I got a letter in the mail this morning. It was an invitation, sealed by wax. There were no specifications: no time, no date; not even the name of the person who sent it. Despite omitting these seemingly essential details, it did state quite candidly that if I do not accept the invitation, I would soon die. The only specific information detailed in the letter was the destination. This destination was quite descriptive, however—and quite familiar. Perhaps more interestingly, the latter was not actually a physical place.
It was a place I had dreamt about the previous night, or perhaps during this morning’s sleep. The dream had been quite vivid and particularly memorable. I was in Amsterdam, where I have been once before, albeit briefly. The dreamscape was not from my memory, however; I don’t know how I even knew it was Amsterdam, but it was. I am sure of that.
I am with a girl in the street. Everything is picturesquely suburban in a way akin to my real memories of Amsterdam. The girl, apparently, is going to show me where a money exchange is, as I have only currency from my home country—no Euros. She tells me her name, which is something along the lines of Kalialeah. I ask whether I can just call her “Kali”, to which she giggles and says yes. She is a very enigmatic and persuasive girl, with a lot of charm. We hurry through the streets in such a way that it doesn’t seem like a hurry.
The most significant part of the dream occurs next, to which the invitation alludes in quite more detail than I will write here.
Kali and I, after roaming through some fairly labyrinthine streets, which seem to be covered up above like leafy bowers, come to a large landing—a kind of huge balcony. At this point, Kali trips and breaks her shoe; the sole is torn from the bottom and hangs on only just. She looks sad and shows me the sole, flopped away from the bottom of her foot. I feel slightly blameworthy. At the edge of this large balcony I see, many miles below, a huge graveyard which stretches right across my field of vision, from each side of my peripheral to the other. It is the largest graveyard I have ever seen and lays across an expanse of green field. It is breathtaking.
Later on, I make it to an exchange. It is in an arcade-type area, very sterile and cold. Kali is still with me. My recollection ends here, and so does the letter’s description.
It is now the evening of the day in which I received the letter. The letter, it is to be noted, was not delivered by the regular postal authorities—I confirmed this not long after reading it. The regular mail, you see, was delivered after I had retrieved the strange letter from the mailbox. Things like this do not regularly occur. It is a thing that only some may take note of, or even keep an eye out for; my sagacity is something I pride myself on, especially in matters such as this.
For some reason I am not baffled and plan, somehow, to make my way back to this psychical destination. I don’t know exactly how I am going to do this, but I feel that there must be a way. Besides, if I fail to arrive there at some point, I will die. The authority of this letter is strong; I have no reason to believe its content, but nonetheless I do. I must get back to the pinnacle overlooking the graveyard; it is the only way I can avoid death.
The irony here suggests that the author of the letter may have a playful sense of humour, similar to my own. With this humour in mind, I have chosen to take the challenge; and thus, my quest begins.
(Perhaps to be continued…)