On the corner of Washington Circle and Ryan Place, there’s a house that is easily the most unique piece of architecture in Lake Forest. It looks exactly like an empty shoebox. A singularly simple and shitty design. It sort of just sits there, perfectly flat and rectangular, and stares out at all the cleanly cropped lawns, well maintained 19th century wood porches, and multi-level homes. It is much smaller than the other homes. It’s a poorly hidden shit-stain on the pomp and circumstance that many of the folks in Lake Forest shower on their houses. It is a decidedly regressive shift in the “keeping up with the Joneses” mentality, and it’s amazing.
In this dream, two people are walking home in the early hours of the morning on Ryan Place, which curves around gradually into a wide intersection where it meets Washington Circle. As they reach the intersection, they notice an immediate change in scenery. Our shoebox home, formerly sat flat on the ground, now sits perfectly at the top of a steep, grassy hill. The tree that shaded the left side of the house at ground level looks to have made the trip to the top of the hill as well. Wordlessly they make their way up the hill, knowing this will be their only chance to see inside the house without anyone finding out. Through some almost innate sense, they know that an old woman had killed herself there some time ago. They hadn’t been told, and there had been no obvious indicators, but they didn’t think to question what they seemed to know. So they continue to climb the hill, wondering almost indulgently, how someone could have made the choice to end their own life so near its natural close.
The house remains exactly as they had remembered it, but the door is painted over now. They open it with little effort, and walk inside. The air is heavy, and feels thicker with every breath. Time seems to slow as they are forced to focus on every inhalation. The house itself is laid out exactly as they had imagined it, and everything inside feels very familiar to them. The furniture is covered in a layer of dust that seems to be almost inches thick. Possessed with an almost uncontrollable urge, they begin to touch every piece of furniture in the tiny house, sitting on the couch and recliner in turn, and testing every chair in the kitchen.
As they move silently from one piece of furniture to another, an oppressive sense of unhappiness comes over them. The kind of sadness and unrest you can feel from your throat to your chest to the pit of your stomach. Minutes later as they finish with the furniture, they find themselves to be sobbing uncontrollably, without the slightest idea as to why. And it’s the brand of sobbing where your whole body shakes, and your eyes are entirely useless because you can’t see a thing. They feel absolutely crushed, and they have no idea why.
Without even pausing to close the door, they leave the shoebox home and make their way down the hill. They arrive at the bottom in what feels like no time at all, and they regain their breath. The air was air once again. The kind you can breathe without forcing it in and out. As they look back up at the shoebox house, they notice something strange in the tree that they hadn’t seen before. They look a little closer and leave immediately as they realize what it is. (Dream cameras pan to their line of vision.) The old woman hung in the tree, frail and tattered, suspended by what looked to be a rolled up sheet which was torn and tangled now in some of the thinner branches. The breeze blew off the lake and she spun slowly. It looked as if she had been up there for weeks.
