This occurred 30 years ago.
‘What will you do? Come here…’
The grunting sounds and shrieks of pain echoed everywhere. I would wake up from it, my heart pounding, my breathing very fast and deep, and sweating heavily on my silky brown bed sheet. My mom would be there for me whenever these things occurred. I was lucky enough to be adopted into a loving family.
It was a repeating dream, over and over and over again, each and every night in the month of February.
I would have these occurring nightmares from the start of the month. Police were everywhere, lights flashing, and the sound of dogs barking. Cars screeched. I would see people gather around me with shock on their faces. Then suddenly, the scene would cut, and I would be in a room in front of a policeman.
I know in my dreams I did something, something horrifying, something inhumane. I did something wrong; I just don’t know what it is. Then I’d be in a dark room, with no one but myself. Suddenly, a hand would grab me in the dark, and I would wake up.
These dreams would occur in the month of February, each and every night, but I don’t know why.
Every second Saturday of the month, Mr. Jones would come to our home to conduct a series of tests for his research papers about the developmental growth of foster children. He would let me do a lot of things – he’d observe me from afar, take some snapshots with his camera, write something down on his chart, and talk with my mom and dad, etc. You know, the usual things a social worker would do.
At the end of each session, he would give me a lollipop since I was a good kid.
One Saturday afternoon in July, during the summer of ‘93, he arrived at our home. But this time, he didn’t let me do the usual things. He said he wanted me to sit down in front of him. I looked at my mom, and she had this different facial expression that seemed to say, ‘Let’s just follow what he says.’
I sat on our blue couch in front of Mr. Jones. He asked me if I wanted to play a game. Of course, as a kid, I said yes. He told me that a lot of kids would fall asleep whenever they tried to do this game. He said that if I didn’t fall asleep, he’d give me a chocolate bar instead of a lollipop. He pulled out a little pendulum from his hand and swung it sideways in front of me.
He instructed me to just follow the pendulum with my eyes. I did what I was told. I started to feel sleepy the minute I did this, but I tried to resist the urge since I wanted that chocolate bar.
The next thing I knew, I was in a dark room. It was the same dark room from my dreams, but this time, I felt like someone was with me in the room. When I turned around, I saw a man in a brown leather jacket. I couldn’t really see his face as the only light source was the light bulb above our heads. When he moved nearer to me, I saw his full figure.
His arms had a lot of cuts, and his eyes were bleeding, with fresh blood running from his empty eye socket. His forehead seemed to be dented, and he moved slowly towards me. His cheeks looked like they were rotting. I screamed, moving backward using my hands and arms.
My feet and legs seemed to stop coordinating.
The man reached his arms slowly towards me and whispered in the deepest, eeriest voice,
“Do you want an ice cream?”
He grinned, and as he opened his mouth, his teeth fell out one by one.
I panicked, and everything seemed to black out. The next thing I knew, I was being hugged by my mom. I woke up, still panicking. I didn’t know who or what that dream was about. I looked at Mr. Jones, and he had this indifferent reaction on his face. It was as if something wasn’t right.
The dreams still occurred but eventually stopped when I reached adolescence.
Twenty years had passed since the incident, and I was already working at a research university. One day, I came across a weird file in our university administration folder. I was reading about the unconventional technique of Hypnosis when I stumbled upon a certain individual in the Psychology community.
I was intrigued because, as an Associate Professor in Psychology, I had never heard or read about this person. Apparently, his works were “unpublished” due to the lack of data and ethical issues. He conducted hypnosis on children with trauma and used it to suppress traumatic memories from them. His name was Dr. Joel Nelson Sades. I searched and read more about him and found out that his name was mentioned only once on the internet. It was an archived website with pictures of people who died before 2000.
When I looked at his picture, I almost dropped my pen. His eyes, his nose, his hair—I knew him.
He was Mr. Jones.
My heart pounded as I continued to read more about his work in our university files. His most notable subject was a case of a child who was kidnapped by a man in his 40s.
The next part almost made me faint as I read every sentence. I was breathing heavily and shaking. Every emotion came rushing back.
“The man would use his ice cream truck to lure his victims, always seen wearing a brown jacket while handing out ice creams.”
It was stated that he would tranquilize children and kidnap them. Almost every child he kidnapped ended up found lifeless a week later. But there was this one case. A kid was abducted on the month of February in 92..
The kid, according to the police, was able to escape by stabbing the kidnapper on his eyes and cheeks. The child viciously ripped off his right cheek and stabbed him multiple times in the neck and torso. The police found the kid in the living room of a house where he was held captive while his captor is dead beside him. The kid managed to stab this man’s head and even hit his head with the knife handle, eventually denting it.
The kid was then rescued by the police and eventually had to go under trauma therapies. I read and read the file until I reach this part “The trauma therapies are not working and the kid’s counselor decided it would be best to tap Dr. Nelson. Here, initial reports of progress were seen as unconventional technique such as hypnosis were used”
It took me almost 30 years to realize one thing.
My reality is not what I thought it is. Dreams can sometimes be suppressed memories.
I’m in my 30’s now and I’m married with 2 children. The dreams never reoccurred. But everytime I would remember that university file, I would question myself if everything I read was true.
I don’t know what’s true anymore. Truth is subjective.
I guess, I chose to live in a truth that would keep me sane.