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This is a letter that I had penned to Sarah Hutchins because she had many questions of where I get the ideas for some of my writings. She and I are going to publish it on our sites, and for the one that is reading this header. This letter contians violent content of a horrific and disturbing nature, this letter would be titled Gasoline Dream for the reason that the horrors which I describe go into detials of gang-related violence, disturbing freak accidents and macabre forms of homicide that had happened in Glendale Heights, Illinois. This one is best read along side of Unspoken Nightmares and Method Into The Heart Of Madness. Some that are from the States would know where I am coming from in this letter, but this is for the people that are my international visitors.

There are a few questions that you may ask about my writings, this would be something that I will be able to answer those questions since behind the fabricated horror is the truth that is even more harrowing. Such as what I had spoken of in our session about the killings that happened in Glendale Heights, Illinois, in December of 1993. It was a cold day a few days after Christmas. I was going to visit a friend of mine on the other side of town when I had seen a poster of a 27-year woman that was said to be missing from my block. It was weird because I had seen her walking down the street. I knew that she had lived a few houses down from a friend of mine that caught the bus with me. The poster said that she was last seen on December 26, 1993. I was thinking about that now after being in the chat room, the thoughts were that of a gasoline dream because I could visualize the horror that the Glendale Heights Police Department had discovered of the woman’s remains.

This is something that my friends and I sometimes discuss on the phone since there are horrific things that would take place at least once of month -- one of the people that I had gone to church with in Bloomingdale, Illinois, killed herself by allowing carbon monoxide; flowing from a car that is running on idle in the garage of her parents house. The pastor gave a chilling announcement of the suicide in a Wednesday church service -- everyone in that service were trying to avoid the image that was put in their mind of the girl writing the suicide note with a ball point pen on the leg of her jeans. I did not try to avoid the thought of her last hours, but I had tried to visualize what was in her mind during the last hours. I had written some dark poetry during that time and the pastor read a poem that I wrote titled “A Time of Passing,” this one was one of my darker poems that I had read in a Christian coffeehouse at Des Plaines, Illinois.

The dreams that I would have following the deaths of the woman that was found charred in the dumpster and when they found the other dead from a slow suffocation where that of a very dark nature. I had not written of this dream until now and you are the first that I am writing of this. Not even my friends that I had been close to knew of the dream that would haunt my mind of the dream would be a spiral staircase -- hints of this dream are written in some of my work, but this one that I am writing is of the narrative itself that would be of the downward staircase that would vortex further into the darkness. In the thoughts that would be there, I would continue into the dream and walk further down the stairs and they would take me into the realms of Hades. As I would walk around in the realms of Hades, the Shades were watching me as I would see various individuals walk around with cuts up and down their bodies -- cuts that were self inflicted and were bring the invitation of the suicide up to surface.

The dreams started back when the homicide of the 27-year-old woman was found in the dumpster -- I had dreamed that I was standing there with the police officers looking at the corpse of charred remains. I was staring as the body was black, smelled of death and burning flesh. The smell of gasoline and burning flesh had never left that neighborhood because on some nights one was still able to smell the charred remains -- those that would invoke a gasoline dream, one that would carry over into the present nightmares that would haunt me to this day as I am an adult and been away from that neighborhood for almost a year -- I am trying to return to that area from time to time to visit friends that still live there and the demons that are within their minds are of the darkened memories which are a combination of the gangs that are leaving their territorial pissing in forms of spray paintings, drug deals, and the occasional drive by shooting or carjacking. The combination of bizarre homicides, ritualistic murders, and gang activities left for the picking as far as my writing went since Anne Rice used the element of vampires in her fiction.

I was driven by the writings of H.P. Lovecraft and the artwork of Clive Barker since the things that would go on in Du Page County and Cook were that of something that one would only read about in the works of Barker or HPL. Driven by the things that I had dreams about I started writing the poetry and it just went on from there. It is a gothic darkness that one could fully describe within the non-fiction because of the imagery would go beyond anything that any horror author including myself would pen. From what I would visualize of the surroundings was something that could of been written into Se7en because of how fucked up the details of the crime scenes -- one of them was a man tossing his woman into an oncoming freight train last year; freak accidents in Glen Ellyn and Wheaton where one individual was dragged to death beneath the rails and another was just knocked apart.

I remember reading in the local newspaper of the police finding limbs of the 41-year-old female and finally the chest about a mile away from where the freighter knocked her apart at fifty miles per hour. I used to work as a baker across the street from where the freak accident had taken place. This accident had made front page news the next day, and the Wheaton incident took place exactly three weeks apart from the first one. The medical examiner and CLTV News had documented the harrowing incident -- the day that it happed was October 17, 1997. Many of my peers from high school would not understand except for my best friend who had seen his friends pass from drug overdoses. The darkened stairway represents my emotional state of mind, and as being that disturbed in the time span of six years not even a church -- or a Pentecostal church say that I could be delivered from that kind of horror, but the ideas that are perceived by them are those of promises submerged in piss. The ideas that they had tried to influenced me to believe in God had given me a sense of religious abandonment. They said that I was possessed by demonic forces only to avoid the treatment that I am taking now for my mental illness had left nothing but resentment for the Christian Church. I feel that their God owes me an apology -- and none can give me that apology. Though I have friends that are Christians who openly respect my ideas and individually. The ones that will never understand are the assholes preaching empty salvation which are quick invoke the gasoline dreams that are of the cross submerged in piss as the painting that had left assholes like Falwell upset over the dark expression of religion.

The things that I was taught in church had giving me much of the gothic imagery to pen some of the stories that I was able to pen. It makes me sick to my stomach when people that say they are healed but in truth only to become sicker when they send money to all the Johnny Sinner’s begging for their plastic, coinage, and the paper. These bastards are getting rich off the fucking poor and lame, where the sick should be seeing an expert for their illness. This had been one of the things that had been an element of the spiral staircase dream -- in life I reflect the hermit on the tarot card since I am a writer, and writers are recluses in nature. One heavy set woman, in her 30s, had tried to get me to erase the thoughts that would be the things that would invoke the nightmares of walking among the Shades of Hades and the wayward souls of those that had bled to death from the practice of self inflicted cutting.

When I write -- I would put myself into the story but write in a second person and first person perspective. The one that I had penned mirroring the gang violence and street crime in a perspective that there were no character names. This indeed made a chilling nightmare with the dark urban undertones -- it was drawn from a dream that I had after going into the city the first time. I was riding on the L train for the first time and when I would return to the place three years later in April 1997, the thoughts that were playing into the horror that would write itself into the nightmare of seeing people walking down the street -- were bleeding from holes from the chest and head areas.

Holes that were made from stabbings and stray bullets, bullets that had came from cars that were passing down the streets of the district. The thing that was harrowing about the dream was that of the one’s receiving the shots were still walking as nothing ever happened , but yet they were bleeding as they were shot in the head and chest. This is disturbing and as I had seen this in the dream -- had felt crimson flowing from the back of my head. The bleeding became the foreshadowing for the horror that would become of me in February of the past year. Of what that I had related to you was of the things that invoked the horror within my imagination, and you are welcome to publish this if you wish.

Sincerely,
Nickolaus Pacione