I was sitting on the front porch of Walls' home in Portsmouth. It was a good solid porch with a concrete floor and a thick brick banister. Sitting next to me was one of my old high school classmates, Bob Morris. A woman was sitting on the other side of Bob.

I understood that Bob was visiting Portsmouth for a few days and that he was staying here with Walls while in town (Walls' elderly mother also lived in the house). I asked Bob if he paid Walls anything and he responded no. I told him I always liked to give Walls some money when I stayed with him. 

As I continued to talk with Bob, I began to realize that his being here was very strange because Bob had recently died. I also noticed Bob didn't look as I had remembered him. He was now probably in his late 20s and seemed quite healthy. He was thin and had long dark black hair, a stark contrast to the picture of the bloated, scraggly grey-haired man in his 50s whose photo I had recently seen.

I could only come to one conclusion: I must be dreaming. I would have to write all this down, and then post it on my dream web site. I knew some of my old classmates read my dreams and I wondered what they would think when they saw Bob Morris in one. Would they think I had been communing with the dead?

As I thought back over the setting, I knew I would have to write that we were at Walls' house. I thought one of my other old classmates, Ramey, was also inside the house. I recalled Walls and Ramey had been involved in the drug business years ago, and I thought by writing about their appearance in my dream, and publishing the dream, I might somehow incriminate them. Maybe I should leave their names out. But I didn't think I could do that, since I wanted to accurately write my dreams.

I told Bob I was going to drive downtown and I asked if he and the woman wanted to go with me. They did. I told them I had to do something in the house first and I would be right back out.

I walked inside and headed to the basement. I only intended to pick up something from the basement and head right back out, but I found a stack of comic books and started going through them. I was interested in super heroes and comic book super heroes intrigued me. Before I knew it, I had been in the basement for half an hour. I knew I needed to get back to Bob and the woman, whom I had left waiting.

I hurried back upstairs, where I found Bob, and I began walking with him. I wondered if he knew he were dead. I asked him how old he was and he said he was 28. Since he had been over 50 years old when he had died, I concluded he must know he was dead. I had another question on my mind I wanted to ask him. I asked, "Do you know when I'm going to die?"

"Yes," he responded.

His response shook me. I didn't want to know more. I definitely didn't want him to tell me when I was going to die. Maybe I was destined to die soon. If so, I definitely didn't want to know. That he actually knew the time of my future death was shocking enough.

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Copyright 2008 by Steven Collier