Chronicles. Solomon does not show up on the rolls of popes because they struck him off for heresy. They altered the papal timeline just before and after to cover the gap. They added years to hide that Solomon existed, and for a good reason. He was a naughty boy, he...."

The knock came on his side door, and Farahd answered it eagerly. There was only one reason why anyone would choose that door. Gemma had discovered another hidden treasure during her travels. Three burly men stood there, and between them, a large crate. Farahd signed for it, gathered two small flat dollies, and inserted them beneath either end of the box. He pushed it to his converted garage, which now served as his workshop, and whistling a happy tune, he opened the container.

"Removing a nail from one of Gemma's deliveries is the sweetest sound," he said as he fitted the crowbar beneath the head of the first nail, banged once on the opposite end of the tool, and listened to the metallic squeal of the metal popping loose. "Rio de Janeiro, what did you find this time?"

Once he eliminated the last hindrance, Farahd lifted the lid and gazed inside. Beneath the layer of packing peanuts lay his latest treasure. Farahd scooped them to one side, revealing one of the straps that secured the couch to the bottom of the crate. The padding has long since rotten beyond the hope of saving, but the wood appeared intact and free of infestation, warping, or damage. He whistled and wondered about the story behind the piece of furniture now in his loving care. Farahd used his shop vac to avoid a mess and sucked up the packing material.

"Strange."

The general design of the couch was Roman, but some subtle designs and angles made him question his initial assessment. And some damn fool idiot had painted the wood leaving only the material untouched. Why? What the hell were they thinking? Farahd would have to remove the coating before he knew the wood's condition.

"I'll take a sample and see what they used, and then maybe I'll understand their mindset."

Farahd, using tweezers, gingerly removed a patch of the paint and examined it under a microscope. The enamel was unique; he had never seen anything like the coating while restoring art and furniture. He took a second larger sample and sent it away for chemical analysis. He replaced the lid and would have to wait until the testing returned to remove it and see the wood beneath safely. Gemma's finances allowed him to treat each new acquisition with loving care and the best possible outcome.

"Time to do some research," he said aloud. Farahd had developed a few quirks living a solitary existence, including talking to himself. "That design is bothering me."

"Mow."

"Rasputin," he said, greeting his Russian blue kitten. "I forgot you were here, sorry. Are you hungry? Fine, you emotional pirate, let's eat."

Farahd and Rasputin entered the house and ate side by side at the kitchen table. The kitten had come into his life during the last fierce rainstorm. It was sheer chance that the wind had picked up one of Farahd's metal trash cans and hurled it against the garage. He reluctantly went out in the fierce windstorm to secure the rogue can inside his workshop. The falling rain and shrieking wind nearly drowned out Rasputin's pitiful cries. Farahd found the shivering bundle of mud and fur hiding in a niche between the garage corner and the fence line. He took the kitten inside and nursed him back to health with the help of Google and a friend studying veterinarian medicine. Six weeks later, the two were inseparable. After Farahd finished his soup and sandwich and Rasputin his dose of wet cat food, the pair yawned.

"Time for a cat nap," Farahd said with a smile.

He plucked Rasputin from the table, placed him on his shoulder, grabbed a warm fuzzy blanket, kicked off his shoes, and lay on the couch together to sleep. Rasputin walked a tight circle on Farahd's chest before dropping into a ball. Farahd covered them both, closed his eyes, and fell into a dream-filled slumber. Rasputin, while only a kitten, drew on, as did most felines of every size and shape, the race memory of the species or what their sages called the Glowering. As apex predators for millions of years, the psychic archive developed slowly and, over time, took on a life all its own and is known today as Bubastis, or the goddess Bast. The Glowering differentiates itself from Bast like this; one could be considered a library, and the other the librarian. Bast guides the dreams of living felines and protects their souls after death.

Rasputin raced through the prehistoric jungle, noted by human scholars as the hyperborean era. He wore the body of a large black panther with saber-like teeth jutting from his jaws and the scent of a wounded animal wafting on the breeze. Instinct honed over millions of years kicked in, and he began stalking his prey. Rasputin found blood on fallen leaves and grass and knew his meal wasn't far off. The jungle transitioned to rain forest as he entered the barren floor of the new environment, as a canopy of tall trees kept any sunlight from hitting the ground. The dim light ceded the advantage to the feline with its superior night vision. Rasputin lifted his head and tasted the air and the aroma of blood growing stronger with each stride. The man-beast, sensing danger, forced itself onto two feet and staggered away. Good. It was no fun if the prey didn't offer a challenge. Sadly, one of the thing's legs was injured and bleeding profusely after exerting to rise and flee. Rasputin slowed but kept the prey in his line of sight. There was no reason to hurry anticipation made the meal taste all the sweeter. Fear added a bouquet to the meat you don't get otherwise. The meal's pitiful sounds only angered the apex predator, and Rasputin crouched, tensed his formidable muscles, and sprang at the bipedal thing.

"Fuck!" Farahd cried out, waking himself and Rasputin. "I had a nightmare. Sorry bud, I didn't mean to startle you. Here, let me put you in your bed. I don't feel like sleeping anymore."

Rasputin's mood had fouled since the best part of the dream had been interrupted by the tall caretaker's sudden outburst. Maybe by returning to sleep, he could finish what he had started. Rasputin prepared the bed's surface by smurgling it, and only then was it a proper resting place. Even in these awkward times, Rasputin observed the rituals by using his paws to knead the pillowy cushion before sleeping.

Farahd splashed water on his face at the kitchen sink, leaned heavily on the stainless steel edges, and let the sense of panic fade.

"Where the hell did that come from," he asked as fleeting snatches of the dream survived in his waking mind. "Doesn't matter, I have work to do and a client to greet tomorrow. Back to work."

Farahd dried his face and walked by the two spare bedrooms he had converted to supply storage and an indoor workshop on his way to the garage. He only used the second-floor room when the weather was extremely fierce, and there was no need for smelly chemicals. Farahd had learned that lesson the hard way. When he stood before the tarp covering the masterpiece of Leonardo, he discovered it was hard to breathe. His anticipation never faded, and each time he removed the covering, his heart skipped a beat, and he wept.

"You can do this; you won't cry this time."

With a trembling hand, Farahd gripped the tarp and leisurely pulled. The cloth tumbled onto the floor, Farahd's knees buckled, and he sobbed at the raw beauty he beheld.

"Happens every time."

The following day dawned grey and gloomy with the scent of rain, but Farahd rose, dressed casually, and left the house for his morning run. Fewer people were in the park, most likely because of the impending thunderstorm, but that didn't deter Farahd from breaking his routine. When he was young, he discovered that he found comfort in patterns, and his father urged him to create healthy cycles that would serve him instead of hindering his progress throughout life. The exercise was chief among his favorite routines, it cleared the cobwebs from his thoughts, and he felt better afterward. The drizzle began a block from home, and he reached his front door just before the downpour started. He stood under the overhang, watched the rain fall, closed his eyes, and listened to heavy patter as it struck cars, trees, and people who shouted as they clambered inside. A sudden gust of wind threatened to drench him, so Farahd escaped into his warm, dry home and a hungry Rasputin.

"Mow."

"Yes, I'm hungry too, but I need a shower first, and then we shall break our fast together. Yes?"

"Mow."

Rasputin's tone hinted at a negative response, but the kitten knew better than to argue with his caregiver. Farahd and Rasputin went to the bathroom. They both entered the shower once the warm water flowed, and Farahd held Rasputin under the showerhead. Once thoroughly wet, he applied the kitten's shampoo and lathered up the furball before placing the purring feline under the water again. Rasputin explored the shower floor as the human washed his skin and hair. Then after one last rinsing, they exited and toweled off, invoking a second round of purring from Rasputin before heading to breakfast.

"I've been performing more research on my client's ring, the one he claims to have discovered in a crypt in Munich. It is, in fact, Middle Eastern in origin, like me, and is tied to, of all things, the stories of the Arabian nights. I think it might be the source of the Djinn ring. What do you think of that?"

"Mow."

"I know, fascinating, and I foolishly repaired the damn thing. What if it works? Could the stories be true?"

"Mow."

"You're right. I am being silly."

Two hours later, the thunderstorm was ending, and a knock came on the side door. Farahd's prestigious client had arrived. Farahd opened the door to be greeted by a stunning young woman with the darkest blue eyes he had ever seen. He tried and failed to hide his surprise.

"Forgive me for staring," he said, and she blushed. "Welcome to my home. Ah, your grace, would you like a cup of coffee?"

The tall, wide-shouldered nobleman followed his bodyguards into Farahd's dining room. One of the young ladies produced a dark glass bottle and passed it to the duke.

"I brought a bottle of Black Burke's to celebrate the occasion," the cultured British gentleman replied. "Considering how much I pay you, you'd think you would improve your situation and surroundings."

"I like the neighborhood, they tolerate me, and the kids don't loiter anymore. Take my chair while I open the bottle and let it breathe. How was your flight, your grace?"

"Smooth and tranquil," the thirty-second Duke of Atwater replied. "Mother is well, and my siblings mature at a steady pace. Still alone, I see; what do we have here?"