[Original Novella] Mansionarium, Part 2

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Part 1}

“What? Oh no, none of that. My dear boy, despite all appearances, I assure you that The Institute stays abreast of every modern contrivance including digital signatures.” The funny little old fellow welcomed me into the sitting room and took my jacket. I introduced myself, and in turn he identified himself as one “Heironimus Travigan”. I tried addressing him as doctor or professor but was rebuffed each time out of what I took for modesty.

“Tell me about The Institute.” His eyes met mine, narrowed for a moment as if probing my expression for information. Then his relaxed demeanor returned. “What don’t you know that is necessary for the purposes of your visit?” For a start, I told him I’d like to know what this is the Institute of. He smiled, wrinkles bunching up at the corners of his eyes. “Naturally, it’s the Institute of institution.” When I asked of what sort, he winked and said “Institutional”.

That answered none of my questions and raised more, something I’d soon learn was an irritating habit of his. Just never enough to make you sincerely cross with the man, on account of his otherwise warm, if eccentric, personality. Just as you’re about to boil over and demand some straight answers, out come the cute anecdotes, the rhymes, or some other amusing distraction.

I expected something more technical than a bed. It looked like any other bedroom except for the archaic nature of the decor. Nearly everything intricately carved, polished wood of some kind. The sheets and pillowcase both black cotton, with a black velvet blanket. In the corner, a little digicam on a tripod with a thin retractable USB cable leading to a laptop on the dresser next to it.

I asked how they would measure my brainwaves, my vitals and so on. He mulled that over, then informed me that it wasn’t that sort of study. I could scarcely imagine what other sort of dream study exists, but he got me laughing with some hasty but serviceable wordplay, and soon enough I was tucked in.

“I’m still not clear why I’m not hooked up to anything. I get that you can’t tell me everything, it’d fuck with the results. But how are you going to get any sort of useful data without any sort of medical technology?” He reassured me it was all according to the requirements of the experiment, then handed me what looked like an old fashioned television remote. “That’s the only device you’ll need. But hang onto it. You won’t get far otherwise.”

I studied the little gizmo but found nothing remarkable. Weren’t even any batteries in it. Looked like something my Dad would’ve had in his study. Wood grain panels at top and bottom, big punchy calculator style buttons of shiny black plastic, and curiously scratched out labels under the buttons for rewind and pause.

I asked what it was for but he would only tell me to keep hold of it as I fell asleep. “Rest it on your chest if you like, but under the shirt. Skin needs to be touching.” I began wondering what sort of person I’d entrusted my unconscious body to, but then thought of Mom. So, gripping the hollow little plastic box at my side, I began counting sheep.

It’s a cliche, but really works. At least it always has until now. Somewhere around thirty five, the sheep slowed down. More and more until one hung in the air just over the fence, defying gravity. This is when I realized I’d fallen asleep. Usually it’s straight to that place, no interlude. So imagine my concern when the sheep began to move backwards.

Slowly, at first. In a stilted fashion, like watching an old timey movie while something goes increasingly wrong with the projector. Then faster and faster, sheep whipping by, jumping backwards over the fence. Faster and faster, until it was one long continuous blur. I felt myself sweating, somewhat surprised to be doing that in a dream. Then I felt the remote in my hands.

Pause. The sheep, a blindingly rapid streak until now, suddenly halted. Again, one of the sheep hung in place over the fence. I looked down at the remote, exactly as I remembered it, and hit play. The sheep resumed their normal motion, and moments later the vision faded to black. It’d been such a novelty to experience anything else in a dream that I felt sort of let down when, upon opening my eyes again, I found myself there.

Same cold, concrete floor. Same windows, same bizarre doors with no knobs. All the frames slightly different sizes, as though the architect had only a rough idea of how big people generally are. But, there was one difference. Something unprecedented in all of my history with this place. When I looked down, I was still holding that odd little remote.

How could that be? I’d tried numerous times before to bring various objects with me. I think clothing worked because it’s part of my self-perception. And, apparently, because it directly touches my skin while I fall asleep. But nothing I’d ever tried would make any other object from the waking world appear in the dream, or vice versa. Until now.

A blast of static issued forth from a small speaker embedded in the device, behind a grid of little holes in the bottom wood panel. I dropped it while reflexively covering my ears. When I uncovered them, I heard what I soon realized was the professor’s voice scolding me through the speaker.

“I told you never to let go of it, you twit! What’s the first thing you do but drop it! Pick it up at once, before one of them gets ahold of it, and don’t you dare set it down anywhere after this!” I bashfully picked up the remote and inspected it for damage.

“That’s some of the most sophisticated technology at our disposal, right there in your hot little hands. But you must’ve realized that already when it came into the dream with you. That’s no small feat! Though it is not alive, it shares a crucial quality with your body which allows both of them to travel between the Manifold and the waking world intact.”

It just kept coming. Seemed like a better idea to just let him talk than to inject questions here and there, as it usually turned out he was about to explain whatever I was going to ask about anyway. But only in the same sense that he ever explains anything. “Oh dear. It’s as I suspected. You’ve really stepped in it, you know.”

I asked what he meant. “You’re in that place. I don’t have to tell you or anybody else which one. Everybody knows it, if not as a dream then as a certain feeling. The feeling of writhing internally even as you are outwardly placid. Of wandering alone on a dark Winter’s night. Fingernails dragged across a blackboard, forever.”

I asked what other place I was supposed to be in. He sounded exasperated, as if I should already know all of this. “You must’ve had normal dreams before this one. Those are your own mind. Your own little offshoot of the Manifold, as it should be. Most never get further than that, and I tell you in truth, they’re better off for it. But the place you find yourself in now is something like an antlion’s pit for wayward dreamers. You’ve been trapped there for some time, haven’t you.”

I affirmed it. When I told him it’d been several years rather than months or weeks, he sounded stunned. I shook the remote a few times wondering if the speaker crapped out, but he’d only fallen temporarily silent.

“I don’t understand. It never lasts for this long. By this point they’ve always reached the bottom.” I astonished him a second time when I explained that I’d never gotten further than the the bottom of the stairwell, as it’d been the work of all those years just to completely document everything until that point.

He laughed uproariously, leaving me to wonder what the joke was. “My boy, that’s just fantastic. I knew I did well picking you out of the pile. See to it that you don’t explore any more of the place than you have already. If you don’t already know why, turn the remote over.” I did as instructed. I hadn’t thought to check the back until now and discovered an index card sized mirror on it.

“Mirrors are another thing you’ll never find in that place. Not one that’s clean enough to see yourself in, anyway. For one thing, you’ll understand a good deal more than He intends if you do that. For another, mirrors can be used as an alternate means of escape into the Manifold. It’s not intended that anybody who finds this place should ever leave. The longer they stay, the more of the wither they accumulate.” More nonsense. As if sensing my skepticism, he admonished me to study my own reflection, so I did.

I gasped. It was everywhere. Why had I not recognized it until now? The texture of grime, of dust, of crumbly cracks on every surface. Which I’d assumed was actual wear and tear, but which I now recognized for something like a rash, or a fungus as I could now see it coating my neck, arms and part of my face. Overlaid on the skin like a decal, shifting about as I moved as if not completely bonded to me.

“It’s no good. If it consumes all of you, I mean. That’s when He comes to you, at your weakest, to broker a deal. Everything you most desperately want, or at least the convincing illusion of it, in exchange for something unspeakable. Do not pry. You have no need to know, as I’ll not let you be suckered into that. Instead, press ‘info’ and follow the sounds.”

I searched the face of the remote, and sure enough, one of the buttons said info, so I pressed it. A faint ping sounded from the speaker. Then another, then another. I found as I walked about that the ping grew softer or louder depending on my position, so with some careful experimentation, I set off in the direction that yielded consistently louder pings.

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^{Stay Tuned for Part 3!}