He was looking for something. He knew it was in another room, but there were many corridors, and in the walls were many doors. Some had intricate locking mechanisms, or a simple fenestration that would fit an antique skeleton key. Others had knobs without locks or slid open when he approached. The open rooms were all empty. He had a big ring of keys on his belt. None of the keys appeared to match any of the locks. He tried several different doors and keys, but either the key would not turn or his hand trembled so violently that he could not get them lined up. He carried the keyring for a long time, turning uncounted corners, trying myriads of doors. His footsteps reverberated in the empty space, the echoes bouncing back into his ears from every direction. He was tired of the discordant clanging, and the keys got heavier with every step, but it was imperative that he continue in his task. Eventually the ring got too heavy to lift. It fell from his numb fingers, but the sound it made when it hit the floor was lilting and melodic, a tune he thought he should know but couldn't recall. He was glad for the sound of freedom, the feeling of lightness.
Looking down the long corridor, he saw a lone door at the end. A bright light was shining through the keyhole, the beams were almost blinding in intensity. The shape was familiar. He realized the matching key was on the ring he had been carrying, but when he looked to the spot where it had fallen his vision went dark. He dropped to his knees, groping blindly, frantically. His hand connected with an object. It was a key, and he almost shouted in his relief. He looked again, the door at the end of the corridor was still glowing, not as brightly, and now he could tell the light was distinctly coral colored. He was filled with immediate foreboding. He tried to fling the key far from him, but it was suddenly sticky and clung to his palm. He was fighting panicked hysteria when his communicator chirped and he flipped it open.
"Doctor, your consternation is most illogical. The key in your hand is unmistakeably not a match for the door in question. Observe your perceived difference in the reflected visible wavelengths spectrum."
"If you mean look at the color, just say so, you hobgoblin!"
"I just did, Leonard," he said patiently in the voice he so often used when sparring. "Perhaps Grandma Lydie will make biscuits." The communicator went silent.
He looked at the key in his hand, which was now softly glowing. It was green. At the end of the corridor the door was fading, its light growing dim and extinguishing as he watched. He smelled the sweet odor of molasses. "I'll have to make the biscuits, though," he said into the dead communicator, gripping the key with an intensity that hurt his fingers.
McCoy woke in total darkness, his heart beating hard and his hand clenched and painful. The chronometer indicated it was almost four hundred hours. He went to the bathroom, brightening the lights enough to see the crescent moon impressions his nails had left in his palm, just short of bringing blood. He got a drink of water and returned to bed.
He mulled over the dream for a few minutes, thinking Freudian interpreters would have fun dissecting the elements and symbolism and finding his id's hidden, primitive, and animalistic meaning. His dreams and night terrors had always been grandly detailed, full of vivid color and sound, and rife with emotion. Often he knew or could guess the meaning without needing a Freudian or other psychological theory from different schools of thought, and he knew a lot of those. He knew the chemistry involved, the physiological process. Sometimes he took the Ebeneezer route and attributed the madness to a bit of undigested beef or underdone potato. He seldom dreamed when he was drinking, alcohol severely suppressed his REM sleep. But if he got drunk enough and dreamed while in the REM rebound period following the alcohol's metabolization, those could be terribly realistic and frightening in their energy.
The key dream was different, but not because of the underlying theme. Denial, fear, repression, and searching were recurring topics in his subconscious. Even through the dread, he had not been reduced by the Coral Menace to a shivering and incapacitated shadow of a man. Of course, he had not faced it directly, but he thought he knew what lay behind the door at the end of the corridor, at the moment still securely locked away.
He drifted back into sleep, thinking of balls of thread and molassey biscuits.
