The Collector

True story, sort of. A re-telling of a dream I had, and a summary of some small research I did on it.

Introduction

Others consider my dreams unusual. The dreams are rich with vivid imagery, scents, tastes, and physical sensations. Most involve exploration, rescue, or escape missions. Some occur in a series, or revisit dream locations that I may not have thought about for years. I almost always have clear memories when I wake up, to the point where I can generally determine when one dream ended and another began. It is not unheard of for me to be partially conscious during a dream, or to be unable to wake myself out of one. And because I'm used to it, those aspects of my dreams are always normal.

For me, what truly made this dream unusual was the man in it.

The first thing I noticed about him was his overwhelming grayness. His wrinkle-free, paper-thin skin was near to white, its grayness emphasized by his old-fashioned, achromatic tuxedo and well-polished shoes. I was struck next by his awkward tallness and ability to move like a snake in water despite his stick-like, sometimes contorted form. When I finally looked to his face, I found a wrinkle-free visage that somehow put me in the mind of great age and expression lacking an understanding of warmth or human emotion. Clearly, this was not a human.

I should have been disturbed by his eyes. They were black, but more than that. An animal's eyes can be black and a little unsettling, but this was so much blacker. Emptier. The Grey Man's eyes were like chasms that yawned into the true definition of nothingness, so devoid of anything that it would not be a stretch to call them soulless. They should have bothered me, but did not... not until I noticed how very solid his presence was, how much more real he seemed, than any other dream person.

The others I have spoken to have noticed a similar "oomph" to his presence. Sometimes the others see him the same way he appears to me. Sometimes, they see him with slight variations.

Those I have talked to vary in their estimate of the Grey Man's age. Some see a void of darkness in his eyes, while others see eyes filled with the flames of hell. His hair color is between medium-grey to grey-white. He does not often speak, and no one who has heard him do so can quite agree on the sound of his voice. All agree on this: the Grey Man has short hair, pointed features, and wears a tuxedo with tails. He is often found in large buildings meant to host many guests, and while the plot of the dreams differ the themes is always the same:

He is The Collector. And he wants to collect you.

I no longer remember the dream so clearly. I heard once that things gain in strength when you give them energy, and giving them your attention is what gives them energy. So, I've made it my priority to forget all about him, and no longer remember the details.

The description that follows was written long ago, at the request of those who are unable to ignore him and, thus, are still haunted. You will know he is there when your dream and memory is just too detailed. You may experience the strange sensation of being half-held to the dream, and find your body upright, eyes open, struggling to escape. Should you find yourself in his presence, remember and hold close the words spoken to me long ago by one who knows more of such matters than I:

Do not shake his hand. Do not sign his book. You have no idea what deal you may be sealing...

Taking from the Grey Man

I opened the double doors and stepped inside the mansion, uncertain of what to expect. I noticed several ivory candles placed in golden holders along the wall, but their flames did nothing to brighten the room. As the wooden doors swung slowly shut behind me I began to feel uneasy, and wondered wistfully if there was still time to change my mind and leave.

Not that I would. This was too important.

An unopen door blocked a passage on the northern wall, interrupting the line of melting, useless candles. Bookshelves surrounded a reading area to my left, breaking only to allow for a door and a fireplace on the west wall. A black couch sat comfortably on a round, shaggy crimson rug, and a small wooden table stood between the couch and the fireplace. A pair of leafy green plants stood tall to either side of me, providing the only saturated color in this place. An open door to my right revealed a staircase leading upward, with a final closed door beside it. There was not a window to be found anywhere, which was unnerving but not particularly surprising.

I finally turned my gaze toward the main area of interest in this large room. Next to the closed door on the north wall was a large wooden counter. The counter curved into a right angle so that its other end swept toward the eastern wall, and was made of dark wood that matched the floor and furnishings. It appeared that crimson leather had been wrapped with stylized puffiness around the countertop, and was held in place by once-shiny round metal things. It was clearly not a counter meant for writing, which might explain the desk that had been placed behind it. I could see a lit oil lantern on the desk, an inkwell and a large book.

That was where he sat.

I looked down the quill to his bony white hand. He was a cold, ominous silhouette outlined against the glow of the lantern. I could hear the scribble of the pen upon the large book, which he continued to write in despite the presence of a potential customer.

Wondering if he had even heard me come in, I considered my next move. Finally, I shuffled my feet and cleared my throat softly to get his attention. He froze, then slowly looked up from the book and turned to face me. Lifting a slender near-white brow, he asked in a gentle voice, "May I help you?"

I tried to swallow my unease as I nodded. Turning had brought him into sharp view. His hair was cloud-colored, lighter than his complexion by only the fraction of a shade. Small eyes glittered like pools of endless night and peered at me from gaunt, bony features. His skin was dry and ancient, yet untouched by age, his features sharp and pointed like those of a siamese cat or elf. He folded his hands as he waited patiently for me to explain, watching me attentatively. Too attentatively.

I took a deep breath and managed to somehow stammer, "Y-yes. I… I'd l-like to p-play this."

Amusement seemed to glitter in his otherwise expressionless eyes, and a thin smile tugged at the corners of his colorless, thin lips. "Really. Are you certain?" he questioned me in a voice that was deep and almost pleasant sounding, but too cold, and too still. He hid tones of taunting beneath the flat, still-as-the-grave sound of his voice, expecting my fear to keep me from detecting it. I realized he was amused by his perception that a creature with a flimsy will had dared his presence.

It irritated me that my anxiety was going to ruin everything, and my fear of this creature evaporated in the face of my annoyance. Keeping my features carefully neutral, I nodded resolutely and boldly met his creepy eyes. "Yes." My flat voice that mocked his own. I have no choice, I reminded myself as I stepped forward, hand outstretched.

I do not remember what I gave him, and never bothered to look at it. It was given to me by another specifically for this purpose and, although I felt a bit of regret at having to give him the large token, I never hesitated. The Grey Man watched me with--suspicion?--for just a moment, then looked down to my outstretched hand. An expression of something like hunger crossed his features, and even his eyes flashed with it.

He snapped into sudden action. Rising, he stepped out from behind the counter in the blink of an eye. His hand shook as he snatched the glowing object from my fingers. Stepping away, he turned the object over and over, then stepped closer to the lantern to examine his prize more closely.

I dropped my hand to my side and observed him in silence, knowing I had to be calm if the plan were to succeed. Now able to see him quite clearly, I noted there was not a speck of color on him. He was bone-thin, skeletal and grey from head to toe. His tuxedo clung to his stick-like form. His shoes were nearly black, and even his jewelry was silver. Although clean, the greyness of clothing and skin made the Grey Man appear dust-covered. He could have been handsome, were he living. But he was not living. Not dead, not undead, but not living. He had never been alive.

Impatient, I sighed and scuffed my feet. I was beginning to ponder leaving him there when he abruptly spun around. The black-bound book that had been on his desk was now carefully cradled in his arms. I felt both angry and triumphant as he gingerly set the book on the leather-bound counter and set the quill next to it. He flipped through the pages quickly, motioned for me to sign, and then returned to examining his prized token.

I moved toward the book, lifted the quill, and watched him for a moment. Seeing him preoccupied, I hastily skimmed through the book. It appeared that the entire book was nothing more than a list of people. The Names penned in black ink covered the aging pages from top to bottom, and I found myself wincing in sympathy at two names I recognized. Instead of signing the book, I used those scant, precious moments to cross out as many names as I could. I did not know if it would help all of them, but I knew that it would help at least a few.

Distracted, I neglected to pay attention to him, and was startled when he snatched the book from me. I tensed, certain he would be angry and possibly realize the threat I presented. He would attack, and then I would fail. Mentally berating myself for being caught off-guard, I waited for the inevitable.

He examined the book briefly, frowned, and looked at me with confused irritation.

"Why did you not sign the book?"

Why do you think? I snapped in silent defiance, and relaxed. He had not noticed what I had done, only that I had not added myself to the list. I shrugged innocently and stood with the appearance of unflinching naievety in the face of his disapproval.

I knew, without having been told, that the book had been presented as a kind of Guest Book. The Grey Man's "customers" checked into this place by signing the book before being escorted in. Those customers thought they were just providing proof of their stay, but the reality of signing one's name into the book was far worse. The so-called "Guest Book" was actually a record of proofs of contracts between the Gray Man and those who had offered their signatures.

He scowled at me as he closed the book, and I relaxed. The rule was that the signal for consent was given willingly. I knew he would try to use tricks or deception, and he proved me right almost at once. With the book tucked securely beneath one arm, he extended his hand and said, "Very well, then." A handshake would apparently also do to seal the deal.

I clasped my hands behind my back and shook my head, taking a step back. "Uh... no. I do not shake hands."

I tried not to grin as his nostrils flared and his irritation turned into anger. I was beginning to enjoy this deadly game, probably because I was winning. I reminded myself that it would not be so easy later on, and that thought sobered me. The grin was easier to keep off my face after that thought.

He continued to stand there, hand extended, as if expecting me to change my mind if he kept his hand in place. Then, defeated, he dropped his hand and placed the book aside, laying it on the counter. Reaching for his lamp with a nod, he concealed his anger and turned to face me again.

"Fine," he spoke coolly. "Follow me." He turned to the closed door on the northern wall and pulled it open. With his back to me I could see keys peeking out from a pocket of his pants, hidden beneath the tails of his tuxedo. It dawned on me that I had two choices: take the token from the desk, or grab the ring of keys hanging from his back pocket. I would only have enough time for one of them.

I wanted to get the token back, but knew it was expendable. While regretable, its sacrifice had been deemed necessary, and it would be dead weight. The keys, on the other hand, might be useful later on. So, like a professional thief, I stole and pocketed the keys as we stepped through the door in the north wall.

The next room was large and circular. There were symbols of all manners scrawled on the floor, serving a purpose I did not want to think about. The sight caused me to raise my hand to my own symbol, etched on a small amulet I wore hidden beneath my shirt. I grasped it firmly as I eyed the bookshelves that lined the walls, followed by more useless candles and another desk.

When I returned my gaze to the Grey Man I saw that he had already crossed the room and was disappearing through another door. I hurried to catch up, but paused as I stepped through the door into a much smaller room. This particular room contained the only window I had seen so far. It was small, set on the western wall, and it had no shutters other panes. Apparently, it had been fixed so that it could not be opened. That was interesting.

Ahead of me was a red couch on a black rug, a small table set beside the chair. There were more bookshelves lining the walls all around the room, save those places where there was a door or window. On the northern wall, blocked from me by the couch, was a fireplace in which burned a useless but cozy little fire, and other than the exit behind me, the only way out was through the door to my right.

The Grey Man proceeded to pace between the couch and the fireplace, giving me information about the building and the situation I was about to find myself. I listened intently, absorbing his words, forgetting them if they were of little importance to me. He came to stop on the right side of the couch, his body facing me, eyes locked on the fireplace. Something about his demeanor changed, and he finished his well-practiced speech in a quiet voice.

"Many have come. No one has left. You," he watched the fire, the dancing flames suddenly vanished, leaving only a cold, grey smoke in their wake. He turned his eyes to me and smiled darkly. "Will not escape."

I snorted. "What are you talking about?" I turned. "I can leave whenever I-"

I stopped speaking abruptly. There, where a door had been, stood a shelf of books. I am in big trouble, I thought as my host began to laugh cruelly. I swallowed and turned to face him and the rest of the room, figuring I might be able to make a dash for the door to the right. Glancing at the Collector, I knew I would have to be quick; he now held a slender, silver knife in his right hand, and did not seem at all concerned about the possibility of my escape.

Good. I would make him concerned.

Grimly, I started toward the door while the Grey Man continued to cackle. He turned amused eyes to me and, still laughing, raised a knife to halt my progress. I tensed, prepared to run, and froze in my tracks as a white figure in a modern tuxedo entered the room.

Okay that's it, I'm dead, I decided as the rotund White Man waddled in, thinking him a ghost come to finish me off. To my surprise, the Collector choked on his laughter and stumbled away from the spirit. "You!" the Grey Man cried out in a harsh, strangled voice. "How did you escape?" he demanded, displeased. Uncertain of what was happening, I remained poised to run, thinking that perhaps I could get out through the chimney if I timed things just right.

The white man chuckled softly. Hearing his mild laughter, I relaxed a little. This guy was not a threat. Dead, maybe, but not a threat. He tipped his top-hat, and with a merry smile on his mouth replied, "I escaped with my soul." His voice was less deep than the Grey Man's--just as hollow and still, but warmer. "This girl will escape with her life. For you know not who she is," he clasped his hands behind his back and turned his kind, thoughtful eyes my way, "nor her power."

Puzzled, I wondered what the white Ghost was trying to tell me. The Grey Man also looked over to me, looking as perplexed as I felt. The Ghost chuckled softly and backed through the door as the Collector's eyes landed on symbol, now in plain view, that was inscribed on the pendant hanging around my neck.

Cursing loudly, the Grey Man lunged for me, the black-hilted dagger flashing with the firey light now glittering through his eyes. I dodged easily, vaulting myself over his head and landed beside the open door. Smiling as he crashed into the very bookshelf that had barred my immediate escape, I fled the room.

"You can run," he howled as I darted through the door, "but you'll never escape me!"
 

The next bit is a haze. There was a brief moment where I remember a wooden room of mirrors--some shattered, some splintered, none whole--and a door on the northern wall. I had the feeling that time had passed, but I could not tell how long. Seconds? Hours? I was given the impression that I ran a long time, avoiding things, hiding from something. And then finally, the dream came back into focus, allowing me to view the final events of the mansion.
 

Poking my head through the door, I looked left and right cautiously before daring to step into the long hallway. I was relieved at this brief chance to relax, but a sense of urgency pushed at me. Not only was it foolish to lower my guard, but I had to hurry. Time was running out and I needed to get done. I also needed to get out before the Grey Man found me. He knew I would be here only a short time longer, and would be frantic to find me.

With a tired sigh, I stepped to the left of the doorway and began to tap on the wall. It only took a few seconds to find the place where tapping on the wood produced a hollow sound, and I began to softly murmur words. There was a soft flash of golden light as the magic took hold, allowing me to see through the bones of the wall. As I had thought, there was a hidden room on the other side.

After a moment or two of searching, I located and slid a hidden panel. After sliding it loose, I crept into the room to retrieve an object of importance. I froze as the room came into sight, looking for signs of danger. The room may have been a large storage closet, but had been turned into a torture chamber. The walls were painted with layers of blood, the floor littered with body parts. Three people lay newly dead, one with an axe in the head, one torn to tiny pieces, all three with expressions of horror twisted on their lifeless faces. White skeletons, also splattered with blood, hung somehow from the ceiling. Looking at them gave me the distinct impression that touching one would awaken it, and I knew I would have to be careful, for they were dangling close to my objective.

I turned my attention from the room and to the bookshelves here, occasionally throwing a glance at a closed door. I did not want to know what was beyond that door, and I did not want anything to come through it. Cautiously, I snaked my hand behind a skeleton and snatched two items from the bookshelf. Placing them in a pocket, I scooted back toward the doorway.

That was when his voice hissed in my mind.

"Very good. You have courage, and you have power; now, do you have the will to defeat me?"

I cringed and stumbled backward, my hand brushing a skeleton. Scared, I threw caution to the wind and hurried out, hastily sliding the panel on the wall closed. Only then did I stop to gasp for air, dizzy from the sights of the small storeroom. I took a moment to collect myself, shaking my head in disbelief at the cruelty, and forced myself to stand away from the wall. Calmer, I turned my eyes to the left, wondering if I could find the way out down the hallway.

I looked just in time to see a zombie-like creature lunge at me. I reacted quickly, dodging to the side as it screamed some challenge at me, and barely avoided its claws. Reaching down, I pulled a knife from its place tucked in my right boot and stabbed wildly at the creature. I heard it screech in pain and began running down the hallway, not caring whether I had killed it or not.

Then, confused, the conscious half of me asked, I have a knife?

Another zombie-like monster ran for me; I batted it off as well, not killing, just getting it out of my way. My feet kept moving, but my mind was distracted. I almost did not see the third abomination as it hurtled out of a branching hallway.

Am I dreaming?

"Tonight we feast!" came the creature's challenge. I took care of that one with ease that bewildered my waking self. Having confirmed that I was indeed dreaming, I made my way down the hall, turned right, and stepped into a room.

Dead-end. Behind me, a group of the green undead beings rushed in as I quickly scanned the room for an escape. There was a tiny window on the eastern wall, a chair sitting next to it, and nothing else. The only entrance to the room was blocked by a hoard of zombies; the window was my only chance at getting away. Hesitantly, I moved toward the window, intent on breaking it and jumping through.

Wake up! I screamed at myself. Wake up! Come on, wake up!

A zombie slithered up behind me, hissing in anticipation. I felt a hand rest on my shoulder as another, furry hand shot forward, placing a thin knife to my neck.

This is only a dream. This is only a dream. Can't get killed, it's only a dream.

My thoughts ran over themselves. The part of me that was awake was panicked. The part of me experiencing the dream got angry. How dare they try to control me!

I was tired, sick of being here, and I wanted to go home. My eyes closed, my hand clenched, and a scream of frustrated rage tore from my throat. I felt like a child throwing a temper tantrum, but the act had some effect. When I next opened my eyes and looked around, I found the rest of the creatures huddled fearfully in a corner. The one that had threatened me was nothing more than a puddle of slime resting on the floor at my feet. I rolled my eyes, grumbled, and lifted the chair, turning to batter it against the window.

The Grey Man chose that moment to step through a hidden doorway. I was not really surprised or afraid, although I had not known about the passage nor expected him to arrive. I think I was just too tired to feel much of anything at that point. I saw him now, not as a danger, but as a tired old corpse-thing trying unsuccessfully to slow my progress.

He looked at me furiously, angered that I was unafraid and that he was unable to stop me from leaving. Turning his glare on his creations, he demanded in shrill tones, "What are you waiting for? Kill her!"

I glanced back as one of the monsters looked to me, then to the Collector, and replied with a snarl, "You want her dead? You f****n' kill her!"

I laughed at the response. The Grey Man fumed, fingers curling into his palms, and watched as I leaped through the window. I landed with a somersault on a warm, grassy patch in the sunlight, noting people wandering the area. Almost the moment my body touched the ground, I realized I was sitting in my bed, staring at my window, the sheets tangled around me. I had finally escaped the dream, and only three, small scratches across my wrist were left to show for my effort.

Reviews

[Uc Amalu Jr]

wow. this is a lot to read. well i have dine that and its great. the idea is great also i.e from a dream you had or should i say nightmare. its a good story. write more