Proyekt Mechta Vor – Dream-stealer.

Recently, I have heard disturbing rumours that Project Dream-stealer may have been reactivated. I immediately sent an email to my Glasgow contact, a man who goes by the name of Deep Jessie.

Click on this link to see my email to Deep Jessie.
To hear his reply, double click the MP3 icon (you may need to click the prompt to enable editing).

What does it all mean? Perhaps the following extract from the diaries of Dr Rupert Harker will cast some light.

Mrs Denford seemed distracted, clattering the dishes and fumbling the toast most alarmingly. Urban-Smith seemed not to have noticed, engrossed as he was in the morning Scrump.
Mrs Denford came to stand beside us at the table.
“Tell me doctor,” said she, “can a dream speak to you of what may come to pass?”
I was quite taken aback; the question seemed to have materialised from nowhere without aforethought. I stammered and mumbled for a few seconds.
“Erm, well, gosh, hmmm,” and so forth.
“Stop muttering, Rupert,” snapped Urban-Smith from behind his newspaper. “You will curdle the milk.”
I gathered my thoughts and tried again.
“Dreams have several functions,” I said. “They are the brains way of collating and storing new memories, and also allow the analysis and reorganisation of old ones. This is why one may often fall asleep mulling over some dilemma or conundrum, and subsequently awaken with the matter seemingly resolved.”
“It is as Confucius said,” Urban-Smith piped up, “man who go to sleep pondering matters of sex, may awaken with solution on stomach.”
“Thank you for that, Fairfax,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “I can assure you, Mrs Denford, no dream may come to pass thorugh anything other than providence or choice. A dream can no more divulge the future than a deck or painted cards or a horoscope.”
“But you would say that, Doctor,” protested Mrs Denford, “you’re a Capricorn.”
“Pisces actually.”
“My cousin,” she continued “went to see one of them fortune tellers. She told his fortune using tealeaves.”
“Do tell, Mrs Denford.”
“She told him that he would experience a great misfortune or malady. A few weeks passed and nothing happened, so he thought little more of it, but then, about three months later, BANG!” She shuddered visibly. “Right out of the blue. He developed diabetes and had to go on medication.”
Urban-Smith refolded and set aside his morning edition.
“Would you care to tell us more about your dream, Mrs Denford. Perhaps it will provide some insight as to the state of your subconscious.” He stood and pulled a chair out from the table.
Mrs Denford sank gratefully into the proffered chair.
“It has come upon me for three consecutive nights, and it is always the same. I dream that I am in the living room with Gonzáles, when I become aware of the smell of burning. I look up and the bottom of the curtain is smouldering, so I throw water over it, but then I notice that the carpet is on fire. I throw a cushion upon it to smother the flames, but then two more fires have arisen Each time I try to extinguish one, two more appear, and this continues until the whole house is aflame.
But the worst of it is not the smoke or the flames. Somehow I know that the flames will keep spreading and spreading until the whole world burns, and no matter how hard I fight, my efforts will be in vain, and all will be lost.”
I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry and my throat paralysed. My heart pounded and I tasted the bitter metallic tang that heralds a great surge of adrenaline, for Mrs Denford’s words had resounded a dissonant chord.
“This is most peculiar,” I whispered hoarsely. “I too have had this dream, not just once, but three times also.” I took a mouthful of tea, though my hand shook so that I almost upturned the cup. “This is the most extraordinary coincidence.”
“If it is coincidence.” Urban-Smith was pensive. “Are you familiar with the concept of thought transference?”
“Thought-transference? From one person to another?”
“Precisely.”
“It is like most of the things you postulate, Fairfax,” I said, closing my eyes and rubbing my forehead. “Absolute tosh.”
“During the 1970’s, both the CIA and KGB endeavoured to analyse brain waves, in order to see if thoughts could be analysed and interpreted. Most of their research was conducted on subjects during REM sleep. It is alleged that by recording the brainwaves, and then by stimulating certain areas in the brain with a facsimile, again during REM sleep, that you can cause the subject to experience somebody else’s dream.”
Mrs Denford looked concerned and perplexed, and my unease had given way to marked irritation.
“Are you seriously suggesting that somebody is implanting these dreams into my head and that of Mrs Denford as we sleep?” I felt my heart rate rising again. “Why do you persist with such nonsense? Is it truly so difficult for you to accept that coincidence may dictate that two people experience the same dream?”
“Ordinarily I would have to concur, but you see, Rupert, for the last three night, I too have experienced this very same dream.”
As the three of us sat in silence for a minute, I pondered the implication of this revelation. “Somebody has the technology to implant dreams,” I clarified. “To what end?”
“One can only speculate,” said Urban-Smith, “but once they have mastered the transference of dreams, it could be but a short step to thoughts, ideas and beliefs.”
“Good grief,” I murmured. “Imagine the power that one could wield with the ability to put a thought into another’s head.”
“Knowledge is power, Rupert,” mused Urban-Smith. “What if the goal is not to implant thoughts, but to extract them?” He tapped the side of his head. “We have information that others seek. Who knows the depths to which they will sink.”

*

 Until our silent oppressors play their hand, all we can do is watch, wait and

LOOK FOR THE SIGNS.

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About Kenneth Badgerton

I am a retired history teacher, and something of an expert on conspiracy theory, if I do say so myself. I live with my wife Barbara and our dog, Vesuvius.
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