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House of the Living Dead
Mel Waldman
A year ago, I dreamed of a secret house below the earth where the Living Dead exist. I dreamed this dark dream every night for a month. Each time, I woke up sweating and trembling, and my head pounding incessantly. Then the dream stopped. Still, it seems as real and lethal as the first night it assaulted my psyche.
When I close my eyes, I leave Brooklyn and I’m in Grand Central Station at the information booth. “What train must I take to get to the House of the Living Dead?”
“Are you nuts, Jack?” the clerk says.
“I must get there. They’re waiting for me.”
“Like I said, we ain’t got no train that goes there-wherever it is.”
I saunter off. An old man taps me on my shoulder. “I know where you want to go. Follow me.”
We descend the stairs and the old man, who carries a large flashlight, opens a few doors adorned with the sign: DO NOT ENTER.
We enter the Labyrinth and descend into the bowels of the earth. Seems we travel for hours, perhaps, days. But I’m not tired. This dark journey has invigorated me and I have boundless energy.
We arrive at the House of the Living Dead. Inside, we’re greeted by a crowd of frenzied, frightened people.
“We’ll have the Lottery now,” the old man announces. “Our guest will choose 22 numbers at random. Those of you who possess these numbers will meet with our guest, one at a time, for 50 minutes in the Sanctum Sanctorum next door. After seeing all 22 winners, he will sleep for two hours. When he awakens, I will ask him if he chooses to see more of you or whether he wishes to return to Grand Central Station where the others live.”
I see the 22 lottery winners and listen to their horrific stories. Each one has experienced multiple traumas and has been confronted with evil. Most claim they have seen the Devil. These men are the Living Dead-lost, hopeless, without faith, without G-d. Trapped within their past, they wait for me to free them from their psychic chains.
It’s too much. I feel their anguish and slowly, my soul vanishes, drifting off into the darkness. I must go home. The stories are heartrending and unbearable. I search for the old man who sits in a corner away from the crowd.
“I want to leave now.”
“You may go.”
“Please take me back.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I am the guide to the underworld. But my trip is a one-way ticket.”
“How do I get home?”
“Enter the Labyrinth and go north. When you must choose between going left or right, follow the wisdom of the soul.”
I wish to tell him I’ve lost my soul. But I remain silent.
When I open my eyes, I look for my familiar Brooklyn streets. But all I see is the mob of lottery players waiting to meet with me in the Sanctum Sanctorum.
Inside the House of the Living Dead, my eyes dart and flit back and forth searching for the old man. He is not here. But in the corner, I see the flashlight. I pick it up, leave the house, and head north.
G-d help me! Will I ever find my way home? Will I?
