It is either very late in the evening or very early in the morning, but likely the latter. Regardless, the dim light eeking in from around the edges of the window shade diffuses through the room in that way only dusk or dawn can explain. “Things” are consequently difficult to see. I am pacing around my second-floor bedroom purposelessly, as though bored, but becoming increasingly agitated–I keep hearing these very out-of-place sounds, of rock or concrete, clunking and scraping. I can’t identify the source except that perhaps their origins are from outside the house. When it finally it occurs to me to glimpse out the curtain-covered window to the street below, I see four (or more?) men clumsily carrying a stone sarcophagus past my house on Northwest 11th Street, stopping every few feet to realign themselves or rest for the next few moves.

The sarcophagus is rectangular in proportion to the containment of a human body; the sides are undecorated, but the relatively flat lid is embossed with an image–the outline of a featureless, wrapped body, presumingly to represent the actual one lying underneath it. Sun-like rays emanate from the head to the outer edge which is adorned with small widget-y symbols.

Inexplicably, I am aware that this vessel comes from the cemetery just North of my neighborhood while the cemetery to the South has gone uninvaded by these ill-plotting deviants. And because of their apparent vandalism I become empathetic to those who might suffer their desecration of these resting places–and place a call to 911.

A male operator with a shade of a British accent answers my call and gives me an opportunity to state my needs. I’m describing what I’ve just seen and insisting that a patrol car should arrive post-haste! But I receive a fairly lackluster response, as though the other end of the phone just doesn’t believe what I’ve relayed. He repeatedly returns my own statements in question form and begins inquiring about who I am…? Between pleads for police intervention, I tell him things like “I’m 30 years old” and “I’m a homeowner,” and I feel immediately embarrassed that I’ve chosen these arbitrary indicators to establish my credibility. Honestly–age? Land ownership? Perhaps these provide some sort of measure on the societal yardstick, but the certifiable are as easily found in the boardrooms of our most mono-culturalistic corporations as they are in any mental ward.

I’m still on the phone, now strolling into my front yard for a look up Northwest 30th Avenue to the East where I see more coffins, piles of dirt and large chunks of cracked sarcophagi. I’m repeating my urgent request for aid to the man on the other end of the line while my feet start moving up the street. I don’t want to go toward this situation, but it doesn’t appear that I have much choice!

Now closing in on these stray piles of dirt, I am near a dirty vehicle or two–pickup trucks–when the same men who carried the sarcophagus realize my presence, and take an offensive stance. They reach to grab me and I’m backing off, avoiding their grasps and dropping my phone. Picking it up, I’m walking backwards quickly, blocking their swings and taking a few of my own, each designed to scare them rather than actually connect and harm them. Neither do I think they really want to hurt me; I am perhaps not part of their escapade…but they are fearful for having been discovered and are acting from that rather than any focused desire to harm me. Time seems to be moving a bit slow.

I am back at my house, apparently having eluded them and a black Toyota SUV skids to a halt in my front yard, replacing green grass with fresh divots. An attractive woman spills from the driver’s seat with an alert look of business on her face. She is taller than me with longish dark brown hair. Her tightly-woven, antique white sweater fits her body well, and a silvery necklace dangles a few trinkets near the bottom of the curve it makes around her neck–otherwise she wears no jewelry. Her quality black pants are clean and pressed, and would fit in any office environment. Shoes to match.

She shows me neither badge nor sidearm, but identifies herself as an investigator–it would appear my pleas for help didn’t fall on deaf ears after all! She seems determined to discover this scene down the street. A small part of me supposes she might have some personal stake in the events unfolding ahead of us.

We make a move in that direction.
I have no idea…what will happen next…?

I am a bit worried.