Déjà vu Stories
2:03:08 PM 04.02.09
Every Day is Like Sunday
It was Sunday, I received an invite for a night of casual debauchery at the cabin of a friend of a friend. I was just about fed up with the malaise of my hometown, so I figured a journey to Dark Lake, MI would be a welcome change.
I arrived late and was greeted by a swarm of individuals who were long past drunk. My heart sunk as I crossed the threshold of the rotting doorway. That stench, that severed head of an elk hanging from the wall, the sound of dead branches clawing at the window; I've been here before.
The room smelled of bile and Killian's Irish Red, the taxidermy elk gazed at me sideways, and the branches of the dead oak tree played an eerie crescendo on the cracked glass of the window. Why was this so familiar?
Sit down man, have a beer said one of my friends. I didn't move. "What's up with you? It looks like you've seen a ghost," laughed a random buffoon. "I've been here before," I uttered. I stood there paralyzed for what could have been hours, my stomach in ropes. People began to question my sanity.
I finally made my way to an open seat and opened a beer, I was silent. Feral waves of memory came rushing to my mind, each branching off into infinity sucking me deeper into a confusing abyss of synchronicity and a sense of inescapable familiarity. Everyone was too drunk to notice me in a paralytic trance, immersed in a phenomenon which I could not explain.
I slipped into an alcohol induced coma and woke up the next morning with a headache and an even more eerie sensation. Everyone was gone. The cabin was an abandoned shell of the metropolis of decadence it had been the night before. The fortress of vehicles which occupied the lawn had become a collection of muddy tire tracks. Where was everybody? Why didn't they wake me up if they were going somewhere? Was this real?
My questions were never answered. I later learned that the friends who invited me had left the party after I'd manually shut my body down. I'm not sure what happened in the cabin on Dark Lake, MI that Sunday night, but I've never returned.
I arrived late and was greeted by a swarm of individuals who were long past drunk. My heart sunk as I crossed the threshold of the rotting doorway. That stench, that severed head of an elk hanging from the wall, the sound of dead branches clawing at the window; I've been here before.
The room smelled of bile and Killian's Irish Red, the taxidermy elk gazed at me sideways, and the branches of the dead oak tree played an eerie crescendo on the cracked glass of the window. Why was this so familiar?
Sit down man, have a beer said one of my friends. I didn't move. "What's up with you? It looks like you've seen a ghost," laughed a random buffoon. "I've been here before," I uttered. I stood there paralyzed for what could have been hours, my stomach in ropes. People began to question my sanity.
I finally made my way to an open seat and opened a beer, I was silent. Feral waves of memory came rushing to my mind, each branching off into infinity sucking me deeper into a confusing abyss of synchronicity and a sense of inescapable familiarity. Everyone was too drunk to notice me in a paralytic trance, immersed in a phenomenon which I could not explain.
I slipped into an alcohol induced coma and woke up the next morning with a headache and an even more eerie sensation. Everyone was gone. The cabin was an abandoned shell of the metropolis of decadence it had been the night before. The fortress of vehicles which occupied the lawn had become a collection of muddy tire tracks. Where was everybody? Why didn't they wake me up if they were going somewhere? Was this real?
My questions were never answered. I later learned that the friends who invited me had left the party after I'd manually shut my body down. I'm not sure what happened in the cabin on Dark Lake, MI that Sunday night, but I've never returned.
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