There is a house in Plymouth where I spent the formative years of my childhood, and where I was first exposed to the sinister world of the supernatural. It was (and still is) an unassuming semi-detached house in a quiet neighbourhood on the edge of a wood. I could write at great length on that place, but I will refrain from doing so on this occasion. Like many dreams before, I made the pilgrimage there, although this time unwittingly, drawn back by a seemingly irresistible magnetism.
The dream started with me preparing to go to a family gathering with Li in lower Wivenhoe. She was taking a long time getting ready, so I offered to go on ahead of her and buy some cigarettes (she smoked in the dream) on the way down. It was a Friday evening, and the off-license was packed with people pre-loading for a night out. I stood in a long queue as it slowly snaked around the cramped shop, tipsy, heavily-perfumed gaggles of fat women shoving me from all sides. Catching the infectious party vibe, I turned to a woman standing behind me and joked that I was going to catch Covid.
Eventually it was my turn, and I asked for two packs of Benson and Hedges menthol, only to learn that nearly all of the cigarettes had sold out. As I left in dejection, the shop keeper ran after me claiming that he had found one last pack. I bought it and returned to my vintage bike outside, and was observed by a group of girls. I heard them whispering that I was a 'posh lad' so decided to play up a bit for their entertainment. When I cycled away, one of them shouted, "You're fit, but you need to go to the gym." I responded with, "I know, but I can't be arsed" in an exaggerated posh accent which set them all off giggling.
The road to lower Wivenhoe was heaving with people migrating in the same direction, many of them on foot. It took a lot of careful steering to avoid cycling into them, but progress was slow and I decided to make a detour. I peeled off down a side road, planning to make a big loop round, where I hoped the foot traffic would be less dense. Before I knew what was happening, I had arrived in Plymouth, at the top of the hill in Looseleigh, overlooking Ullswater Cresent. This was the neighbourhood of my youth. The woods I played in, more overgrown than I remembered, the grassy verges verdant and glowing green, the road slick with recent rainfall. It was the same, and yet not the same.
After breathing in the fragrance of it all, I decided I had enough time to quickly swing by my old house at No. 29. I planned to take a selfie in front of it, to post on the family Whatsapp group. Two little girls on trikes played outside on the road. They said goodbye to one another, and one of them bounded up the steps to my old house. "Do you live here?" I asked? She replied that she did, and I followed her up the stairs. The door opened and her parents appeared, eyeing me suspiciously for being with their child. I quickly explained to them that I used to live in their house, at which point they dropped their guard and came outside to talk to me.
The man was middle-aged, overweight, with ginger string-like hair hanging from a mostly bald pate. The woman had cropped red hair and a gaunt aspect. I told them how much I had missed Plymouth over the years, and how the grass was greener here, on account of all the rain. With the small-mindedness of proud locals, they lapped up my adoration and explained how they had always lived nearby but only recently moved into this house. We talked about people who used to live on the estate, and they asked if I remembered so-and-so. It was starting to get dark, and I had a party to be at, but still I had to see inside. I had to know.
Somehow I found myself indoors, apologising profusely for taking up their time, wiping my shoes on the hall mat, telling them I would be quick. The little girl was in the bedroom where my sisters slept, preparing for bed, and I took some photos in the dark on my phone, mostly of the wardrobe. Who knew what would show up? Next I went into the hallway and revisited my old room with the creepy clown wallpaper. As I was taking a photo, the flash illuminated the saggy naked body of the mother, who had undressed to go in the shower. I apologised and hurried downstairs, hoping she hadn't seen me.
I had a wee in a narrow downstairs toilet (which doesn't exist in real life) and then a snoop around one more room. It was the father's music room, and it was full of acoustic guitars, all laid out in rows, too many to count. The man approached me with a quizzical air, wondering why I was still loitering. After snapping a few more photos, I apologised again and made to leave, having far outstayed my welcome. I hesitated at the front door, and blurted out, "Are you enjoying living here? You haven't experienced any... disturbances, have you?"
"What do you mean? And why do you ask?" the man asked, panic creeping into his voice. I was on the verge of telling him, but it seemed somehow too cruel. After all, they had to live there. "Oh nothing really, I just meant like loud noises at night, that sort of thing? Never mind!" It was clear that whatever spectral presence had lurked there in yonder years was long gone. Either way, I looked forward to analysing the photos later. The man closed the door behind me, only too eager to see me gone. I had turned up uninvited, imposed myself upon them, and spied on his wife naked.
I cycled away from Looseleigh, towards the main city of Plymouth, which in dream logic, would take me to lower Wivenhoe. It was lighter in the city, the cloak of darkness had not yet brushed it. Jolly Irish pubs bellowed out music, and hot dog wagons gushed their effluence into the evening air. Suddenly a silver car beeped me, startling me out of my observations. It was two of my sisters, Fallon and Dana. They beckoned me inside. "Party is cancelled," they told me, "nobody turned up and there's massive drama with Camella and Lloyd." Then they drove me back home, filling me in on all the gossip. This part of the dream at least, was realistic.
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