As a child of five or six years of age, this dream would plague me many, many times. Still it occasionally finds its way into my subconscious as I try to sleep, in the form of eyes or teeth fallowed by a mental blare of quickly building dread I still do not fully understand. Accordingly, this is not one of those particular dreams, but the average formed by my collective experiences of it. My first entry to what may be my first real dream journal, is set.
Mr. CuddlesFur is one of the oddest manifestations of my mental state that I can easily recall. It is still not entirely clear to me what parts of him are owed to pure chance, or some much more blurry chapter of my psyche. And while the 'Mr' does imply a male being, I must repeat that Mr. CuddlesFur is an 'IT' quite undoubtedly. It, is too eccentric to my understanding of what can realistically sustain itself in an active and living state for me to apply the concept of gender. But, more on it later, I think.
These dreams would always start very similar to each other. I would be, as a young thing is prone to be doing, spending time with my family. In our living room, occupied with our respective tasks, but still noticeably close to one another enough that it created some sense of unity. This was years before such time was spent out of obligation, or partially a sense of duty to my belated clan. I was there for the sense of happiness, and of course security offered by simply being near them. My mother and father were divorced by this time, but I was happy to find them together in most of these dreams. But, this would never end up being a mere pleasant excursion into ancient comforts. In retrospect, it only softened me up for what was to come. Dirty pool, nightmare.
The end to the lovely moment would come in the form of a thunder storm sounding off in the distance. Incidentally, this dream would spur on my hatred of storms to a quite ridiculous level. The first sound of thunder would prompt some urgent trip to the store, or some sudden engagement that required the presence of my mother, my father, and my three older brothers- whichever of them happened to be around. However I was always to be left at the house until they returned. To be fair, the youngest in a family is rarely any sort of aid during a store trip or social function besides sucking up to a tarnished family relation as a kind of business tactic, but this seemed at least slightly illogical to me, even back then. As I became familiar with this dream, this would be the point where I would cry and beg them to take me, and not leave me alone in the house. Especially not this house, which as I tried to reason to them, was not safe now. Of course, it wouldn't be very interesting if they listened to me.
As the storm picked up, my family would leave. In all of the years I had this dream, they never returned after that point. A little kid in such a situation can't exactly think of much else to do but fall back on their training by the new age way, and sit in front of the TV. So that's normally what I'd do. There was about a 30% chance that if I kept watching, I'd get to just wake up from the dream with no terror sustained. But, that other 70% is far too vivid for me to pass it up.
After about ten minutes, give or take, I would hear a sound that I still have the ability to play inside my head with perfect clarity- not that I'd really want to. A scratching sound. This scratching would come from the hall leading to the rest of the house from the living room. It was inconsistent, more like a skitter, zig-zagging over the floor. Most importantly, it always grew louder as it became closer to me. Once it got close enough- just beyond the corner, I would catch tiny, wheezy intakes of breathe that were constantly trying to make themselves quieter. In case they were heard by me. The thing isn't very smart, as you might well have guessed.
I'm sure your breathe is as baited as mine was back then. After all, I've built this thing up something fierce. So, I'll get right into the introduction of my dear tauntingly memorable friend, Mr. CuddlesFur. It would always start by poking its head out from the corner to look at me. With those eyes, those bright and wide eyes that glowed a yellow thoroughly reminiscent of pus. It never blinked, and it never let its eyelids obscure its vision for an instant. It simply stared, with complete focus.
Now it stands out to me as a good idea to point out that, I am well aware that its name is ironic. For you see, Mr. CuddlesFur, has no fur. On its entire languid form, it does not have a single strand of hair that I have ever observed. It certainly has skin, however. Light brown skin, darkened by occasional blotches of much darker brown, rich with creases and stretch marks. The stretch marks are largely owed tot he fact that its skin is, too tight for him, I'm afraid. It might be a good thing that it's as evidently malnourished and thin as it is. Any more weight, and it'd probably shed its own skin. Its pointy ears seem to have a bit of excess to them, but for the most, it seems rather air-tight, defining its bones clearly.
Now. After that long description, two big details remain that show why I hate it so much. Or rather, why it has remained so iconic to my sense of horror after all these years. First of all, as my young self stared back at the eerie face, I was always looking up. Up, because Mr. CuddlesFur stands on its back hind legs that don't usually support bipedalism, giving it quite a bit of height over me. Why not? It's already a sickly, unnatural looking thing. I might remind you that it wheezes audibly when it has to move. The second thing, is perhaps a consequence of the one good thing I can say about Mr. CuddlesFur. It is very, very happy. As far as I can tell, anyway. How might I be able to tell? Because it grins. It grins constantly, ear-to ear, with fangs a bit darker of a yellow than its eyes. The corners of its mouth are dotted with blood due to just how much the smile strains its muscles, occasionally tearing at its mouth. Delightful, right?
So! After all of this explanation, I'm still sitting on the floor and staring at the thing. Its grin is impeccably symmetrical, as usual. Believe me, I'd point out any flaws I could find. You may be wondering what Mr tall dark and dastardly is going to do at this point. But, that would largely depend on my reaction to its next action. you see, Mr. CuddlesFur loves to play its game. A game of hide and seek, more or less. But, he becomes very upset if one turns away his invitation. Accordingly, when he would beckon me with a long, bony finger that sported an extra knuckle to come to the halls before disappearing behind the corner, I had a choice to make. I could do as he ordered and fallow, or stay in the living room. If I didn't come, he would reappear shortly after, poking more of himself around the corner to shout in agitation at me, sounding oddly like a shrill-voiced human rather than whatever he qualifies as. He wanted me to move- and I wasn't. How annoying, for the playful stuff of nightmares. If I refused forever, he would eventually return to the hall while shouting. It sounded very displeased with me, and when it returned, it would stomp audibly, throwing a bit of a tantrum. It wouldn't settle for peaking at me- it would then enter the living room itself, wheezing and screaming and fidgeting. While I do not wish to go into detail about what would happen during these instances, I must promise you that it was quite unpleasant. As for what would happen when I did enter the halls, to play its little game? I'm not sure I have it in me to write about that as well in one sitting.
Really I'm not even sure if this fallows the right format for posting a dream... If there is one. In any case, that's all for now. Farewell from Mr. CuddlesFur and I. I'm going to bed... Smart, right? I might explain some of the more special cases if this isn't horrible. Or how hide and seek would play out.