Hello, Frank Kennedy here, I was going through my old case files and I found something a little bit different. As you can imagine, when I was first assigned by US intelligence to monitor the paranormal online, I obviously stayed away from stories that were posted in places meant for fiction. It would just be silly to investigate the stories that people explicitly make up. But what if they weren’t made up? In this case we’ll see fiction turn into reality, and one man’s dreams turn into a whole town’s nightmare:
It begins with a story posted by a now deleted account on a now closed short fiction subreddit entitled “Dreamweaver”:
“I’ve had nightmares since I was a kid. The kind that keep you up all night. Creepies and crawlies, ghosts and ghoulies, these were the things that awaited me every night. When I was a teenager everything started to change, I grew bigger and stronger, and in my dreams I became bigger and stronger. I could stand up for myself. Tell the monsters to go away and leave me alone. Soon there were no more creepies and crawlies. Soon I became the creepy and the crawly.
At school I would be picked on and bullied, but at night I could pick on and bully back. The mean kids would cower in fear as I did to them what they did to me. It felt good. It felt great. It felt like I had all the power in the world.
Eventually the bullies faded away as I became an adult. I got a job. I got a boss. I hated my boss. I hated him so much, and soon I hated the fact that he would show up in my dreams. No, that’s not quite correct. He didn’t show up in my dreams so much as I dreamt his dreams for him. Every night I would find myself in his body, seeing whatever shadows and sunshine his mind decided to produce. At first I was just a passive observer, soon I started to change things. No longer were his dreams about tropical vacations and big promotions, now they were about monsters, and things lurking in the night.
One day he was really mean, he yelled at me for half an hour for something that wasn’t even my fault. I was so mad that that night I put all my energy into his nightmare. This time I wouldn’t torment him with something so abstract, this time it would be something real. He got to dream that night of his wife divorcing him, taking their kids and running off to somewhere across the country. It was a good night, for me at least.
The next day my boss came in, whisky hanging on his breath while his head hung between his hands, hovering just above his desk. Halfway through the day he came up to me and told me that he was leaving, I asked why, and after swallowing his pride, he told me that he woke up to an empty house, save for a note from his wife telling him that she was leaving with the kids and would never come back. I was floored. I was thrilled. I knew it was no coincidence, I knew that I did this to him, and I knew that I could do it again. For I am the Dreamweaver, and whatever dream I weave can turn your life into a living nightmare.”
The story didn’t gain much traction, but that didn’t deter the OP, for a week later he produced the next instalment: Dreamweaver Part 2:
“My old bully appeared today. He’s a cop now. A mean cop. He pulled me over for going 5 over the limit and gave me a ticket, laughing about how I was as big a loser as ever. But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that I am the Dreamweaver. He doesn’t know that the anger he’s given me will poison his dreams tonight, and his world tomorrow.
That night I dreamt of a terrible scene. A drug deal being busted. A wanted felon who can’t afford to get caught. The bullet rips through Bully’s leg, shattering it into a million pieces. He cries in pain. It’s music to my ears.
The next day something ripples through the town, a collective unease that is not put into words. Not until that night when the local news broadcasts that a cop was killed that morning. I was careless. I was clueless. I did not realize that the bullet would rip his artery just like his bones. Too much blood was gone by the time the ambulance showed up. They were looking for who did it. But I did it. I killed a man. I should have been strangled by my guilt. I felt joy. I felt elation. I could not only ruin a life, I could end one too. I am the Dreamweaver, and whatever dream I weave may just be your last.”
Three weeks passed, then came Dreamweaver Part 3:
“I’ve never liked school, I don’t know why. I’ve never liked children, I don’t know why. Yet every day they pass by on their stupid yellow bus. Yet every day they yell and scream at the nearby playground. And every day my annoyance grows. I don’t know why. I had no real reason. Yet I did it. Yet I did it.
The valley just outside of town is vast and steep. The valley outside of town is horrifically deep. The road barely has a barricade. The road barely has a barricade. The yelling and screaming children fill my dream, laughing with glee. Suddenly the yelling and screaming stops as the bus doesn’t make the turn. Then the yelling and screaming starts up again, louder and terrifying. Then it stops again.
This time I didn’t have to wait for the local news at 6, it dominated the airwaves all day. 48 children, all in the hands of a bus driver who chose the worst time to have a heart attack. No survivors. No survivors. I laughed. I laughed. While the whole town weeped I could only laugh. For I am the Dreamweaver and I can end dreams as easily as I create them.”
Following a tragic bus crash in Montana, local law enforcement found these stories, and while they concluded that they were just the ramblings of a crazy local, the stories did eventually find their way into my hands. While I was looking them over I found one final story posted, Dreamweaver Part 4:
“They found me today. On the way home from work they caught up to me. The men in the black suits with the red ties. They were scared of me. I saw the way their hands trembled. I heard the way their voices cracked. They took me down a back road. No one around for miles. They put a gun against my head. They put a gun against my head. They opened a suitcase full of money. The choice was mine. They said. The choice was mine. They said.
For. They said. I was the Dreamweaver, and with the dreams I weave I could make the dreams of my country come true. I could dream away dictators and despots. I could dream away the radical left and extreme right. I could dream consent and I could dream condemnation. I could do all this. Or I could refuse and feel the hot lead make me dream my last. They were scared of me. I was scared of them. Together we could weave dreams forever.
For I am the Dreamweaver and I shall weave the world into a beautiful tapestry.”
Now, hard as it may be to believe, I do try to remain skeptical. You obviously don’t want to waste the governments time on wild goose chases, and, I mean, it certainly makes it easier to sleep at night. I definitely didn’t want to entertain the idea that someone had both the power to send a busload of children off a cliff, and lacked the conscience to actually do it. However, for the sake of thoroughness, I put in a request to investigate the man behind these stories and make sure he was just a nutjob. However, the response I got from the agency was deeply unsettling – it simply said that he was already in contact with the agency, that I should close my case file, and attempt to find out more about him could lead to “punitive actions”.
So I’m afraid that’s all I have on this one for you. I think about this case a lot, I’m not going to lie. Every time I watch the news and some elected official suffers a tragic accident, some election is won by a few last minute voters, and whenever I have a nightmare that feels just a little too real, I think about the Dreamweaver and a chill runs down my spine.