The Unfurling Vine

Trevor Perkins grapples with the fragile boundary between waking and dreaming, attempting to navigate the labyrinth of his own mind to find what was brutally taken. But some doors, once opened, refuse to close easily.

The air, heavy with the promise of more rain, clung to the windowpanes of Trevor's study, blurring the early spring world beyond. Outside, the garden, neglected since Clara, was a riot of unruly green – new growth fighting through last year's decay, a stubborn, vibrant mess that mirrored the turmoil inside him. He could taste the damp earth on the wind, even through the sealed glass, a reminder of beginnings and endings. The quiet hum of the old house, usually a comfort, now felt like a held breath, punctuated only by the scrape of Trevor's pen against the page, a brittle, rhythmic sound in the deepening gloom. He chewed on the end of a cheap biro, the plastic already scored with teeth marks, a habit he thought he'd broken decades ago, back when Clara was still here to gently chide him. The words on the page were scientific, clinical, lifted from a dense neuro-linguistic programming text he'd found buried in an academic archive – a language of logic and reason that felt profoundly mismatched to the raw, visceral desperation that made his old hands tremble.

He'd spent the better part of the last six months reading, learning, dissecting every academic paper and online forum he could find on the fringes of consciousness, on the deliberate intrusion into the dream state. Lucid dreaming. Not for entertainment, not for problem-solving. But for her. For Clara. The ‘why’ of it all still a gaping wound, a void that swallowed light and reason, leaving behind only the cold, sharp edges of questions without answers. It had been a wet, cold autumn when she’d… vanished. Not died. Vanished. No body. Just a note. A single, nonsensical phrase scrawled on a napkin, left on their kitchen counter as if she’d simply stepped out for milk. “The current turns, the river climbs.” The police had called it a runaway, then eventually, a presumptive death by misadventure. A tragic case, they’d said, an elderly woman perhaps confused, wandering off. Trevor knew better. He felt it in his bones, in the way the house still held a certain chill, even now, with the first tentative warmth of April trying to push its way through the persistent damp. He felt it in the way his own breath hitched sometimes, a sudden, unexpected phantom ache in his chest, as if a part of his own physical self had been torn away. This wasn't grief in its usual, numb form; this was a pursuit, a hunt for a truth that eluded conventional understanding. He could hear the faint, high-pitched hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen, a familiar sound from their thirty years together, now just a lonely drone in the emptiness.

### The Architect of Slumber

He checked the time on the mantelpiece clock – a gift from Clara on their tenth anniversary. Or was it their fifteenth? The details blurred sometimes, like smudged ink. The minute hand clicked over, a tiny, mechanical sigh that seemed to underscore his own exhaustion. Ten past midnight. Time. Time was a strange concept now, stretched and distorted, punctuated only by these desperate forays into the subconscious. He finished the last cup of peppermint tea, its warmth a brief, almost forgotten comfort against the gnawing anxiety in his gut. The procedure was simple enough on paper, or so the internet gurus and dusty textbooks claimed: wake himself after a specific period of REM sleep, then return with the explicit intention of becoming aware within the dream. Easier said than done when your mind felt like a constantly collapsing sandcastle, perpetually on the verge of turning to dust. The paper on his desk, already dog-eared and stained with tea rings, outlined the steps with frustrating precision, a clinical detachment that mocked his profound, human need.

Trevor moved from his worn armchair to the bed, the springs groaning in protest, a sound as old and familiar as his own joints. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, at the faint water stain that had been there since the big storm five years ago. Clara had always meant to have it fixed. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the sensation of his own breathing, the soft rasp of air in his throat, trying to filter out the hum of the refrigerator, the distant wail of an ambulance siren far across town. He thought of the colour blue. A deep, impossible blue, like the ocean at its deepest point, the kind of blue he’d only ever seen in Clara’s eyes. He let the images come, letting his mind drift, but keeping a tether, a sliver of his waking self focused. *Remember, Trevor. Stay aware. This isn’t just sleep. This is… reconnaissance.* His arm brushed against the cold metal frame of the bed, sending a shiver up his bicep.

The alarm on his phone was a quiet, almost apologetic chime after four hours. He swatted at it, fumbled for the snooze, but forced himself upright, the muscles in his back protesting with a dull ache. A glass of water. A quick walk to the window. The rain had paused, leaving the streetlights to glow with a hazy halo, reflecting in puddles that dotted the cracked pavement outside. The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and budding crocuses, a fleeting promise of warmth that felt out of sync with his own internal winter. He felt strangely alert, a jittery energy buzzing under his skin, a static charge. He recited the mantra he’d devised, a whisper against the encroaching pre-dawn silence: “I am dreaming. I know I am dreaming.” Back to bed, eyes closed, the blue returning, deepening, pulling him down. He felt a familiar flutter in his chest, a sense of vertigo as if he was falling, but not quite.

The shift was subtle, a dissolve rather than a blackout, like watching smoke unfurl. One moment, the dark ceiling of his bedroom, the faint outline of the wardrobe; the next, a familiar yet distorted vista. He stood in a field of tall, unkempt grass, the stalks reaching his waist, swaying in a wind that carried no sound, no rustle, just the visual suggestion of movement. Overhead, a sky the colour of bruised plums. No sun, no moon, just this oppressive, twilight purple that seemed to drain the energy from everything it touched. He tried to move, found his limbs heavy, his movements sluggish, like wading through thick treacle. A moth, impossible in this dreamscape, fluttered past his face, startling him. *I am dreaming.* The thought felt alien, distant, a small anchor struggling against a powerful current.

He saw her. Or a shape. Far off, at the edge of the field, a figure in a white dress, facing away from him. Her hair, the same rich auburn he remembered, catching the strange purple light in impossible highlights. His breath caught, a physical ache in his phantom chest, a squeeze that felt too real. “Clara?” The word was a whisper, swallowed by the silent expanse. It felt futile, a desperate plea into a void. He tried to run, to push through the resistant grass, but it was like running through water, each step an effort, draining him, even in this non-physical realm. He stumbled, catching himself before he fell, scraping his dream-hand on an unseen, rough patch. The figure didn’t turn. It simply stood there, an anchor in this desolate landscape, utterly still, utterly beyond his reach.

Then, a detail. A single, dark, thorny vine, not part of the grass, but alien, inorganic, began to unfurl from the figure’s left shoulder, creeping down her arm, then across her back, like some aggressive, living circuitry. It was too fast, too aggressive. It wasn't natural. It pulsed with a subtle, dark energy, a sickly sheen. He tried to scream, but no sound came, his throat constricted. The vine thickened, tightened, like some grotesque parasite, binding her. And then, he saw it – a single, impossible glint of tarnished metal embedded in the base of her neck, just beneath the creeping dark tendrils. A small, almost invisible piece of bronze, dull and ancient-looking, yet unnervingly deliberate. It pulsed faintly, a counterpoint to the vine’s creep.

He woke with a gasp, his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of his room. The bedsheets were tangled, damp with sweat. The room was still dark, though a faint, grey light was starting to peek through the curtains, promising a new, unyielding day. The scent of ozone, sharp and acrid, hung faintly in the air, a chemical tang that prickled his nostrils. He sat up, pushing the hair off his forehead, his hands trembling. It hadn’t been a connection. It had been a warning. That vine… that metal. It wasn't how he remembered her. It wasn't the Clara he loved. It was something else, something corrupted, something that had claimed her. His leg twitched, a nervous energy making his calf muscles jump. He felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to check the locks on the doors.

### A Cold Draught

Hours later, the sun, weak and watery, was finally breaching the clouds, struggling to assert itself against the lingering damp. Trevor sat at his desk, a mug of cold tea forgotten beside his dream journal. He tried to sketch the vine, the figure, the small piece of metal. His hand shook, making the pencil lines wobble. He wasn’t an artist, never had been, but he tried to capture the feeling of it, the profound wrongness, the sickening sense of intrusion. The study was cold, despite the heating being on, a persistent chill that seemed to emanate from the very walls, raising gooseflesh on his arms. He shivered, pulling his old wool cardigan tighter around him, the rough fibres scratching against his skin.

A sudden, sharp draught, like an invisible hand pushing through the room, made the curtains ripple. The papers on his desk fluttered, some pages drifting to the floor, coming to rest near a discarded copy of *A Brief History of Time*. He looked around, bewildered, his eyes darting to every corner. The window was latched, secured from the inside. The door to the hallway was closed, a heavy oak barrier. There was no explanation. It wasn't a sudden spring breeze, the kind that might sneak through an through an old sash window. This was focused, biting cold, a chill that went straight to his bones, despite the budding warmth outside. It carried a faint, almost metallic smell, like old copper left in the rain. He coughed, a dry, nervous sound.

He picked up the scattered papers, his gaze landing on the scrawled phrase Clara had left on the napkin: "The current turns, the river climbs." Nonsense. Or, perhaps, a key. The metal in the dream… was it connected? Could it be a literal thing? He rubbed his temples, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes. He was tired, bone-weary, exhausted, but sleep now felt like a dangerous excursion, not a respite. He couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, a prickling sensation on his neck, as if something cold had breathed there. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed, a sonorous, heavy sound that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards.

---

Dr. Lampe’s office was a sanctuary of muted tones and ergonomic furniture, a stark contrast to Trevor’s cluttered study, a world away from the creeping vine of his dreams. She sat across from him, her expression a careful blend of professional concern and genuine empathy. She was younger than him, perhaps in her late fifties, with sharp, intelligent eyes that missed little. She offered him a biscuit – a digestive, his favourite – but he waved it away, his stomach clenched with a knot of anxiety. He caught himself fiddling with the loose thread on his jacket cuff, a nervous habit.

“Still no joy?” she asked, her voice soft, modulated, like a calming recording.

Trevor shook his head. “Joy isn’t the word, Evelyn. It was… vivid. And disturbing.” He recounted the dream, the swaying grass, the oppressive purple sky, the figure of Clara, the vine. He hesitated, then described the glint of metal, the bronze. He could still feel the cold of that dream-field, the helplessness.

Dr. Lampe listened, her fingers steepled, her gaze fixed on him, an almost clinical intensity in her stare. “The mind, Trevor, it processes grief in strange ways. The trauma… it can manifest as symbols. The vine could be a representation of how you feel about her departure. Entangled. Consumed. The way her absence has choked your life.”

“And the metal?” he interjected, his voice raspy, a desperate plea for her to see beyond the clinical. “A piece of bronze, almost like… an implant. Or a shackle.”

She paused, considering, her brow furrowed slightly. “That’s… less common. A very specific detail. Did Clara have any jewellery like that? Anything with a bronze setting?” She leaned forward slightly, her posture inviting him to provide a rational explanation.

“No. Never. She hated bronze. Said it looked cheap.” He leaned forward too, his elbows on his knees, his gaze unwavering. “It wasn’t a symbol, Evelyn. It felt… real. Like a memory I don’t have. A memory that isn't mine, but hers.”

“Trevor,” she said gently, her voice softening, but retaining its firm edge, “we’ve discussed this. What happened to Clara… it was tragic. Unexplained. But delving into these manufactured dream states, especially with such a powerful emotional anchor, can be detrimental. You’re blurring the lines. The cold draught you felt, the smell of ozone… your mind could be creating these sensations, pulling them into your waking reality. Projecting. That’s a common symptom of extreme stress.”

“Or,” he countered, his voice low, almost a growl, “something is pulling *itself* into my reality. Something from the dream. Or from… wherever Clara is. That note, Evelyn. ‘The current turns, the river climbs.’ It wasn’t just a random phrase. It was… it is a message.” He looked at her, his eyes pleading, shadowed with sleeplessness. “You said these techniques could open doors, no? To hidden parts of the subconscious. What if it’s not just *my* subconscious?” His voice cracked on the last word.

Dr. Lampe sighed, a faint frown creasing her brow, a tired gesture. She picked up a pen, twirling it between her fingers, a small, rhythmic distraction. “There are theories. Fringe theories, Trevor. That in highly altered states, some individuals report a… permeability of consciousness. A shared space. That the veil between waking and dreaming, or even… other states, thins. But these are hypotheses, not proven science. And they come with significant risks. Psychological dissociation. Delusions. A complete break with reality.”

“But not impossible,” Trevor pressed, his resolve hardening. “You didn’t say impossible.” He could feel the familiar buzz beneath his skin, the urge to return, to push harder.

She put the pen down, meeting his gaze directly. “No. I won’t say impossible. I can’t. But I must caution you. If this is a genuine connection, Trevor, it could be dangerous. You don’t know what you’re trying to connect *to*. Or what state she might be in. Or *who* she might be with. Think about that vine, Trevor. That metallic glint. What if it’s not Clara reaching out to you, but something else… using her?” Her eyes held his, a clear, unmistakable warning. “The police investigation… it was thorough, but inconclusive. You suspect foul play, don’t you? That’s why you’re doing this. Because you believe she was taken, not lost.”

He didn’t answer directly. He just stared at the small, wilting potted plant on her desk, a spider plant struggling in the office light, its leaves yellowing at the tips. The scent of spring rain and damp earth still lingered on his clothes, an odd echo of the outside world, of his garden, and of that desolate field in his dream. He cleared his throat, a dry sound.

“I have to try again,” he said finally, his voice firm, unwavering, despite the tremor in his hands. “I have to know what that metal was. What that vine means. The current turns, the river climbs. It’s a clue, Evelyn. I know it. And if there’s a threat… I need to face it.” He stood, the joints in his knees complaining with a familiar ache, a small, mundane detail in the face of his extraordinary quest. “I need to go deeper. More time in REM. Stronger induction. I’ll push past the… the discomfort. I’ll find her.” He felt a fierce, almost youthful determination surge through him, overriding the fear.

Dr. Lampe watched him, her expression unreadable, a flicker of something close to fear, or perhaps profound concern, in her eyes. She remained silent, offering no further argument, only a lingering, troubled gaze. “Be careful, Trevor. Some things are best left undisturbed.” Her words hung in the air, a final, unheeded caution.

### Beneath the Growing Bloom

Back in his study, the chill persisted, now a constant companion, a presence. The light outside was fading again, drawing the grey curtains of dusk across the spring sky. He picked up the dream journal, flipping through the pages, his own crude sketches, his increasingly frantic notes. The image of the dark vine, the glint of bronze, burned in his mind, sharp and vivid as if he’d just seen it. He found himself drawn to the window, peering out at the garden, at the nascent life bursting forth, oblivious to the quiet horror unfolding within the house. A rosebush, Clara’s favourite, was putting out its first tentative buds, a defiant splash of colour against the dull stone wall. The petals, tightly furled, promised beauty.

He pressed his palm against the cold glass, the sudden contact a small shock. A shiver ran down his spine. The air felt heavy, charged. Not just with the promise of more rain, but with something else. Something waiting. He could almost feel it, pressing against the thin membrane of his reality, just beyond the glass, just beyond the edge of his perception. The vine. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, scanning the garden. The rosebush. Was that a dark, thorny tendril, unlike the rose’s own, snaking up from the soil, around the base of the plant? It seemed to pulse faintly, almost imperceptibly, against the fading light. Or was it just the gloom playing tricks on his tired eyes, amplifying his obsession? He rubbed them, blinking rapidly. Nothing. Just the familiar, struggling rosebush, its new growth reaching hopefully for the light.

But the cold. It was definitely colder. And the faint, metallic scent was stronger now, a tang that made his teeth ache. It was in the room, under his nose, clinging to the heavy velvet drapes, infusing the very air he breathed. He took a shallow breath, holding it, his heart hammering again. He wasn't just observing. He was being observed. He was being drawn in. And the deeper he went into the dreams, the closer it got, dissolving the fragile boundary between what was real and what was merely perceived. He could feel its breath, a glacial exhalation, just on the other side of the glass.