Lately, I’ve been having the same dream. I find myself on a train, rolling through a rural area I’ve never seen before. The train is an old steam engine, a model I’ve never personally seen before, and is probably not running anymore in real life. It’s a relic straight out of the diagrams from the American History books from back in my college days; I sometimes wonder to myself if I’d appreciate the antique train if I’d paid more attention in those classes.
Each night, I find myself in the same seat, row 4, in a car illuminated by a flickering light. Fellow passengers fill the seats, a mix of faces before me, beside me, and behind me. The car should be bustling with the chatter of a full journey, yet an unsettling stillness hangs heavy, like a somber funeral gathering. Throughout all my dreams, I can’t recall hearing a single peep from anyone.
An unspoken divide permeates the atmosphere, a cavernous silence that keeps everyone isolated in their own bubble. Even my attempts at small talk with the man seated next to me are met with complete indifference; his empty gaze is fixed on some distant point, unresponsive to my presence or words.
The silence within the train is so profound that I can distinctly hear the conductor’s stopwatch ticking and tocking away the seconds. But this conductor too, is only a silent sentinel, his face stern and deathly, his presence evoking a strange sense of foreboding.
Everything about the train has an eerie quality. I know it’s a dream, and that dreams are sometimes incomprehensible, but it’s hard to shake the unease. The fact that I can lucidly dream also adds an unsettling layer. Usually, I can effortlessly awaken at will, even move freely within my dream. And yet in the many times I’ve dreamt this dream, I’ve never been able to leave my seat in row 4, nor rouse myself from the dream.
For the last few nights, the train ferried me through surreal dreamscapes. One moment, I was riding next to volcanoes that burned with searing intensity, so bright and fiery hot they cast a vivid crimson hue across the train’s interior.
Then in the next moment, I was shivering as the train rumbled through glaciers that emanated an icy chill that seemed to seep into my very bones.
And past the glaciers was a dark woodland whose towering trees seemed to whisper secrets that sent shivers down my spine.
But a few days ago, the train abruptly halted, and the conductor’s voice resonated through the carriage.
“We have arrived at Glutton Station.”
There was a shuffling at the front; A subtle movement swept through the front row, an uncanny synchronized motion. They all shuffled out of the car, expressionless and lifeless, like prisoners of war being walked to their doom.
Cautiously, my gaze ventured beyond the train’s window, and there I saw it. A mass of human forms, contorted and twisted, crawling on all fours. Heads bowed low, they resembled writhing maggots on a carcass. Pale, milky eyes stared blankly, sweat glistening on foreheads, and veins protruding from their grimy, dirt-covered faces. As if by some gruesome compulsion, they were greedily devouring the dirt beneath them, bloating themselves to a torturous degree—the embodiment of gluttony.
They filled their maw with dirt, pebbles, and mud, their crooked, yellowed teeth grinding the matter with a sickening crunch. I watched—disgusted and yet somehow hypnotized by this horrifying display—as the lumps of soil passed down their throat and into their stuffed belly. Some of them had gorged on so much earth that they had created a deep hole in the soil.
And then I noticed. Amongst the wriggling masses were stone tablets erected from the ground: gravestones.
My vision seemed to distort with a terrible realization: these poor souls were digging their graves with their own teeth. I tore my gaze away from the hellscape just in time to keep me from vomiting.
My efforts to stave off the nausea left me coughing and wiping the corners of my mouth, grappling with the urge to retch. To my astonishment, when I looked up, I saw that I was the only one fighting to keep my dinner down—the other passengers had not even glanced outside.
No stolen glances, no flinches of horror, no reactions whatsoever. Their gaze remained fixed, lifeless, and vacant, just a lifeless stare towards nowhere.
I watched for a fleeting moment at the terrifying apathy of my fellow passengers, before the train creaked to life and rumbled forward.But even as the train pulled away from the twisted graveyard, the gnashing of teeth outside was so deafening—almost militaristic and duty-driven—that it beckoned my eyes back to the horrifying display of never-ending appetite.
Just as we neared a curve, I managed a glimpse of an immense, grotesquely bloated figure, its size rendering it incapable of any further feasting. But from the sky descended impish creatures, each brandishing a large knife. Their purpose was undeniable as with that knife, they pointed unwaveringly at the dirt-stuffed stomach.
No, no, no, no.
Let the poor soul rest…
But the creatures pressed down with their knives.
Down.
Down into the flesh of the ginormous man.
Down until the stuffed belly—
A sharp pain brought me back to my senses, and I awoke in a cold sweat. I looked at my right hand—it was clutching my cross necklace so tightly that my palm bore a gash.
-–
In the following days, the dream did not visit me. But its impact lingered like an unwelcome guest; during that time, food refused to pass my throat. I couldn’t shake the pandemonium of gnashing teeth from my head…
The people gorging themselves, digging their own graves.
The dirt being stuffed into their mouths.
The man with the stuffed belly…
The knife being brought down on it…
But yesterday, I woke to the soft rumbling of a steam engine. I found myself back on the train, my fear mounting as it stopped again, this time at Envy Station. There was some more shuffling from the second row, as passengers disembarked.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an endless rope, snaking into the sky. I looked up from my window seat and still failed to see where the rope came from—perhaps from the heavens themselves, it beckoned upward with a promise of salvation.
On that endless rope, there was a small figure climbing desperately, scrambling upwards with a frenzied determination. But a hand snaked from below, seizing the climber’s ankle in a vice grip. Defiant kicks and wild flails ensued. Yet all of the man’s efforts were in vain. With a gut-wrenching scream, the man was pulled back down, swallowed by the mass of humanity below.
As swiftly as the unfortunate climber had been pulled down, others clawed their way upward, eager to seize the lifeline. But they too, were promptly dragged down.
And now those that dragged them down scattered up.
Only to be promptly pulled into the writhing mass below.
Up.
Down…
Clawed up.
Clawed down…
Each figure each straining to climb upwards, each desperate to pull the others down.
As I nervously peeked at this sickening cycle, my heart raced as I fought to wake myself, desperate to escape this twisted dreamscape.
Come on, come on, get up.
Wake up…
Wake up.
Wake up!
I screamed at myself, pinched my cheeks, clawed at my forearms, pounded at my temples—my very soul straining against the iron grip of the dream.
But the train journeyed onwards.
No!
No! Stop!
Please, I beg of you…
Lord help me…
But despite my fervent efforts, the conductor announced our arrival at the next station.
“We have now arrived at Luscious Station.”
I briefly glanced up as the row in front of me stood up, exiting the train with somber expressions.
My eyes followed them outside. There, the same impish creatures from previous dreams forced the newcomers to their knees, pinning them down. One of the winged creatures descended, delicately pinching a small needle between its long fingers, a large spool of thread in another.
Oh God, no…
With a pin and needle, they stitched the newcomer’s eyes shut—the needle weaving in and out of their poor flesh. Their eyelids were now strained, tugged together by a thread so thin that it looked as if it might cut through the thin layer of skin it pulled at.
And with that, the creatures flew away, abandoning their grisly task and pushing the last of the damned into the endlessly vast, desolate land that stretched before them. The land was infinite, marked by absolutely nothing.
The passengers who had just gotten off the train found themselves in a disoriented state, their hands outstretched before them as if attempting to feel for something—anything—in the emptiness. They stumbled aimlessly through the barren landscape, their movements marked by uncertainty, their eyes forever sealed.
The train lurched forward, and I stared at the empty rows in front of me. The realization hit: I’m next.
Desperation gripped me, its cold fingers squeezing the air from my lungs and replacing it with a sense of impending doom.
Wake up!
Wake up Jonathan, wake up!
WAKE THE HELL UP!
Please…
My pleas intensified, a frantic chorus of mumbled prayers and feverish supplications.
“God, please help me,” I found myself entreating, my voice a blend of panic and desperate hope. Clutching my head in both hands, my fists pounded my skull in a desperate attempt to shatter the dream’s iron grip—as if physical force could wrench me from the clutches of this nightmarish trance.
My ears were ringing. Blood pounded in my head. The gnashing teeth, the mass of people trying to claw their way up, the wandering souls—they all flashed before my eyes.
What had I done to deserve this?
Is it the homeless man I failed to bless?
My small moments of dishonesty?
The occasional Sunday prayers I failed to recite!?
No, no…
I am a man of God, his faithful follower!
My sins have been forgiven, washed away, and pardoned!!
I do not deserve this!!
Yet, the train mercilessly pressed on, indifferent to my pleas. Its wheels clattered with a relentless rhythm, echoing the racing beat of my heart.
I scoured my brain for salvation—the practices I’ve neglected, the small prayers I’ve brushed aside with casual disregard, every scrap of knowledge I have about breaking free from dreams. They now seem like lifelines; I grasped at them like a drowning man clings to driftwood
“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…” I recite, the words trembling as they slipped past my quivering lips in a desperate cadence.
But despite my fervent efforts, the train showed no signs of relenting.
Is this the end?
As the train shuddered to a halt, I bowed my head further and squeezed my eyes shut, still praying.
“We have now arrived at Pride Station,” the conductor’s voice echoed with finality.
I saw the man next to me rise and exit the train, his expression blank.
How can you accept this!?
How are you so calm…in the face of this hellscape!?
Do you know what hellish fate awaits us!?
“Sir, you will get off at this station,” the conductor declared. And with that statement, he grabbed my arm with inhuman might.
Defiance surged within me, and I cried out, my voice laced with fervor, “I will not accept this!! God is my shepherd! Only he will judge me!!”
But my cries fell on deaf ears as the conductor marched me through the train and out the exit, throwing me onto the ground.
As I staggered to my feet, the scene before me threatened to overwhelm me. In front of me was a courtyard adorned with crosses, each one tall and elegant, vainly garnished with fine decorations. Up high, there was a person crucified to each one. And far beneath them were those impish creatures, feeding a fire at the base of each cross.
They fed the hungry flames with tokens, food, and money—offerings of every sort. With each addition, the flames surged and swelled, doubling in size as they belched plumes of smoke that distorted the very air with waves of heat.
The nauseating smell of burning assaulted my nose, and my brain refused to register what it was that was burning.
The man suspended on the cross before me coughed heavily, his skin sore and blemished from the heat. He cried out, “I repent! I repent…I beg—” before he erupted into yet another coughing fit.
Overwhelmed by the scene, I staggered back, attempting to distance myself from the horror unfolding before my eyes. But then I felt a brutish hand curl around my shoulder.
I refuse to—
I was shoved forward, onto a wooden floor. No, a luxuriously decorated, wooden cross.
Lord save me!!
Wake up!
WAKE UP!!
Impish creatures on either side of me pinned down my arms, holding them in place.
God, save me!
I do not deserve this!
Please, WAKE UP!
HELP!
I struggled in vain as two of the creatures towered over me, one’s claws curled around a giant hammer, another holding a stake over my chest. The creature raised its hammer and swung down with chilling determination.
For a brief fraction of a second, I felt the stake pierce my skin, the searing pain a fleeting torment.
With a jolt, I awoke, my scream echoing through the confines of my room. My hand was bloodied, fiercely clutching my cross necklace. I looked down at my pajama shirt and saw a telltale trickle of blood where the stake had penetrated my skin.I heaved a shaky sigh of relief.
But then, as clear as day, a chilling whisper—the voice of the conductor—penetrated my awakening:
“Thou shall not flee again; next time shall be thy last.”