Dreamscapes: Cemetery

The cemetery appears in my dreams at least once a month for the last year, always the same layout; plots of land that my mind registers as squares from an aerial perspective, a stone wall that stretches the perimeter, tall trees both deciduous and coniferous, shrubs that flower in spring and berry in winter, and the road that winds serpentine down hill and then will suddenly morph into harshly angular corners. I think it’s of value to note that this is not a cemetery I’m familiar with, nor is it an amalgamation of cemeteries I’ve been to, this is uniquely its own. I only enter and exit from one location, overgrown with vines and brambles, although I can see the other portal off in the distance, behind it acres of land pierced with large, white marble crosses. People who visit the cemetery will be carrying on their business, walking, visiting graves, driving through, without an acknowledgement of my presence. The seasons will change, sometimes it’s early autumn with the hint of color beginning to radiate from leaves, other times it’s winter and the trees are skeletal. I can hear the leaves rustle in breezes and I can feel the chill of shadows and the warmth of sun. I feel anxious in this cemetery. I fear crossing an invisible line that only I register. I know how far I can go, before I feel the anxiety grip me. I become seized with a terror before the unseen takes hold. I see the phantoms moving about, weaving between headstones and tree trunks, and they see me and keep me on their radar. I never reveal their existence to anyone accompanying me, I just study their behaviors and silently acknowledge they exist. In one iteration of the dream, I was a passenger in a gold sedan, the driver I couldn’t define, as they had a voice and a presence, but I was deaf to their words and they weren’t registering in my direct line of sight, just my periphery. They kept driving slowly toward the forbidden, as I begged for the windows to be up and the doors locked, a death grip on the arm rest. I felt all their eyes on me, dead stares, and their intentions to approach the passenger side of the car. I felt panic and noticed that as we drove deeper into my most feared section of the cemetery, the sun became eclipsed, and darkness and shadows of unsettling lengths and shades began to encapsulate the car. I finally yelled, “We need to go back!” The driver kept driving, their speed slowing. Chilled and incapable of regulating my breathing I yelled, “Turn around!” The driver cackled, stopped, and slowly turned the car around. We slowly left the unwelcoming section of the cemetery, the sun coming back at an angle of late afternoon, and I took note of the leaves fluttering in the breeze, the sun glinting off them like they were coated in silver, as if they were flashbulbs from cameras capturing my escape. The latest dream had me in a light blue car, slowly entering the cemetery and driving in my most feared direction. My vision became deprived, like wearing blinders, a tunneled view of horror. I whispered, “I can’t.” The car continued on the path. I said it firmer, “I can’t.” And then a voice, masculine and encouraging, “You’re safe.” The car then pulled into a small parking spot overlooking my terror. I went to speak, but a soft hand settled atop mine and those words again, “You’re safe.” The doors unlocked and the blinders fell away, my full vision returned, and then the sound of the driver side door opening and shutting, a shadow crossing in front of the car as I looked at the door handle. There was no rush. No door being opened for me. It was to be my choice, my doing. I finally mustered the strength to open the passenger door and step outside, closing the door and feeling the chill from overcast late fall weather. I looked upon the forbidden plots and then focused on my companion; a griffin. It walked to a small, two story Tudor caretaker’s house of stone, slate, and diamond latticed windows. It entered and turned to me, so I followed, unsure but willing. I turned and looked upon my terror, the dead walking their paths, and each time they would look up and towards me, their heads would fall loose on their necks, only allowing them to stare at the ground. I exhaled the breath I’d been holding and crossed the threshold, the door closing and latching, securing me inside. Red. The walls, the carpet, the fabric on furniture, all red. That masculine voice again, soft and sure, “You’re safe.” The griffin advanced towards and then up the stairs. I followed. The singular room had triple windows on every wall. I noticed that there was a bed, and I was struck by the realization that I needed to rest. I could lay down and face the windows that frame my nightmare, or I could lay down with my back to it. The griffin kept its eyes on me, but never rushing my decision. I finally laid down, my back to my nightmare, my eyes heavy with exhaustion, and the windows I faced a knotwork of English ivy. The griffin gently got up on the end of the bed, sitting guard at my feet, its eyes on the view to my nightmare, and as I drifted off to sleep, a sleep within a dream, that masculine voice again washed over me, “You did amazing.

Lizzie O. August 2025