[insert scary music here]
Hey, I have my own creepy story to tell. Sure, most of you have read it before. Maybe even twice. But humor me in thinking that I've gained some new readers since I last posted it.
"I Dream of Kurt Cobain"
It was around Halloween, the year after Cobain died. My mother goes all out decorating for Halloween. Every year is a different theme. That particular year was rock-n-roll graveyard. She made tombstones for every dead rock star she could think of and stuck them on the front lawn, complete with hands coming up out of the graves and cobwebs and such. It really was lovely. Elvis, Buddy Holly, Jim Morrison....they were all there. And so was Kurt. I don't know why, but this bothered me. It's not like I was a fan of the guy and felt bad. It just bothered me on some level I couldn't articulate.
So, that night after we decorated I had a dream:
I was working in a library. I had to put books away in the downstairs reference area that was off-limits to the public. It was a small room, crowded with floor-to-ceiling stacks and photo copy machines. I had to stand on a step stool to get a particular book away. It was a thick, dusty book of famous quotations. As I was reaching up to get the book in its proper place, I felt a presence behind me. Afraid to turn around, I took my time getting the book on the shelf.
Someone coughed, that clearing your throat kind of cough you use when you are trying to get someone's attention. I turned around ,and there was the presence I felt. Leaning on the photo copy machine as if he had every right to be there was Kurt Cobain, looking grungy as every.
He nodded in my direction and said "Hey." I waved to him.
"What do you want?" I asked him.
"Chill out. I just want to ask you a favor."
"Ok, but hurry. I have books to put away before I wake up."
"Um...do you think you could tell your mom to take my head stone down? It's giving me the creeps."
"I guess. I don't really like it either."
"Yea, it's too....new."
We stood there a few minutes, looking at each other. He came over to me and whispered in my ear.
"This isn't a dream, you know."
He moved toward the door and pointed at me, a silent reminder of my promise.
"I'll take care of it in the morning," I said.
"I knew I could count on you. Thanks."
And with that, he was gone. I went back to shelving my books.
The next day I told my mother the dream and asked her to take the head stone down. She did. I never saw him in a dream again.