kitchen door

(We are not at home, this is not the neighborhood where we live in the waking world. This is someplace else. I do not recognize it from either my dreams or the waking world.)

Midway through the walk, she becomes scared and tries to hide between two hedges. Losing sight of her fills me with panic and I cast about, calling her name. Her whimpering draws me to her and I coax her out: “Let’s go home. We don’t need to finish this.”

On the way back I notice that the olive oil is bubbling, almost boiling. The cap on the bottle is venting, spitting like a soda bottle that’s been shaken up.

The house is dark inside, cheap paneling and shag carpet. The furnishings are mismatched and poorly constructed. My daughter runs through a low doorway looking for her mother. She is still terrified and I am starting to feel the same. There is an oppressive presence in the house.

I feel it everywhere. For some reason my daughter hides under a low curved desk — a terribly tacky paneled affair with a curved return to one side. I try to climb below it to get her out but it is a maze of panels and pressboard beneath. I discover an electrical outlet bristling with jerry-rigged extension cords.

The door to the kitchen opens before my hand can reach the knob. I attempt to pull it closed and I can feel the strength of an unseen hand pulling back against me.