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In 1996, four students at Chicago University who were working together on a paper for a European History class, discovered that they had all been having the same recurring dream since childhood.

In the dream, they all have various jobs (cook, stable boy, ale wench) at a Medieval-feeling inn. Each disclosed details the others remembered, vivid details about people and clothing and smells. In the dream, they relive the same day over and over again. In the dream, an otherwise ordinary night is marred by the murder of everyone at the Inn.

They decided they had all seen the same television show or movie, as children, and details had lodged in their brains. They could not, however, determine what that television show was.

Each student died of violence before the age of 35.

I've picked up some new readers, so thought I'd take part in this meme.

You know how sometimes people on your friendslist post about stuff going on in their life, and all of a sudden you think "Wait a minute? Since when were they working THERE? Since when were they dating HIM/HER? Since when???" And then you wonder how you could have missed all that seemingly pretty standard information, but somehow you feel too ashamed to ask for clarification because it seems like info you should already know? It happens to all of us sometimes.

Please copy the topics below, erase my answers and put yours in their place, and then post it in your journal! Please elaborate on the questions that would benefit from elaboration. One-Word-Answers seldom help anyone out.

( 10 Questions )

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There is a vacant lot in Jefferson Park within easy walking distance of the train station. The area around it is entirely built up, but the lot is empty save for a large boulder near the middle.

Efforts, of course, were made to clear the lot and build there. When workers returned to the job site the morning after moving the boulder, however, they found it in its original position. Figuring at first that local youths were playing pranks, the boulder was removed from the work site entirely. As it had in the past, however, the boulder found its way home.

It is common knowledge among children in the area that the boulder marks the grave of an Indian Warrior. His ghost is disturbed when the boulder is moved, and he brings it back each night.

Of course, Aboriginal Peoples in the area did not bury their dead and mark the graves with boulders as headstones, leading to the question of what, exactly, the boulder marks.

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Congestion of the head and chest is a common complaint in the Mid West, in the winter. There is a little known but very effective, if slightly difficult, cure.

One must catch a fish from the River and bring it, still alive, to the afflicted person. At this point, the afflicted person must exhale three times into the fish’s open mouth.

The fish, still living, must then be cast back into the River it was caught in.

Purchasing a fish, as from a pet store, will not affect a cure.

There was once a small frog native to the area that, when held in the mouth for half a minute, would affect a more complete cure. However, that species is now extinct.

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I was reading this thing online and someone posted a list of symptoms of a gall bladder attack.

They sounded exactly like this pain/nausea/vomiting I’ve been dealing with for years.

It was so bad I actually went to an urgent care clinic, and I used some of the exact same terminology to describe my symptoms. I later went to a GP and again, used the same terminology (felt like a belt/band tightening around my upper chest/below my breasts, for instance) to describe what I was going through.

Nobody suggested gall bladder issues, even though I also reported that my dad had recently had his gall bladder removed.

This causes me actual, serious pain and projectile vomiting– once, so much vomiting that I began vomiting blood because my throat/nose were so irritated they were bleeding. It’s utterly, utterly awful.

And apparently can be helped with dietary changes.

I already avoid most dairy because I’m lactose intolerant, and don’t eat meat that often because too much animal fat makes me ill (but not in a heart burn-y, gall bladder-y way). I love cheese and I love butter and pizza is pretty much my favorite thing in the whole entire world to eat, but… I can either live with pain that keeps me up at night, or I can start cutting this stuff out of my diet forever.

It sucks. But it feels awesome that I might have a solution to this AT LAST. Especially one that doesn’t involve shelling out money for medications that make me functionally retarded unless I take a supplement to counter the side effect.

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Chicago is a city of large, old buildings. Large, old buildings attract various vermin.

To rid your pantry of cockroaches, the following are effective:
1) lay a fine, powdery coating of boric acid along cracks, corners, and crevices
2) crumble several dried bay leaves in a bit of nylon to create a sachet, and leave them scattered in cabinets and drawers
3) wash your counters and floor down with a mixture of hot water, dish soap, and bleach

To keep moths at bay, mothballs do work well.

To rid your home of the scent of mothballs, lay out wide, shallow dishes of coffee grounds to absorb the odor.

To evict a ghost from a room, remove all furniture from the room and wash every bit of the room with hot, soapy water– including the ceiling, walls, windows, and closet. Paint the entire room white, and open wide all windows to let in fresh air and light. Then bring in lamps and light the room entirely, so that no shadows persist in any corner. Close the door, and leave the lights on for three days with the window still open.

At the end of this time, the ghost should be gone from the room.

At the same time the White City glittered and glimmered along the Lakefront, promising a bright future of electric lights, clean water, and a police force that prevented crime instead of chasing it after the fact, the man known as H H Holmes was firmly ensconced in his "castle," murdering women with whom he'd had sexual affairs. Every light has a source of darkness, after all.

After his capture and arrest, investigators found a single, perfect footprint etched in the enamel of his incinerator door. They surmised that he had coated the floor with acid, and one victim had gotten that acid on her feet, burning her footprint into the door as she tried futilely to kick her way free. The City tore down the building in 1938, and erected a large post office on the site. As with most government buildings of the era, it has a bomb shelter in the basement.

The door to the bomb shelter is marked with a clear, perfect, dainty footprint.

The door has been replaced twice.

The footprint reappears.

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At the same time the White City glittered and glimmered along the Lakefront, promising a bright future of electric lights, clean water, and a police force that prevented crime instead of chasing it after the fact, the man known as H H Holmes was firmly ensconced in his “castle,” murdering women with whom he’d had sexual affairs. Every light has a source of darkness, after all.

After his capture and arrest, investigators found a single, perfect footprint etched in the enamel of his incinerator door. They surmised that he had coated the floor with acid, and one victim had gotten that acid on her feet, burning her footprint into the door as she tried futilely to kick her way free. The City tore down the building in 1938, and erected a large post office on the site. As with most government buildings of the era, it has a bomb shelter in the basement.

The door to the bomb shelter is marked with a clear, perfect, dainty footprint.

The door has been replaced twice.

The footprint reappears.

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In folklore, when a baby smiles in its sleep that means an angel is near.

In actuality, when a baby smiles in its sleep it’s usually something far more prosaic: a bit of gas or a pleasant dream.

However, when a baby smiles while awake and begins looking about the room with such conviction that others look as well, and see nothing? That is the baby seeing the unseen. Something is definitely near. It is probably not an angel.

Should adults in the room become unusually chilled, it may be wise to take steps immediately to evict whatever presence is there.

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It is an old folk remedy: when someone in the household is ill with flu, place a cut up onion in a crockery dish near their bed. Refresh the onion as it shrivels or dries. This will lessen the severity of the illness in those afflicted, and prevent the spread of the ailment to others in the home.

Some take it further; during flu season, they place cut onions in crockery dishes near all window sills and doorways.

Modern science scoffs at this idea, that germs can be drawn into a vegetable and absorbed.

It is not germs the onion absorbs.

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I love vampires so hard, guys. I really do. I’ve been really into vampire literature since I was 11 or 12 (before that it was werewolves), so on the surface books like Twilight seem like a perfect match, right? It’s Vampires! And they interact with the world! But there’s this “older, more physically and socially powerful man grooming/stalking/courting a younger, less powerful woman” theme that I hate. I’ve always hated it, and it is RIFE in YA lit, in fact pretty much all literature, aimed at women.

Most of the women I know have been sexually assaulted, molested, and/or raped. While some of the perpetrators were the same age or younger, or were female, most of them were older men who spent time grooming them, stalking them, and manipulating them. I don’t know if the women I hang out with are unusually unlucky, if broken people attract each other, or if they just talk about shitty stuff that’s happened to them more than other women do. The Powerful Older, More Experienced Man trope may be sexually thrilling in fiction, but in real life it’s freaky as fuck; and it’s something that’s touched my life both directly and indirectly. When I was 17 I was sexually assaulted at work by coworker with seniority, who had laid down a ground work of intimidation and silencing action ahead of time. Two of my girlfriends, both under the age of 18, had been raped– one by a boyfriend, and one by somebody she grew up calling “uncle.” The boyfriend’s stalking ended after a year of threats; the uncle encouraged the second girl to tell because “nobody would believe her anyway.” Both young women had powerful, assertive men roll up in their lives, treat them specially, “watch them sleep” as it were, and then fuck their shit up.

It’s a fantasy I can’t get behind. I’ve seen it play out in real life, and it’s pretty twisted. A guy who’s interested in you and climbs a tree to peek into your bedroom generally isn’t checking to make sure you’re safe. In real life, he’s likely to send you a photo of your room with a note saying he knows where you sleep at night. It’s a threat. He can get you at any time.

You aren’t safe.

It isn’t very sexy.

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There’s a small shop on Belmont, in a gentrifying area. It’s flanked by a doggy day spa and a shoe boutique, and it used to be a private residence that somebody converted into a store front. There’s a large window on the second floor which has an American flag with 37 stars tacked up like a curtain. It pushes against the window in places, where stacked up objects behind it have fallen forward.

All of the windows are grimy, streaked with grey dust and grit, and bits and pieces are stacked haphazardly: a canister vacuum cleaner; a display case of hummel figurines; a small book case; a red ryder BB gun; a mahogany chest; chippendale chairs. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle, of a barricade. The front door, despite the “open” sign on it, is impassable with junk.

You will need to go around the corner and down the alley, and enter through the back door. If you have asthma, you would be wise to bring a dust mask. Come alone, and bring five silver dollars.

You will find five objects, each small enough to be carried away easily. Each will call to you, will feel right in your hand. Before you leave, put your five silver dollars in the crockery jar by the back door. You will cut your finger on the lid; do not try to avoid it.

Each object will answer a great need at some point in your life, if you can hang on to them. They have a tendency to vanish when you need them the most, however.

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It’s a hotel, one of the old ones. The rooms are large, spacious, with plenty of room to store clothing and shoes and your empty luggage; they’re large enough to live in genteelly, which was common once. The large windows, flanked by heavy drapery, look out over Lake Michigan.

One of the spacious, well-appointed rooms has a large dent in the wall.

This is an upscale hotel, and not the sort of place that accumulates dents and dings and stains. Every time the large, round dent is noticed, it is repaired. And soon the dent is found again. Sometimes there is an explanation: a hotel guest tripped and hit the wall with a bowling ball, a room cleaner banged something into it accidentally. It is quickly patched, only to become dented again.

The dent is probably there right now, although currently a large and heavy piece of furniture is against that wall, hiding the dent. Out of sight, the theory goes, out of mind.

Yet guests who spend the night in the room all report the same dream: that of a dark haired, large eyed child with no mouth standing by the side of the bed, slender arms outreached as though imploring wordlessly for some sort of assistance. There are heavy footfalls, in the dream, and the child looks over his shoulder. A rough hand closes on his shoulder, no other body part visible in the thick darkness, and drags the child away. There is a sudden wet smacking noise, and then silence.

The dent returns. The dream recurs.

It is an otherwise pleasant room.

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They look like ordinary people: business men, children, homeless people, neighbors, barristas. They will ask you for something innocuous: a glass of water, to use your phone, a ride to the train station. Something about them will feel off, wrong, threatening. You will find yourself terrified of them. They will ask again, pleading. They only want something to drink; they only want to call someone for help; they only need a small favor. It’s always a small thing.

You may relent. You may give them what they want. A glass of water. Use of your phone. A ride. When you do, all the threat will evaporate from them. Their faces will take on a peaceful, beatific look. They have been reaching out, trying to connect with another human, for years; maybe for decades. Maybe longer. They have finally been heard, their need has finally been met.

The next day, you will ask somebody for a glass of water, to use their phone, for a lift to the train.

You will not be able to rest until your need is met.

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Forty feet below street level, beneath the water mains and electrical lines and telecommunications lines, there are 62 feet of tunnels and connections. Freight in the form of packages, deliveries, and coal (as well as removal of rubbish and ash) were moved beneath the streets from their construction in 1906 until their closure in 1959, and cool subterranean air was drawn upwards to cool movie theaters and businesses.

In 2002, Joseph Konopka was arrested on terrorist charges after being discovered secreting containers of cyanide and other dangerous chemicals in an unused storage area in the CTA’s Blue Line. The entrances to the unused freight tunnels were then welded shut, to the disappointment of urban explorers and the relief of those who know what non-human entities continued to use the tunnels.

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There are places that are between places: hallways, doorways, stairways, elevators, alleyways. They are not places proper. People do not live there, they simply pass through from one place to another. Crawl spaces, the space under the bed, closets, the space between the ceiling and the floor above it: they are places that do not have life, that do not have light. Untouched as they are by humans, half hidden and in the heart of humanity, they are the perfect place for other things to set up homes in. People do not live there, but that does not mean they are uninhabited.

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Like many large, old cities Chicago is full of high rise buildings with marble entryways and dimly lit brass-grilled elevators. These buildings, when labeling the floors, skip 13. This is a desperate attempt to avoid the bad luck associated with the number thirteen.

It is rumored that if one stops an elevator between the 12th and 14th floor in certain buildings, the elevator will open its creaking doors to reveal a still and dusty 13th floor: one that is perhaps abandoned, perhaps the site of a great and terrible crime, perhaps inhabited by ghosts or demons or the trapped souls of dead office workers.

These rumors are false.

There is nothing magical or ominous about the thirteenth floor of any building, at least in Chicago.

It is the elevator shafts that one must watch out for.

(Happy Friday the 13th, everyone.)

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Hey, Chicago People:
Is there any interest in meeting up in December to do a cookie exchange? I’ll host.
Let me know.

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Early non-Aboriginal settlers to the area described the river now known as the Chicago river as “little more than a sluggish, meandering, muddy ditch.” It has been widened, straightened, re-routed, and reversed. So much filth was emptied into it that portions of the river bubbled as methane gas from decomposing bodies, both human and non. Man has touched the river, and has corrupted and changed it.

Once a year, thick green dyes are dumped into the river. This hides the depths of the water, and the things that are born in it: things that man has created, that man does not want to see.

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Chicago, like all of America, does not have Fairies native to it. Some immigrants brought their pookas and brownies and kobalds and rusalkas with them, but most did not fare very well. Their places were already filled, for the most part, by the dark and secret beings native to this land.

The ones which did survive, of course, were the most terrible and stubborn. They are the blood drinkers, the shadow lurkers, and the stealers of children.

They do not literally steal children, no. They do not take a precious, tender infant and replace it with an enchanted stick or an elderly Fairy, some baby masquerade. Nor are they some groping excuse to explain away Autism or cerebral palsy or hydrocephaly.

No, they evict and devour the humanness of the child and fill that child’s body with themselves. The child looks and acts normal, grows and develops as normal, smiles and plays and throws tantrums as normal.

But at night, when you check on that child, and their eyes are open, you can tell. In the darkness their true nature is visible. Their eyes are sunken, dark pits; sclera, pupil, and iris all the same inky color.

When there are enough of them, when they are strong enough, they will begin preying on adults.

(Sorry this is late, Nesko had the day off for Veteran’s Day so we spent the entire day running errands. I need to set these up to auto post.)