Nicola Kirk: Author and Collector of Paranormal Stories and Other Strange Encounters

Archive for the ‘Dreams’ Category

Dreams… They’d Better Not Come True.


The above image will lull you into a false sense of security over what is yet to come…

I’ve written before about some of the weird dreams I have. My Dearly Bemused tells me he very rarely remembers dreams and, based on the dream I had the other night, sometimes I envy him. The one I had… well, it left me shuddering with revulsion and rather pleased that my daughter came in to see me at 3am because she’d managed, somehow, to smack her head on the wall in her sleep. An impressive feat and one that I didn’t mind getting out of a nice warm bed to deal with because… the dream was about spiders. Not your common or garden diddly little guy that you can turn a blind eye to when you spot it hiding in the corner of your sitting room, but mind-blowing huge ones that appear to be more intelligent than the average person. The kind of spider that you suspect has been observing you for quite some time, and now knows your daily schedule, what your middle name is and where you hide your chocolate stash.


If I dream of a house, it’s generally always my parent’s house. I haven’t lived in that house for about twenty years. That’s quite some time but I retain a very close tie to that house. It’s the only house I remember growing up in because we moved into it when I was three and I stayed there until I met my Other Half. It’s the house my grandmother also lived and died in, so I suppose it’s no surprise that it’s the house my brain likes to visit when it sleeps. But for some reason, when I dream of that house, it’s never quite as I know it. There’s always something a bit different about it. In this particular dream, I was looking for a way in because at my parents’ house you never go in the front door. No, no, we use the tradesman entrance. I know not why, it’s just something we’ve always done. In my dream, when I realised the front door was not going to be opening anytime soon, I made my way back down the front steps and went past the garage, which was open for some reason. That garage hasn’t been open for many a year, although I know it does open because I remember seeing it when I was a kid and thinking it looked as if B&Q had just exploded in there. Now the garage was open slightly and the light was on. It was getting dark outside so I thought I’d nip in and turn the light off, shut the garage door and then… Oh, hold on a minute, there appeared to be some kind of mini office in there now off to one side that I had never seen before and… well, I can’t leave that light on either because dad will go loopy over the wasted electricity.

So I went in.

Image result for gigantic web in a house

Fine, it wasn’t quite this big but… it was close!

And found out very quickly why I never go in there because the place was festooned with horrible cobwebs filled with bits of dead or discarded spider parts. You know the way their bodies disintegrate and fall apart and (shudder) …well, there are no words to describe it really and that’s quite some confession coming from a writer. But I’m not a total wuss, I told myself, and even though my skin was crawling fit to leave my body, I bravely made my way over to that odd little office bit which I know doesn’t actually exist, and reached out for the light switch. And then stopped. Because sitting just above the light switch in a cloud of webs was one of the biggest spiders I’ve ever seen. I paused, quite literally shivering with horror in my sleep. I started to surface out of sleep at this point because Disgust Mode was desperately shaking Sleep Mode by the throat screaming ‘What the hell is going on here?!’ But the horror wasn’t quite over yet. Because above that spider was something quite magnificent, in a deranged, make your skin freeze in a way you wouldn’t believe possible kind of way. Very rarely do I get that feeling but heaven knows I got it then, because through the layers of web I could make out legs as thick as my fingers, attached to a body as big as the palm of my hand. And it didn’t even have the grace to be one of those fuzzy looking spiders either. Nooo, this bastard was shiny, black and I remember thinking that if one of those legs were to break, it would make a sound like a snapping twig.

“Mummy, I hit my head on the wall!”

Daughter dearest, you will never know how happy I was to hear about your plight at 3am that chilly morning so I could nurse the non-existent bump on your little head back to sleep.


Nothing requires that many legs.

Image result for ban spiders


© 2018



Dreams are curious creatures.  I’ve heard all the usual explanations for dreams: it’s your brain having a sort through of all the experiences you’ve had and so on but what, I ask you, is Kim Basinger doing popping up in my dreams when she is the last person I would be thinking about (no offence, Kim, but it’s been a while).  I’ve always had very vivid dreams, most of which I forget like everyone else, but sometimes I get caught up in a right humdinger (remember the one about Lady Gaga and strange men eating KFC?)  Well this one was kind of in the same bracket but without the extra side orders.

Recently, I was very sad to learn about the passing of my childhood best friend.  We had drifted apart over the years, but you never expect to hear that someone you grew up with has died.  Dreaming about my friend should not have been a shock.  And dreaming about us in a situation that we both had fond memories of (being at school together) seemed like the perfect place to find her.  She was in her school uniform, aged in her early teens, and I passed her in a corridor on my way to a lesson somewhere.  I stopped her and she looked at me with a peaceful expression but she didn’t quite look as if she was really seeing me.  I asked her if she was okay and she said that she was.  I put my hand on her arm and said I had heard that she had died and she laughed, seemingly a bit annoyed, and asked me where I had heard that one.  I told her another school friend had told me and she snorted and said ‘why on earth did she do that?’   My friend looked… different.  I’m not sure what it was about her, whether it was because I was remembering her as her younger self, or I was perhaps having trouble remembering her face and my mind was filling in the missing details (although I can see her as clear as day in my mind while I write this).  It was quite an emotional experience because I knew, of course, deep down, that she was no longer living. Then my grandmother made an appearance too – not sure what she was doing at my old school – but she hardly seemed to notice me and just went about her business.  I moved on to my old form room where some old school friends who I haven’t thought about in a long time were sitting around chatting.  One of them was sporting a black eye.  Well, he had been a particularly irritating child at school, so maybe that was a subconscious wish on my part.


We sat around watching some kind of slide show about clocks – what else? – when I noticed a stack of old looking documents beside me and I thought, ‘ they must be from the asylum!’  Of course.  Where else would a stack of old looking documents have come from?  It’s my dream, and I say they came from an asylum.  I picked up an old white envelop that was busy turning a nice shade of brown and noticed it was dated long ago.  It appeared to be an envelop full of photographs.  I pulled one out to look at it and it was a photo of an inmate taking a bath whilst at an asylum.  The inmate was wrapped in some kind of sheeting and looked for all the world to be… wait, was that Kim Basinger?  I frowned at the photo wondering what on earth she was doing there and then I became aware that there was a figure standing just behind me.  It was ethereal and glowing and looked a little bit curious as to why I was holding an old sepia photo of her having a bath in asylum settings.  The ghost of Ms Basinger looked at me for a moment and, feeling that I was holding something that was very much her property, I gave her the envelope of photos with an muttered apology.  She smiled and I knew that if I looked away for a moment then she would be gone.  And I was right.  I turned to look at my schoolmate with his black eye and then when I turned back she had, indeed, gone.  I felt as if I had experienced something truly incredible.  Although now I am somewhat concerned that something has happened to Kim, so I’m just going to do a quick Google to make sure she’s okay…

I wonder what it is that makes us dream about seemingly random people.  And I wonder if it means anything.  It was nice to see my friend one last time though.


©Nicola Kirk 2016 and

Dreaming of Reality – Or Is It Something Darker?

choice, choices, colours, dreams, funnyNo, No, NO!  Bad Advice, BAD ADVICE!!

Dreams are funny things.  They can be so vivid you wake up wondering if it had been a dream at all.  I dreamed once that I’d received a letter in the post and then, when I woke up, spent the best part of the morning looking for the damned thing.

Never did find it.  Odd that.

Wake Up, Twitter – If I’m Up, So Are You!

Early one morning whilst perusing Twitter (babies don’t care what time they get you up, but when they do, you’d better make sure you have something interesting to keep you awake while they have their bottle) I came across one post that said, ‘everything you dream about is something you’ve seen or done in real life’.

Oh, man, I hope not.

I Can Flyyyyy!!!

I remember many of my dreams, which are generally really nice – dreams of flying or discovering lost tombs (yes, I’ve had one or two of those dreams – Lara Croft has nothing on me).   But sometimes I suffer from oddly disturbing dreams.  Like the one where I went into my little boy’s room to check on him one night.  He was fast asleep in his cot but as I turned to leave I saw an 8-year-old version of him standing next to me in the gloom.  The older version of my son grinned up at me and then abruptly disappeared into thin air.  I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen an 8-year-old version of my son in real life, so why would I dream of him now?  When I woke up from that dream I felt absolutely terrified for some reason and had the worst case of goosepimples and shivers I can ever recall having.  It was one of those moments I thought only existed in bad sitcoms where the sleeper sits bolt upright in bed. My flesh literally crawled.

Who’s Reaching Out To Hold Your Hand At Night?

And only a couple of weeks back, I woke up because I was certain I could feel someone holding my hands, which were laying on top of the covers.  The hands holding mine were freezing cold – I could feel them.   I remember a little voice in my head screeching ‘they’re holding your hands!  They’re holding your hands!‘  Again, I woke up feeling terrified and freezing cold with goosepimples running over my skin like a million icy ants.

What makes us dream these things?  If it’s our brains sorting out the things its experienced during the course of the day, why would I dream about a futuristic version of my son or that someone with horribly cold hands was  holding mine while I slept?


And don’t get me started on the dreams I’ve had about Gene Hackman trying to murder me (I mean, really, why?) or someone shooting me in the back while I walked home from a school I’ve never attended…

Therapy, anyone?

Have you ever had strange dreams that have left you feeling spooked or wondering ‘where on earth did that come from?!’

©Nicola Kirk and 2013
Follow Me On Twitter: @Weirdworld2013


Hey, who’s driving this pen?

I’ve often wondered about automatic writing.  Is it true that if I sit down with a pen and paper, try and empty my head of all mundane thoughts (harder than it sounds, trust me – when I’m trying not to think of anything I start thinking about whether I should wear flip flops or hiking boots tomorrow or that I really must sit down and finish writing my latest novel/script/short story – that thought pops up all the time), then some passing spirit will take advantage of my temporary absence of mind and use my hand to write its memoirs.  I had a go at this many years ago and I believe the only word I could make out was the word ‘lilo’.


Would a passing spirit seriously take the time and energy to possess me in order to write ‘lilo’?  Nah, I’m thinking not.

The other evening I decided to have another go once sproglet had gone to bed and the rest of my family were engrossed in other activities (a highly technical game of cards – seriously, it was like watching tactics for world domination being put into place) leaving me free to effectively turn off for a while.  And, oh boy, did I turn off.  You’re going to have to bear with me on this post, because having read through what came out of my head that evening, it reads as if someone swallowed a dictionary and ate a thesaurus for dessert.  And so, dear readers… the result went a bit like this:

Brace! Brace!  You’re In For A Bumpy Ride!

“What’s going through my head right now?  I’d have to say curiously little considering our minds are constantly on the go.  I often accuse myself of writing too much about the mundane, the day to day, but what is the mundane?  Isn’t every moment we live anything but, and a little miracle all in itself?  Do those who profess to have the least have the most? Should my pen be confiscated for writing such tripe?  Guaranteed it should be.  Writing thoughts that want to sound more intellectual than they are.  Filling a page with tired words.  My mind often whirrs to its own beat and I doubt anyone else hears its music.”

By now, some of you will have decided that I’d probably been on the Bacardi when I wrote the above and will have stopped reading, but I can only put it down to my brain trying to clear itself of ‘the mundane’.  What else came out of my pen when I wasn’t paying attention…?

“Are these words even mine?  A disembodied voice whispering in my ear.  CHOCOLATE!  No, that word is definitely mine.  I was reading the other day about an old mental asylum called St. Crispins.  It was something out of a Victorian horror story.  What remains there after the lights are extinguished for the final time, the last person leaves and the door is locked behind them?  Do ghostly faces peer out of cells filled with anguish, wondering why they have been left behind?  Or are they content, secure within the walls of their mental prison, curious at the sight of ghost hunters and thrill seekers who are convinced by the mental horrors of pain and torture their TV addled brains throw out at them.  And here I sit at home, pen of purple in hand, wandering down the dimly lit corridors of my own mind while my husband and mother in law enjoy a game of cards, an unread book at my side that promises to be a good read but hasn’t yet been allowed to capture me while I write, write, write, a restless mind searching for a moment’s peace in the mental asylum of automatic writing.”

Hello? Any Crazy People Here?

Well, if I was coming out with some automatic writing that evening, whoever it was paying a visit had a thing about mental asylums. Or maybe that’s just me.  Well, everyone loves a good gothic mental asylum, don’t they?  Um… don’t they? Wait, I’m not quite done.  Yes:  there was more!

“I’ll read what I’ve written one day and I’ll wonder where the words have come from.  So far from the mundane.  So far from the average – more in common with the rain falling to dash itself on the conservatory roof – “

I think my brain may have short circuited a few sentences ago – I do apologise.  Normal service will resume shortly.

“- I wonder if the roof in our bedroom has resumed its leak.”

See – there I am!

“I had a dream last night.  A flame haired zombie with a smile like a shattered mirror and eyes with sparks of lucid insanity chased me over slippery ice.  A curious thing –  it was oddly amusing.  I awoke needing the loo, wondering how I would react to finding such a zombie in my house in the dead of night.  In the dark, it was an eerie thought; later in the light of day. the thoughts reconciled themselves into a single cohesive statement that I would, of course, remove its head without a single flicker of remorse.”

No more late night horror movies… no more late night horror movies…

“That’s what a zombie hunter in any number of books I’ve read would do.  Is it not so?  Well, we can but hope that we never encounter such beasties of the underworld so we can carry on our masquerade of life without burdening our little brains with such stresses and terrors.  Because what we see on the TV and what we read in books is just for our cheap thrills and needs to be stored away in the recesses of our thoughts as bollocks so we can close our eyes at night.  Sleeping with one eye open is not as easy as it sounds.”

I have never tried sleeping with one eye open.  I don’t recommend it unless you have a bottle of Optrex in the cupboard.

Is It Over Yet?

“And so, drinking the cold dregs of my tea while Sandy winds her claws into my hair while she lounges behind me on my headrest -“

Sandy is my cat, not a pet zombie, please don’t panic.

“- at peace with the knowledge that when she throws up on the rug I have to clear up after her of a morning, have I achieved any kind of mindless Nirvana?”

Some of you will now be screaming that I’ve definitely achieved a mindless something right about now.

“I can tell you I have no idea what I’ve been writing but my subconscious tells me the zombies will keep.”

So…um…yeah.  That was an insight into my world of automatic writing.   I wasn’t paying much attention to what was coming out of the end of my pen that night as my brain seemed to be elsewhere (as it often is most days anyway).  One day I may give it another shot, see if any revelations appear on paper.  Perhaps an entire novel might appear – that would be handy – I understand it has happened to people before.  Do spirits get writer’s block…?

I’d love to hear if you’ve had a go at automatic writing – perhaps you’d like to post up a transcript of whatever came out of the end of your pen when you least expected it?



©Nicola Kirk and 2012


I think out of all the things I’ve written to date, this book is possibly my favourite.  Tiennador will always have a special place as it’s the first book I wrote, but I had a really good time writing A Ghost Of A Chance.  I’ve been lucky enough to have been on a few paranormal investigations and although none of them turned out quite like the investigations in this book, the experiences helped to lay the groundwork for the characters and events I’ve written about (I hasten to add that none of the events in this book are based on real people or occurrences, but I wish they were!).

Part of this book was cooked up out of one of my infamous dreams.  I can still remember it now – I dreamed I found a mummified bird in a box under my bed, and my mother kept referring to it as if it had been my baby and called it ‘my poor little bird’.  It was a very surreal and I awoke thinking I could add this to the story… I even write when I’m asleep, how about that…? Anyway, here’s a flavour of what this book is about:

Dee Matlock is 30 years old and fresh out of  a disastrous relationship.  In her desperation to meet someone else before she turns “thirty, single and crazy” she decides to join a dysfunctional paranormal group based at an old manor house.

Between the the founder of the group, the suave and sexy Aaron Myers, and The Manor’s owner, arrogant heiress, Amelia Haughton-Rose, who enjoys nothing more than trying to make Dee feel as insignificant as possible, Dee soon finds she has more on her plate than she can handle.  But just when Dee thinks things couldn’t possibly get more complicated, she soon finds herself embroiled in the dark and murderous history of The Manor…




©Nicola Kirk and 2012

Book Cover Image and Design ©Nicola Kirk 2011


Dreaming Of The Impossible Again…

I was paying attention a blog I read last night. It had said that the best way to go about being noticed in blogging is to read other people’s blogs. This sounds like a sensible thing to do, but I haven’t been doing it. I have been too absorbed in writing my own. So last night I set some time aside to have a read of some other people’s blogs – and I’m glad I did. One person, Mountain Hollow Paranormal, wrote that they liked looking around graveyards with big old gravestones.  So do I! I really don’t go in for these uniform graveyards where people are reduced to little diddy stones all of the same size. Where is the atmosphere? Where is the individuality we had when we were alive? Oh, woe is the uniform graveyard! Anyway, I read a few blogs, left some comments (because as a blogger I love receiving other people’s comments on my blog, so share and share alike) and went to bed.

And then… the dream struck. And I’m afraid I must firmly point the finger of blame for this supremely weird dream at my fellow bloggers. Yes, my friends, you woke the ‘monster of weirdness’ who was quietly snoozing deep in my subconscious.

I Don’t Do Summer Dresses!

I dreamed I was sitting in the garden of a lovely manor house which was a bit run down and the gardens now resembled a small, somewhat overgrown meadow. It was the most gorgeous day and the sky was blue with a few wispy clouds and I was wearing a pretty little summer dress (I don’t think I’ve owned a pretty little summer dress in my life – it’s boots and jeans all the way, I’m afraid). I had the distinct impression I was just a little girl but that was only to begin with. As the dream went on I seemed to gain a few years along the way. I was sitting on the grass, looking around and on the end of the gabled part of the country house was the date 1531. This, for some reason, seemed very significant to me. It was a date I had to remember. I got up and began walking along a path formed of shorter, already trodden down grass towards a little road between two houses. I had a doll in my hand and was slightly unnerved to hear a dog running after me. It sounded like a big dog too. I tried to hide my fear and looked around to see a great, hairy, black German Shepherd running after me. But, fortunately for me and my dolly, this dog was friendly – it meant me no harm. I was even vaguely pleased to see it, with its great tongue lolling out of its mouth. It seemed to me that I had acquired my own Black Shuck.  Who would have thought it? Even in my dream I felt as if parts of my research into the World of Weird were rolling together to form one big crazy dream. I wondered if I had got the setting for the dream from the book I’m currently reading: The Favoured Child by Philippa Gregory. She writes some amazing books… anyway, I digress.

As I walked down the road between the two houses, it appeared that the road led to the churchyard. Along either side of the road were planks of wood and (you know how you just know things in dreams) I knew they were made of yew. This I put down to the knowledge that yew trees are commonly grown in churchyards. While I stood to one side of the road, I saw a group of Chinese people heading my way.  They were wearing dull grey robes edged with dark red.  They were all hooded and carrying tiny bundles in their arms, which were also wrapped in dull grey fabric. There were other Chinese people also walking along the planks on either side of the road and I understood this was because they were the ‘overseers’ and they were important enough to warrant walking on the planks in the belief that if they did so, Death would not be able to follow in their footsteps – I thought this detail was oddly insightful (or should I say creative) for me. The other people walking in the road were not offered this luxury. I could only see their mouths under their hoods and they were all forming an ‘O’ shape, reminiscent of the Dementors from the Harry Potter movies. The tiny bundles in their arms were dead babies that they were taking to the churchyard. This, I think, was brought to my dream partly by some research I have recently done to try and find the location of a grave for someone and Mountain Hollow Paranormal’s blog that I read last night where they had noticed there were a collection of children’s graves in the corner of the graveyard they had recently looked around.

What Are You Doing In My Dream, Scary Chinese Man? 

As we walked along together, with me trying to be as invisible as possible and the Chinese group not even giving me so much as a passing look, I noticed an old rundown bookshop at the top of a short winding set of stone stairs which were covered with dead brown leaves. Those who know me will know that book shops of any kind are like magnets to me and I was in there like a shot. There wasn’t a soul to be seen at first and I noticed a strange looking green paperback book which I picked up and started leafing through. The book seemed to fall open to a certain page and as I began reading I was stunned to find it happened to be all about the incident I’d just witnessed outside and I understood what I’d seen had actually happened a long time ago (I wonder if that’s why the 1531 seemed particularly relevant – had it happened in that year?) and I’d most likely been watching a bunch of ghosts reenacting a very sad past event. Where the Chinese element came into it, I have no idea. Perhaps I was feeling particularly multicultural last night. Who knows.

I noticed, when I was in the book shop, that I seemed to have become rather more advanced in years and I was no longer a little girl in a summer dress. And not only that, there were three other men in the book shop with me. If you thought the dream had been weird up to now, I was in for another example of how devious and wacky my psyche can be when it wants to.

She’s Got To Get Everywhere These Days…

Outside the book shop, down a different flight of steps was the ladies toilet. It reminded me more of a dungeon, but it was, strangely enough, nice and clean (brownie point for the book shop owner). I went down to have a look only to find… Lady Gaga. Unfortunately for Gaga, she wasn’t looking her usual exuberant self. Actually, she was a bit dead. Very dead, as it goes, because she was more skeleton than flesh (and, contrary to belief, baby, she wasn’t born that way…). This was, as you can imagine, a rather horrifying discovery and I ran out of the toilet, looking for the men to console me. Men will make everything better, a little voice in my head told me. Whilst looking for the men, I looked out of the book shop window and could see there was a gent’s toilet across the other side of the road, but it was inundated with flies which were pouring out of the entrance. One of the guys I’d seen in the book store was trying his best to see where the flies were coming from and, to my horror, I realised that the owner of the book shop had somehow died in the toilet and that’s where all the flies were coming from. Horrors! What was going on here?

I joined up with the three men outside the bookshop and I was feeling particularly overwrought by now, words pouring from my lips in a slightly hysterical but slurred rush (I suspect I may well have been talking in my sleep at this point, but I don’t recall my husband giving me a shove, so perhaps I was doing it quietly).

By this time I was back at my current age (don’t ask, I’m not telling you what it is), and one of the men I was with was looking at me intently while I was babbling on about what I’d seen and wondering what it could all possibly mean. Then he leaned in to give me a kiss. Which was nice, at first, and all rather exciting until I noticed I had a bit of KFC in my mouth. Well, I hadn’t been eating KFC so, I thought, somewhat disgusted, it must have been his. Then I found another bit… and, oh yuck, was that another bit? I was going off the man who was kissing me more and more, and it didn’t help matters when he started to giggle in a rather psychotic way. Now, this part of the dream I can partly put down to the fact I’d had some KFC before bed (won’t be doing that again in a hurry)…

As with most people, I dream but don’t often recall all the details like this. I wonder why it is some dreams are more vivid than others and stay with you for a long time. And so, dear fellow bloggers and readers with a curious bent who have stayed with me through the course of the above dream, it is time to crack out the psychology and dream books. What did all that actually mean!?  I look forward to reading your comments.


(c) Nicola Kirk 2012 and 2012

Tag Cloud

%d bloggers like this: