Free Love Gone Mad by Mark Rubinstein

dreamer has no memory of the dream when awakened.
    But Adrian’s never been told he has restless sleep. Not by Peggy, or any other bedmate. He wonders if he’s opened the door to some cartoonish universe and slipped down the proverbial rabbit hole.
    But he’s certain he used milk this morning . He plops down onto the living room sofa, re-creates his morning rituals, and tries to understand how milk ended up in the garbage and he didn’t turn on the lamp.
    Peering across the living room, he sees an empty space on the mantel. The framed photo of Mom and Dad on their honeymoon at Schroon Lake in upstate New York is gone. Startled, he shoots to his feet. Then Adrian sees his guitar. It’s upright, leaning against the stone surround of the fireplace.
    A jolting sensation pummels him, and his heart feels like it stops.
    The guitar strings have been severed. They dangle like limp tresses from the instrument’s neck.
    Somebody broke in, emptied the milk, took the photo, and cut the guitar strings .
    Adrian’s body goes taut as a sizzling sensation rips through him.
    There was an intruder … in the cottage.
    His eyes dart to the bookshelves, to his old Leitz microscope from medical school, then to the brass candlesticks on the console, something Mom gave him—all undisturbed. The flat-screen television sits on a credenza; the TV and microscope are what a burglar would take.
    But someone was in the house. My place was violated … my possessions … my space was invaded .
    But don’t burglars head to the bedroom for jewelry and hidden cash?
    And that smell … vague, but detectable. Someone or something is upstairs .
    Adrian moves to the staircase; he stops and sets his hand on the newel post. He sniffs and thinks there’s an odor.
    Yes, something smells, and it’s rotten …
    He begins the climb—slowly—moves up the first few steps.
    Yes, there’s a stench—it’s stronger now. Definitely … something reeks.
    He treads lightly and goes up a few steps, and the wooden planks creak.
    As he nears the top of the staircase, the odor grows stronger.
    Standing on the landing, he feels his pulse in his wrists.
    The bedroom door is shut .
    He never closes it—ever.
    Frozen, he hears whooshing in his ears. He moves toward the door; the oak floorboards groan.
    Adrian hears the night sounds of an old cottage: the water heater rumbles, a pipe in a wall knocks, and then comes a series of metallic clanks. Outside, crickets chirr, there’s the hoot of a night owl, the creaking of the red maple’s windblown branches in the autumn air.
    At the door, his legs quiver. His tongue feels sandy.
    An eddy of air whips against the cottage’s cedar shingles.
    Ear pressed to the door, Adrian hears the thudding blood rush of his heart. My God , he thinks, he can actually feel the hairs on his neck standing.
    He turns the doorknob slowly, silently.
    He flings the door open and flips the light switch.
    It hits him like a bitter cloud.
    The bedroom air is putrid and reeks of decay. He tastes it on his tongue—caustic, repellent.
    On the bed is the bloodied body of a large bird—a crow.
    Its neck is wrung; its head angles grotesquely. The thing is ripped apart, mangled. Dried blood is streaked on the bedcover and pillow—clotted, congealed like currant jelly. Clawed feet poke up. The wings are torn, smeared with bloodied innards. Greenish-black iridescent feathers and quills are scattered everywhere, the tips crusted with blood and rotting flesh.
    There’s a sudden movement. A feather tilts, sticks up—quivers.
    Something white and glistening appears. It rolls; then it’s gone.
    The smell of the carcass is so penetrating, it burns his throat.
    Then he sees them.
    Maggots—glistening white, segmented things—writhe wetly through the corpse and bore through its flesh. The dead thing pulses up and down, as though alive; it reminds Adrian of a beating heart. The bird is infested with maggots and rests in the broken rigor of a violent