Welcome to Dreamspace.
This is the beginning of a story woven from glass and memory, curiosity and courage, thunder and quiet things. It’s a tale about crossing thresholds—between noise and stillness, overwhelm and wonder, ordinary afternoons and unexpected magic.
This is the first chapter of Dreamspace Chronicles: Allison’s Awakening.
A raccoon. A bike ride. A shimmer by the creek.
The rabbit hole is calling.
Let’s begin.
Chapter 1: The Raccoon by the Road
The house was a cacophony of knives. Noise, emanating from various sources, moved like blades—slicing through drywall, ricocheting off baseboards, carving into her skin with every vibration. The upstairs hallway’s trembling vent, the kitchen’s heavy footsteps, the industrial mowers in the graveyard, and the backyard revelers’ basslines all contributed to the overwhelming din. It wasn’t just sound. It was violence. It was everywhere.
There was a palpable urge to flee—to bolt. There was no escape but out.
Someone had lit the barbecue again, and smoke curled in lazy, suffocating tendrils past her backyard screen door, dragging the choking scent of lighter fluid, burning wood, and charred meat into the entire downstairs. Typically, it would be tolerable, but between the noise and the odors, her sensory overload had hit the peak of meltdown—into a full-on fight-or-flight panic. The noise was a relentless assault, the odors a suffocating blanket, and the combination a cruel torture.
She ran upstairs, her dog, Monet, trotting behind her, feeling the anxiety in his mom. Allison closed the doors of the rooms at the back of the house where most of the noise was coming from. She hoped the air pockets of the closed-off rooms would act as a noise baffle. It did help. She sighed in relief as she walked to her bedroom and turned on the bedside lamp.
Allison climbed into her bed. Moe, her dog, climbed his little stairs and quickly curled up as she got herself into a comfy position with a large wedge pillow behind her, and the bed’s green velvet throw over her legs. She leaned over to pick the book and the grey soft pillow book stand off the floor. With the stand on her lap and the book on the stand, she started relaxing enough to open her book to the bookmark and read for a while. Despite the chaos around her, she found solace in her routine, determined to maintain a semblance of normalcy.
It wasn’t long until she heard the slamming of doors from the neighbors that shared her bedroom wall and the yelling. She knew she was in for a rough afternoon. And not even five minutes later, the oldest teenager’s room—whose wall bordered hers—was thumping loudly with the bass of whatever he was listening to, and the rhythmic vibrations of him stomping to the beat.
She swung her feet over, took the stand off her lap, and sat hunched on the edge of her bed, shoulders taut. She tried for the tenth time to read the current page of Tell the Bees That I Am Gone by Diana Gabaldon. She gently massaged her temples, hoping to embrace calm amidst the chaos. With her glasses slightly askew, she took a deep breath and realized how tense her jaw had become. This moment of awareness sparked a desire to let go and find peace, reminding her that even challenges can lead to growth and clarity.
Allison slammed the book closed and put it over to the side. She stood up from the bed, angrily sighing loudly, making an audible growl in frustration at the noise. She could barely hear herself think.
The neighbors’ toddler screamed. The mother yelled. Something heavy banged against the shared wall—again.
That was it. Allison couldn’t take another moment in the house of noise. Everywhere she turned, there was another barrage of unpleasant sounds assaulting her ears. Every moment longer she spent inside those walls brought her closer to a complete meltdown. Her final resort was to pack everything up in her backpack, take her bike out of the house, and ride away to her favorite out-of-the-way hiding spot. The moment she stepped out of the house, a wave of relief washed over her, like a prisoner finally tasting freedom after years of confinement.
She hugged her dog, shut off the light, left the room, and walked back down the stairs. She stood at the foot of the stairs and stared at her periwinkle e-bike, which was parked behind her mustard-yellow sofa. Allison always did love colorful things—they pleased her eyes and her mood. She looked back up the stairs. Moe was sitting at the top, looking at her and cocking his head a little. He gave a little bark as if to say, “You’re gonna ride without me, aren’t you?”
Allison sighed deeply and went to sit on her sofa for a moment to gather herself and pack her backpack, which was sitting on the floor beside her antique side table, a gift from her late grandma. She hadn’t even put it away from the last time she rode her bike around the Gettysburg battlefield.
She stood up too fast, dizzy with the suddenness of motion, and reached for her backpack—already half-packed from the last time she’d had to bolt. Notebook. Pens. Granola bar. Water. Emergency earplugs. Phone. She shoved her glasses back up her nose, slung the bag onto her shoulder, and strode toward the door like it was the most important mission of her life.
Allison opened the door, beckoning Moe to step back so she could push her bike from behind her sofa out the door. After she pushed the bike to her driveway, she put down the kickstand, bid her dog goodbye, and locked up the house. Getting back to her bike, she turned on the control panel as she got on, kicked up the stand, and rode away.
The bike ride was a balm to her nervous system. The wind rushing past her ears was a welcome sound. She breathed in deeply the perfume of fresh air that blew against her face. The tension in her shoulders relaxed almost immediately after pulling out of her driveway. She was free. On the seat of her bike, it felt like anything was possible. The joy of the ride, the thrill of the wind in her hair, and the sense of adventure in the unknown road ahead filled her with a sense of exhilaration.
There was only one thing she wanted to do, though. She wanted to go to Culp’s Hill. There is a little creek with minnows and trees she likes to sit beneath to write anything and everything that comes to her head. It is the perfect place of peace to express her thoughts on paper without interruption. The calmness of the place, the gentle rustling of the leaves, and the soothing sound of the creek filled her with peace and tranquility.
She rode with practiced rhythm through the curves of her small town, the hum of tires on asphalt steadying her pulse. The wind blew through her hair. She could still feel the echoes of tension in her limbs, but the movement helped smooth them out. As the houses thinned into hills and the noise gave way to birdsong, she started to feel like she could breathe again.
By the time she reached the trailhead that led into the copse of tulip poplars, cedars, oaks, and redbuds, her heartbeat was closer to calm. The heady scent of damp earth and early blooms filled the air. It was mid-May. The first tulip poplar buds had started to open like tiny, greenish-yellow and orange blossoms—so large you could almost drink from them like cups.
Her favorite tree waited just down a small, steep hill, below the bridge with granite brick sides, rooted like an old friend in the soft earth. She parked her bike at the edge of the trail, tugged her pack loose, and slipped under the branches like someone returning home. The babble of the water over the stones in the creek was its voice saying, “Welcome home.”
Allison settled herself into the mossy hollow she loved. She opened her pack, pulled out her notebook, and began to write—just scribbles at first. Thoughts, fragments, ideas. Letting the words spill onto the page. Time blurred.
Then, a rustle.
She looked up.
A raccoon.
It sat at the edge of the trees, watching her.
She blinked. The creature blinked back.
It approached slowly, not with the twitchy movements of a wild animal but with measured curiosity. Its eyes gleamed—not just with light, but with something like awareness.
It sat down on the opposite side of the creek, as if waiting.
Allison, heart thudding, whispered, “Hi?”
The raccoon tilted its head.
She stared at it for a long moment, unsure whether to laugh or bolt. Something about it felt… familiar.
A shimmer passed over the raccoon’s form—a flicker, like heat haze or light through water. And for the briefest moment, overlaid atop the small creature’s silhouette, stood the ghostly image of something else entirely. A tall, ethereal figure—part glass, part metal, radiating gentleness and strength in equal measure.
Allison gasped.
The vision faded. Only the raccoon remained.
It stepped closer.
“Don’t be afraid,” it said.
Allison froze.
“You’re talking,” she said. “Raccoons don’t talk.”
The raccoon sat down again, delicately folding its paws.
“True,” it said. “But I’m not exactly a raccoon.”
Allison stared. “What are you, then?”
The creature smiled. “You can call me Thimble.”
Allison squinted. “That’s not an answer.”
“No,” Thimble agreed. “It’s an invitation.”
“To what?”
“To understand.”
Allison looked at her notebook, still open to a half-written page, then back at Thimble. “Okay,” she said cautiously. “I’m listening.”
Thimble stepped lightly to the creek’s edge and placed one paw in the water. It didn’t ripple.
“I am a bridge,” she said.
“A bridge to where?”
“To the Dreamspace.”
The shimmer returned—but only briefly—as if to confirm her words. Allison’s breath hitched. She felt it again, that odd double-vision sensation. A presence beneath the surface of what she saw. A second truth.
“Who… what was that?” she asked, her voice hushed.
Thimble looked at her kindly. “That’s also me. Or rather, the me that exists on the other side. In the Dreamspace.”
“So you’re… both?”
“Yes.”
Allison rubbed her eyes. “Okay. Then… What is the Dreamspace?”
Thimble smiled, and there was something ancient in the way she tilted her head.
“That,” she said, voice quiet and strange and utterly sincere, “is an excellent question.”
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