dream of a funeral michelle yao

DREAM OF A FUNERAL

ART by GRAEME FISHMAN WORDS by MICHELLE YAO

Mom hates it when I tell our relatives that I’m getting my degree in “sleeping,” but that’s what it is, ul-

timately. My standard-issue McMaster University hoodie might read Bachelors of Lethology but that sweater rarely sees the light of day. I spend most of my days in the starprint footie pajamas that our Dream Lab provides. Granted, Mom might just be worried about me violating the non-disclosure agreement that I signed when I was first recruited for this training program. The existence of Dreamwalkers like me is on Level 3 clearance with the government. As far as my roommates know, my courses are all about rocks — not astral-projecting outside of my body to complete classified missions in my sleep.

“God, Ash, why are you always coming back so late?” my roommates would ask, and I’d deadpan, “It’s been a rocky day,” praying that the bad joke would deter any further questions.

Last year, we’d had another Dreamwalker stationed in our dorm room. The two of us would confirm each other’s alibis and collaborate to cover up the truth about our degrees. Ever since Merrilyn’s transfer to U of V’s Lethology faculty, I had become our program’s greatest security threat. What can I say? I’m bad at keeping things to myself.

Which is why I’m coming forward with this blog post

now.

On the day I saw Merrilyn again, I arrived late to the Dream Lab with apologies dribbling down my tongue and cough syrup dribbling down my throat. I might be in the strangest program ever, but that doesn’t make me immune to the noxious cocktail of viruses that spill over campus when students dread it most: midterm season.

Lethology students don’t have midterms, but we do have daily missions. As Dr. Dean briefed me, I shivered — from my cold—though Dr. Dean’s snide remarks about my tardiness were likely also culpable. Merrilyn had this theory that Dr. Dean’s glasses were the only things stopping her beady eyes from freeze-raying everything in sight like a comic book villain.

At least my mission was simple. I was to dreamwalk to potentially dangerous points of interest and come back with whatever reports and observations I could gather.

It started out like any other session. I crept past rows of unconscious classmates to lie down in my designated bed. Thanks to the incense spraying from the ceiling like mist in the produce aisle at the grocery store, the sleep came quickly as I let the air around me take my soul. They called this astral-projecting, but it was more like astral-floating. I drifted from my physical form like a balloon freed from a child’s fingers.

Ever since Merrilyn’s transfer to U of V’s Lethology faculty, I had become our program’s greatest security threat. What can I say? I’m bad at keeping things to myself.

Here’s another misnomer: traveling outside our bodies like this is known as “dreamwalking”, but we can actually teleport in this state. It’s every tardy student’s dream.

I shut my eyes—or, my spirit’s eyes, since my real eyes were already shut—and muttered, “Take me to 980 Hawthorne Crescent.”

I waited for a whoosh sound. That was the astral projection equivalent of the disembodied Google Maps voice, letting me know that I’d arrived. However, it never came. When I opened my eyes, I was still in the Dream Lab, hovering a few feet above my sleeping body. I tried again, “Go to 980 Hawthorne Crescent.”

No luck. If anything, I felt more drained. Crap. This is either because of the cold or the cold medicine. I could have fallen asleep on my feet, nevermind that I was already asleep. It was the first time my lack of athleticism had ever bled into the dream world. “Having difficulties?”

My eyes shot open. Had one of my classmates come back from their own trip? How much did I have to pay for them to do my mission and to spare me from Dr. Dean’s wrath? As it turned out, the speaker was one of my classmates, just not one that I had expected. “Merrilyn?!” It was hard to speak with a slack jaw. “What are you doing here?”

She was dangling in mid-air beside me, a translucent figure flickering in and out like a glitching ghost. Her pale complexion and billowing black hair added to the B-horror movie effect.

“What am I doing here? I’ve been here, trying to get your attention, since April.”

“What? No, you haven’t. You’re doing a semester at U of V. I’ve been pissed since you haven’t responded to my texts. I’ve been…” I trailed off. Merrilyn’s spirit was wearing maroon footie pajamas that were identical to mine. U of V’s Dream Lab had different designs. Merrilyn and I used to complain about how cool their pajamas looked in comparison. I had imagined that she would cere moniously burn the footies as soon as she left. “Ash, when you were first recruited, they told you that there was no risk in dreamwalking, right? Well, they lied. It’s easy to get stuck here, in the spirit realm. I make one trip too far, and the next thing I know, I can’t get back into my own body.” She choked out a laugh like it was a bitter pill. “But sacrificing a few Dreamwalkers and cover-

-covering up their disappearances—it’s a worthy price to pay for good intel. I can’t believe there was a time when I thought their worst offence was not rounding up our scores on our last evals, or not switching out these hideous uniforms.”

I’d had many daydreams about reuniting with Mer, but nothing like this. “Where’s your body? You just need to get back into it, right?”

“My body’s empty and unresponsive, like it’s in a coma or something,” she flipped her hair nonchalantly and shrugged, “and when our profs realized what had happened, they hid it away downstairs. I don’t think that body’s strong enough for me to return.”

Merrilyn’s eyes bore into mine. If Dr. Dean’s eyes were freeze-rays, then hers would be heat vision. “Though there is a strong body here right now that’s vacant…”

I followed her gaze down to my sleeping form.

“I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve tried to possess one of these shells,” she cooed, “I’m so weak, and the tethers on the spirits are usually so strong. But look at you today—you can’t even dreamwalk. I wonder what would happen if I tried right now…”

We dove for my body at the same time, crashing into a pileup that was the closest a sloth like me had ever come to partaking in what sports movies refer to as a football tackle. I’d re-entered my body countless times after walks, but this was my first time prying my way through the door with another party vying for room. It was like competing in a Tug of War, only with my limbs instead of a rope.

Finally, I could feel my body slipping away from my spirit’s grasp. It was enough momentum for Merrilyn to shove me out completely. Her arm swung at me as if swatting a fly. Without a physical body to weigh me down, my spirit tumbled through the air like a limp ragdoll. It didn’t hurt when I hit the ground; my head was already pounding like a desperate visitor against a door.

Dr. Dean chose this moment to return to the Lab room.

Rousing up faster than I did, Merrilyn blinked the sleep from my eyes, sprung out of bed, and locked her fingers—my fingers—around Dr. Dean’s throat in an instant.

“YOU!” Merrilyn screeched. God, was my voice always that pitchy?

Dr. Dean sputtered, “Ashley, what do you think you’re—”

“This is what you get for leaving me out there!” Merrilyn screamed. If their spirits weren’t elsewhere, my classmates would have certainly all woken up. “This is what you get for running this nightmare program! I’ve been alone for months—all ‘cause of you!”

Guttural gasps for air were Dr. Dean’s only response. Distantly, I could hear myself making similar sounds, as if I was experiencing an out-of-body experience while already outside of my body. Watching a facsimile of myself suffocate Dr. Dean was not as cathartic as I’d always imagined it to be.

I want her dead, too, but it’s the system I want gone the most. Like the air slipping from a balloon, I felt Mer’s spirit loosen its hold on my body, leaving me enough room to melt back in.

“Merrilyn, stop!” She flinched. She can still hear me, I realized. I didn’t dreamwalk so much as dreamcreep so my spirit could squeeze into the scarce space between her and Dr. Dean.

“Listen,” I pled, “this won’t solve anything! Sure, you’ll have my body, but that won’t matter when the other profs find out. Then, the same people that kept you trapped out here will repeat the same lies to more Dreamwalkers. I want her dead, too, but it’s the system I want gone the most.”

She loosened her grip on Dr. Dean. Purple bruises bloomed where her fingers had been, as dark as the gaze she levelled at me. “Do you have a better idea, Ash? Because I’ve been playing by their rules all this time and look where that got me.”

“I’m not saying that we should keep on doing that. I’m proposing that you give me my body back before we do anything drastic. I’ll run out of here, and I’ll expose this entire operation for what it is. I’ll — I’ll write a Facebook status or something. I’ll add pictures of this lab and leak some of the classified intel we’ve collected through dreamwalking. Anything that’s proof of what’s going on in this lab. Maybe it won’t stay up for very long, but it’ll be enough, Mer.” I drifted between her and Dr. Dean, then placed my hands on her — my — shoulders, “Or, okay, maybe we’ll just get written off by people like Dr. Dean, but other Dreamwalkers like us should still get to know what’s happening. Then, we can bring all of this down together. At the very least, we’ll get your body back. Trust me, you don’t want to stay in my body; it’s way too vulnerable to colds and spiritual possession. Clearly.”

I bent over to envelop Merrilyn in a hug. My spirit went right through her, of course, but she had the decency to pretend to hug me back. “I missed you, Mer.”

A pause. And then, “I missed you, too.”

Like air slipping from a balloon, I felt Mer’s spirit loosen its hold on my body, leaving me enough room to melt back in.

That brings me to the present, writing this piece. You can find all the evidence I’ve gathered on the Dreamwalker program below, including records on the 89 walkers they’ve abandoned in the spirit realm. Don’t let them get away with this. As for Mer, we’ve tracked her body down and we’e trying to find a way to get her back inside. Luckily, our classmates have pitched in. If you’re a Dreamwalker yourself, consider joining us. Dreamwalk to 980 Hawthorne Crescent tomorrow night. It’ll be a rocky road, but the disgraced McMaster Lethology Class of 20-never will meet you there. x

ART by JULIANNA BIERNACKI

ART by STEVEN KENNY

ART by JULIANNA BIERNACKI