Dream Journal #1 - The South Coast

...in which my subconscious plagiarizes HP Lovecraft.

So, I had an epically fucked up and bizarre dream a few nights ago, thanks no doubt to the endless cocktail of over the counter cold and flu medications I’d been imbibing. So, sit back and enjoy this tale:

It's winter break; and I have three months off (Ah, dream logic). My girlfriend and I decide to head down the South Coast (the vast thousand mile stretches of sparsely settled lands south of San Francisco) and just see where we end up. No particular plan.

We stop at a beach a few miles south of San Francisco; from the road you can see that there is an ambulance on the beach, and large excavation in the sand. We approach and find several bodies being removed from the pit. We watch in silence with a large crowd as they are put in body bags, and driven away. There's a Park Ranger there, so I strike up a conversation.

“It’s a shame.” I say.
“Yeah, it’s just lucky that we found them.” He replies.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You know…” He says, and then I do know.

Fifty or so people go missing in the South Coast every year around winter break. They almost never find anyone, and when they do, there is no obvious cause of death; the victims are just buried in the sand, or huddled in caves. This has been happening for hundreds of years. It’s just a weird fact of life in the South Coast.

There’s a ranger station just up the road, so I decide to head up there and pick up the pamphlets on what the latest theories are. I’m not terribly concerned about it, but I’m curious. The ranger station is packed due to the latest discovery of the bodies on the beach. They’re updating a list on a chalkboard with the names of the missing so far on it, putting check marks next to the names of the people that we’re exhumed on the beach. I scan the list and see that it’s been a really bad year. Over a hundred people are missing, and it’s only the first month of winter break.

I scan the names and see two names that stick out immediately: J.M., a coworker of mine, and Eddie Murphy, the actor. Both missing for a few weeks. This piques my interest a bit. I knew J was heading south with his girlfriend, but I hadn’t heard he was missing.

As I scan the list for more names, there’s a commotion in the Station. A ranger comes in frantically to alert the other rangers of something odd outside. He tries to play it cool, but we can all overhear him. By the time the Rangers are headed out to investigate, there’s a small crowd following them. We head across Highway one and up the hill, where we find a cave that looks like it’s newly revealed by a landslide. It’s a shallow, but dark earthen tunnel that slopes down into the hillside. There’s already a crowd of people heading into the mouth, and down. Inside, the tunnel ends in a small alcove made of rock.
The walls are covered in etched writing, names, each in a different handwriting. People are solemnly searching the walls for names they know already will be there. I realize that everyone here knows someone who’s gone missing. There’s a clear progression of names from back to front. The leading edge contains J’s name, and as you follow the list backwards, the names become old-fashioned, then are all in Spanish, then a few are in pictographs I can’t read. It’s a dawning realization among everyone in the tunnel, what we’re all seeing. I start to panic, and I exit the tunnel at high speed.

My girlfriend and I concur that we should just move on and leave this portion of the South Coast. We’re both deeply unsettled about the whole affair, and don’t discuss it as we drive south. We’re get a few hundred miles south (The South Coast in my dream is an enormous and sparsely populated frontier land), when I see something on the side of the road. We pull over and find a car buried in the brush.

It’s a Corsair, a rust colored model of car that I recognize at once as exclusive to the locals of the South Coast. It looks like a heavily armored Volkswagen Beetle; the windows are rows of slits in the metal, the tires are invisible behind strange steampunk looking hubcaps, and protrusions like pipes dart of it at odd angels. Something is odd about this Corsair, and I pop the door open. Inside is new bill of sale, with J’s name on it. Inside the glovebox are a series of maps and guide books for the South Coast, including a brand new looking guidebook called “In the Footsteps of Cthulhu”.

This makes perfect sense to me in the dream. HP Lovecraft was from the South Coast, and all his stories take place along the strange fishing villages and old towns that dot the beach. This was part of the reason I wanted to come.

At this point I realize that I have to find out what happened to J. There’s no police to speak off in the South Coast, and he was so far south that he’ll likely never be found. So despite my girlfriend’s protestations, I resolve to track him down. All I know at this point is that J bought a whole bunch of South Coast guidebooks and maps. He headed south, where he sold his car to buy the local-approved Corsair. This suddenly makes sense to me. The locals hate tourism, it would be best to blend in. We swap cars, and take the Corsair, leaving mine in the brush. I still don’t know where J went next, but I use my phone to check his Amazon purchases. The list account for all the guidebooks I’ve found, except for one that’s not in the car: A guide to the Village of Grey.

Grey is perhaps the most well known population center in the South Coast. This isn’t a huge revelation to me, I knew this, but it makes a lot of sense that he would be headed there. It’s also where I assumed we would end up on our vacation. We head down the road in J’s Corsair.

The days and nights in the South Coast are almost identical; the night is only slightly darker. It’s a foggy and bleak country, very little but endless sand dunes and thin beach grass, and the pounding pale gray ocean. It takes us several days of travel across the one lane coastal highway. We sleep in the Corsair during the night, and never pass another driver or a car.

Finally we reach Grey. The main part of Grey is behind wooden walls and officially off limits to non-natives, but the tourist quarter has maybe 100 fellow travellers from various parts of the country. They wander around with a look of perpetual disappointment, thumbing through guidebooks, and grumbling about the bleak and ugly vacation spot they’ve chosen. The tourist quarter faces the ocean, with the highway and a mile or so of sand dune, separating it from the water.

No one who lives in Grey works in the Tourist Quarter (I’ve never actually seen a local) and it’s all automated. It sounds high-tech, but it’s just the opposite. Food is all prepackaged snack food, dispensed by rickety wooden machines. All the cogs and gears of the machines are made of drift wood, salt eaten and paint peeling. The same goes for all the buildings and the rows and rows of hotels. I pick a hotel and start looking around. Again, the hotels are all automated. You drop money in a wooden slot, sign a ledger, and a ring of keys slide down the wooden trough. I flip through the ledger, and find J’s name next to a room number. I drop money into the slot, and when the key slot opens, I jam my hand into it. I grope in the darkness and start pulling out key rings; after a few tries I find the key’s to J’s room. We head up the rickety stairs and look for the correct room number.

The hotels are thin, like the flatiron building, but they stretch for miles. Each room consists of a bed, a stainless steel sink, and a wooden toilet. The whole room is less than 4 feet wide, but 30 feet long. There are windows open and facing the central courtyard of the Tourist Quarter, but the wall facing the ocean is blank and windowless. The whole place is dilapidated; it’s entirely made of the same driftwood looking lumber, with faded paint and fraying edges. There’s the remnants of a strange sense of "maritime country cute” in the Tourist Quarter, although it’s long since faded and peeled into creepiness. It looks like some little old lady with a cutesy nautical architecture fetish built the whole town 100 years ago, and then it was left to crack, peel and fade in the salt and sun.

As I enter J’s room, I don’t expect to find anything, but on the bed are two desiccated corpses. J and his girlfriend. We stare a while, not knowing what to do. They look like they died in pain or in fear, grimacing and clutching at each other, but there is no sign of violence. There’s no police in Grey, of course, so all I can do is note the room number, but a blanket over them, and go to our own room for the night. Clearly, neither of us wants to stay very long, and our vacation is effectively over. We settle in to the thin rickety bed, and try to sleep.

Forgive me, this is where it gets weird. Within the dream, I have another dream.

Suddenly I’m on the beach outside Grey and its morning. I must have driven the corsair here, because it’s on the beach behind me. I realize now that the strange hubcaps allow it to drive on the sand. I’m very disoriented, not sure how I got here, wondering where my girlfriend is, when I look out at the waves. I see someone walk out of the water in badly shredded surfer’s wetsuit. I know who it is, but now I cannot recall. His face is a bleary smear in my memory. He’s yelling at me, waving his arms and gesticulating. He’s trying to warn me of something, and I can see behind him that he’s being pursued; a horde of people spring out of the water, hooting and hollering.

They wear incredibly decayed scuba gear, and ride small motorized devices, like a personal underwater engine, all made with a similar aesthetic to the architecture of Grey and the make of the corsair. This is the first time I’ve ever seen locals. They look vaguely fish like themselves, pale and waterlogged, and sport clothes made out of rope and fibers. Shells for jewelry, long dreadlocks, shark teeth woven into their beards. They shoot my unknown friend with a spear gun and tug on the wire, pulling his body back into the surf, and then they surround me. In moments, my arms are tied behind my head, and they drag me into the surf.

I’m completely disoriented but I hear their wet laughter die and they go silent as they prepare for some sort of ritual. They’re holding a rusty curving dagger, and they have a infant wrapped in oilskins. It’s mewling in the saltwater spray, and I can hear them all chanting around it. As they dip the knife towards the child, I can hear fragments of their chant. “Cthulhu” is the only word I hear, and it makes me want to laugh. It’s all so absurd. The baby stops crying, and I know it must be dead. The incoming waves around me are now tinged red. The chanting increases in volume, and in the bloody surging tide I can see something taking shape it each breaking wave. I get the sense of teeth and jaws and eyes and tentacles and a maw, and I close my eyes because I don’t want to look, but I can still sense the thing being birthed from the sea, like there is a voice describing it to me, echoing loudly in my skull.

Then everything stops, and I can hear laughter.

Distinctive, braying laughter.

It’s Eddie Murphy.

He’s standing on the beach, and laughing in disbelief at the scene. “This is one shitty looking movie!” he hollers. The cultists stare at him and then me in disbelief, and the thing beneath the waves slithers soundlessly away into the ocean.

Eddie Murphy walks down the beach towards them, laughing, with an air of utter nonchalance, still convinced he’s wandered onto the set of some cheap horror movie. The cultists are rapidly shifting from shock to pure rage, and begin advancing on him. I raise my voice to scream a warning at him and I get smacked in the jaw with the butt of a spear.

That’s when I wake up. In the hotel bed in the Tourist District of Grey. I have some vague conception that what I had just ‘dreamed’ might have been something that had happened in the past, or something that would happen in the future, but I had no idea.

All I know is that I have to get the fuck out of the South Coast.

I wake my girlfriend up and send her outside to get some water and food for the trip from the wooden automat. I scramble, frantically packing our things, but I can’t find my left shoe. I lean out the window towards the plaza, to ask my girlfriend if she’s seen it, and I see her talking to S, an old friend from an old job I haven’t seen for years. This bit of familiarity calms me and I walk down to shake his hand, feeling foolish for panicking.

We chit chat for a few minutes, and eat a prepackaged breakfast. I tell him vaguely what’s been happening, and that we intend to leave Grey as soon as possible. He smiles and nods at this.

“Well… Good luck, I guess.” He says cryptically, and then walks away.

My panic is back on in a flash at this, and I race back upstairs. I still can’t find that goddamned shoe! I’m tearing the room apart when I realize, my girlfriend hasn’t followed me back upstairs. Then I realize it’s also completely silent outside. I race to the window, and the entire plaza is deserted. Not a soul around.

I feel like my chest is about to collapse in panic.

Everything is so quiet and so still that it feels like a physical caul has been pulled over the world, and it’s suffocating me.


And then I wake up. For reals this time.

So… I have no idea what that’s about. I wrote it all down as soon as I woke up, every little weird detail, almost all the names: Village of Grey, the Corsair (I started calling the land the South Coast as I wrote this, in the dream it was just the concept of endless hinterlands south of San Francisco…)

I was sorely tempted to leave Eddie Murphy out of it, as it makes for a much more… tonally consistent story, but theres no use lying to my brain. This dream reignited a Lovecraft reading frenzy that I had put aside some years prior.