The Necronomicon

Chapter Thirty Seven

"Come here." His eyes were dancing with what looked like flame. He looked at her, piercingly, as if he was looking straight into her soul. His arms — Frederick's — encased her, pulling her closer; she was pressed against his chest. Meredith smiled into him, and his lips brushed the top of her head gently. As he spoke, his voice was almost hoarse — she assumed from desire. She let her hand rest on his bicep lightly: he beamed at her.

"What do you want to do?" She asked, squeaking as his arms encircled her more desperately, tugging her closer.

"You." He said, then he laughed. "No. I do — but not now; now I want to —"

"Dance!" Meredith suggested, excited, smiling.

Frederick shook his head — but then he swept her up, into his arms; she squealed. "Meredith." His face was close to hers, his perfect, perfect face —

"I'm never letting you go." He promised.

She was alone — without warning, there was a whirlwind, a blur of colour: she had been separated from him. The colours morphed into a woman — her stepmother. Eleanor stared at her, pure love sparking from her lips as she spoke. "You don't need him." The words were crisp and dry.

Meredith screamed, yelled, hollered. "I do! I do!" She repeated the words, endlessly, her voice high and swaying. Eleanor's eyes hardened, and she vanished just as swiftly as she'd appeared. "Eleanor!" Meredith cried, her words shrill and sharp, running towards where her stepmother had stood. When she got there, the walls surrounding her shattered, raining glass all over her. She hadn't realised there had been walls.

She screamed — and then he came.

Not Frederick.

It was Alfred's face, grinning at her, his lips slightly parted, leaning down — a hand grabbed hers. He brought his mouth to hers, pressing against her lips carefully. Meredith pulled him closer —

Meredith sat up, her hands covering her mouth. It had been a dream. Only a dream. The beginning — she sighed. The end...

She did not love Alfred; she only wished that she had married him. He was lovely, caring, affectionate, strong... stop. That would only make her want him more: and he was unattainable.

His fiancé had just died. She did not love him. She did not. Meredith just wanted love, and with Frederick's betrayal — she trusted Alfred, and that was why it had been his lips she'd wanted to kiss in her dream.

It was only a dream.

What could it say about her real thoughts and feelings anyway?

"You're up," Alfred said, half-smiling, his hair messy. She nodded mutely, accepting the food he handed her without a word.

"Alfred," She began, and he nodded. "Do dreams... y'know, mean.. anything?"

"Mean things?" He bowed his head. "I believe that they do. They come from your subconscious, Meredith, they're supposed to represent your true wants and desires." Her heart sank with every word. "However, the meanings of them are often disguised. Dreams can be misleading."

She brightened. So, it meant nothing.

"There's the story of the dream — I won't bother you with the key terms — and then there's the meaning behind it. Separate things. There are elements of mystery within what you see at night: the symbols, the hidden meanings. I love trying to work out a dream. Tell me yours; I'll try and see the meaning behind it."

Meredith blanched. Tell Alfred... the dream? No. No. Definitely not. "No."

"Come on, Meredith... it'll ease your mind: you won't be able to concentrate otherwise."