Dreams Come to Life

by Adrienne Kress

  Crash.

  This time louder and coming from the hall upstairs. That shook me back into focus. I didn’t know what was more unnerving, the sound itself or having no idea what the sound could possibly be. I hoped it was just some wonky plumbing. I really hoped it wasn’t trespassers. I wasn’t much of a tough guy, didn’t think I could fend anyone off.

  Still. I followed the sound. I immediately switched on the lights for the hall and saw a set of doors running along each side. I waited. And waited. But of course now, when I needed it, there was no sound of clanging, no wail. No nothing.

  I decided the only thing for it was to check out each room. If they were unlocked. Didn’t trust they would be. But the first door opened, revealing a small office with some desks and a chair.

  I checked two more rooms, each the same. Then there was a bigger office. This one had a couple of framed diplomas on the wall, and now I was wondering who it belonged to.

  I closed the door behind me. It made a loud sound, louder than I expected, and then, right away, I heard it. The wail again. But this time it was more like a cry. As if whoever it was had heard me. Was alerting me.

  It was toward the end of the hall.

  Behind a door.

  With two long pieces of wood crossing over the top of it making an “X.” Like the door was being protected from a storm or something. Except of course this door was on the inside of the building.

  Suddenly something threw itself against the door. It shook. There was a large bang, and a shadow appeared and then disappeared in the crack beneath the door.

  Definitely someone was being kept inside. Or was it … something? I noticed I’d been holding my breath and I let it all out now, gulping for air after I did.

  Something? Like an animal? Like a … ghost?

  That was stupid. I just needed to see it with my own eyes, know that whatever it was made perfect sense. Stop my imagination from making things into a bigger deal than they were.

  The wail began again, this time definitely coming from behind the door. Up close there was something to it that felt different. Almost sad, almost like crying. But not human crying. Animal crying. It sounded helpless, and I felt bad for it. About as bad as I felt scared of it.

  I reached down slowly and tried the door handle. It was locked. Of course it was. Who would keep a door unlocked with something like that behind it?

  The lock should have been a sign. Not even a sign, really. It wasn’t magic, it wasn’t a message from a higher power. It was a locked door. And a locked door means “Keep out.”

  Unless you have the key.

  I thought about Dot. I thought about her key.

  It didn’t seem likely that a copy of the key to this door would just be lying around anywhere. Especially not when all the other doors were unlocked. This was a room you weren’t supposed to get into. I wondered. I’d never actually asked her, but the fact that Dot could just unlock a room in the basement, and then a storage closet, seemed to mean that this was one of those keys that could open many locks: a master key.

  There were a lot of thoughts running through my head in the following moments. There were worries, and, of course, that feeling that I shouldn’t be doing this, but at the same time—I can’t tell you why—I felt this drive. I didn’t even feel like it had anything to do with Mister Drew anymore. I needed to sniff this out.

  As I found myself in the Story Department, going through Dot’s desk, I figured she’d be impressed with me and wouldn’t mind me doing this. She’d probably have encouraged me if she had been here. Probably would have brought the key along, just in case a situation like this happened. And there it was. In her bottom drawer in the pages of a copy of The Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

  I don’t remember how I made it back to the door with the “X” across it. I don’t remember the thoughts I had. Maybe I once remembered them, but the way my mind is now, all mixed up, I don’t really know.

  I just know that I was there.

  Outside the door.

  With the key.

  Whatever it was inside heard me again because once more it threw itself at the wood and seemed to shake the whole hallway. The wailing was more insistent now.

  I fit the key in the lock, and bam! Again, it threw itself against the door, threatening to shatter the whole thing and shaking me to the core. I swallowed hard.

  I turned the key.

  Click.

  Silence. Not even the wailing. Nothing.

  I took in a deep breath, turned the door handle, and pushed. The door creaked open a crack, and I pushed harder until I just decided to go for it and shoved the thing wide open.

  I immediately flicked on the light switch.

  I stood there in the doorway, staring into an empty room. It was like a mini-surgery. And everything was all over the place. Garbage on the floor, the bin knocked to one side. Strange surgical tools were lying splayed across the counter, and a wooden chair broken into pieces was in the corner.

  What there didn’t seem to be was … anyone or anything.

  “Hello?” I said. That’s the thing people tend to say, I’ve noticed, when they are unsure entering a place. Even if maybe getting a “hello” back is not really something you want.

  At this moment I wasn’t sure what I wanted. But the empty room was definitely not on the list.

  I entered the room cautiously and then, quickly, checked behind the door because that’s always where people hide, behind the door. But no one was there. No one was anywhere. So I stood just in front of the open door, confused, alone, and feeling even more uneasy. I felt a shiver go up my back, like a cold hand was slowly walking its fingers up my spine.

  That’s when the lights dimmed. Or I shouldn’t exactly say “dimmed.” I’d say it was more like shadows began spilling into the room. They started slowly, so I thought maybe the lightbulb was about to go out, but then I looked down and saw darkness seeping in around my feet. I picked my foot up, thinking it was something wet, but it was just a shadow.

  Just a shadow.

  I looked up and watched as it crept up the walls. Along the ceiling. Covering the room in dripping blackness. Like a room full of spilled ink.

  I turned around to look into the hall, and sure enough the blackness was oozing its way out the door.

  I held my breath and stood very still. I was in a state of frozen panic. I’d never seen anything like this, and I didn’t think anyone else probably had either. I didn’t know what it meant or how it was happening, but I did know one thing.

  It felt threatening. Dangerous.

  Like the dripping shadows were evil itself.

  I don’t know how to explain what evil feels like. I just felt it. I just knew.

  My blood ran cold.

  All the light went out. In the room. In the hallway. The shadows had won and I could barely see the doorframe, only a few feet in front of me.

  I should have just left.

  But fear held me rooted to the spot. Fear of the darkness. Fear of the shadows.

  And a growing crawling fear. Tickling at the back of my neck.

  Fear that something was in the room with me.

  A soft watery breathing. Quiet and calm, but distinct. Somewhere behind me. And now I could hear the sound of scraping across the floor too, like a dragging, halting, limping footstep.

  Then silence.

  There was a sudden crash as something landed on the counter behind me, then the tinkling of metal hitting the floor. The surgical tools, I thought. Sharp, precise blades on the floor. Still I couldn’t move. I had the thought that if I didn’t move, if I didn’t make a sound, maybe whatever it was wouldn’t see me.

  The scraping against the floor began again. It got louder as whatever it was got closer. And then, as I stood there trying to be invisible, I could feel its presence. Not just hear it. I could feel it just behind me. It leaned in.

  Hot wet breath against my cheek.

  And then a different kind of breathy sound. Quick
inhalations.

  It was smelling me.

  I wasn’t invisible. I needed to run. I needed to run faster than I’d ever run in my life.

  Come on, Buddy, run.

  Run!

  I moved toward the door, uprooting one of my feet like I was pulling it out of thick mud. I reached with my arm for the doorframe, to try to pull myself farther. I didn’t understand; I wasn’t physically stuck. But my mind was making my body act that way.

  The thing behind me made a strange grunting noise then, as if it had realized something. I felt it pull away from me.

  There was a sudden weight on my back, pushing me forward, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps running past me. I’d been shoved and fell hard to the ground. It had the same force that I’d seen against the door, and it knocked the wind right out of me. But I didn’t stay face to floor for long. I was up quick. Finally my mind unstuck my feet and I ran out into the hall after the sound of footsteps.

  In a daze I looked up and down. One side was a dead end. The other was the corridor that led back to the waiting area. There was nothing. I ran down toward the main desk and skidded to a stop in front of it.

  Again.

  Nothing.

  It was then that I noticed the brightness around me. The lack of inky shadow. I turned around and sure enough the hall was brightly lit too. Panting slightly, I walked slowly back to the room. No shadows.

  Nothing.

  I rubbed my hands together, realizing now they stung from the fall, and noticed the torn knee in my trousers. Now I was one shirt and two sets of trousers down. I only had the shirt on my back that was clean and put together enough for work. That shouldn’t have bothered me just then, out of all things. But it did.

  A wave of exhaustion wrapped my fear up in a hug.

  Wandering through New York City at night, my only thought was to get home. Staring into the dark shadows down alleys and through grated storefronts, I felt a sense of dread unlike anything I’d ever known. I didn’t understand what had just happened. Nothing had been in that room and yet something had been breathing on me. Had pushed me.

  Had it been a trick of the mind? Was I that tired? Had I fallen? Had I tripped over myself? It wouldn’t have been the first time. “Clown feet,” they’d teased me in school.

  But what about the sounds? The rattled door? The growing shadows? That had been real. More than real. Those shadows were alive, I was pretty sure. Breathing, existing.

  It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a lie. I had heard sounds. I had seen the door shake. And I had been pushed to the floor. All of that had happened. I knew it had. I wasn’t going to doubt my mind.

  I was so sure of my mind back then.

  I remember that feeling.

  It’s almost like I’m feeling that feeling again.

  I walked all the way home. It took me just over an hour, but I needed it. I needed the time to settle my nerves, to get into that familiar rhythm, to see other people just being people and not being nightmares. The shadows stalked me, but I was a fast walker. And by the time I got home, the dread was very small and the exhaustion had taken over. This was good. I just needed to sleep.

  I climbed up the stairs and slumped into our darkened apartment. Everyone had gone to bed. Good. I didn’t feel like talking with my grandfather or trying to make Ma feel like everything was okay.

  I carefully opened the door to my room so that I didn’t wake the old man. Lying there on his side of the bed with the streetlight illuminating his face, he looked almost like a corpse. I wondered if he was breathing. I couldn’t help myself—I held a hand over his nose and mouth and felt a slight warm air against it.

  Thank goodness for that. I sat down on my side of the bed, facing the closed door, and had an image again of the locked door at the studio. No. I shook my head; I wasn’t thinking about that anymore that night. I slowly pulled the suspenders from my shoulders and rolled them back, arching my neck and hearing a very satisfying crack.

  I sighed.

  Then something grabbed me hard from behind.

  I leapt up with a cry and turned to see my grandfather sitting up, staring at me with those hollow eyes, wide and haunting. His mouth was open in what looked to be fear or anguish.

  “What?” I asked a little too loudly, but my heart was racing fast. “What is it?”

  He raised his hand slowly and pointed. Pointed right at me.

  “Grandfather, it’s me. It’s Buddy. Daniel.” I placed my hand to my chest and tapped it. “It’s just me. Your grandson.”

  He kept pointing, his index finger shaking slightly. His expression stayed frozen.

  I bent over to try to, what? To comfort him? I thought maybe he couldn’t see too great, so if he could see me close up … “See, it’s just me.”

  With another sudden movement he was holding me by my collar with both hands. His speed amazed me. He was pulling at my shirt. I could hear the seams along the shoulder starting to rip. “Stop it, Grandfather, stop it!” Pulling back only made it worse, and his long skeletal fingers only grabbed tighter. “Stop it!”

  “Off!” he said hoarsely.

  “What?”

  He managed to finally pass a button through a button hole.

  “You must see, you must see.” He was determined now, but I finally understood and I placed my hands over his shaking ones.

  He wouldn’t let go and as I tried to stand upright, I relented and unbuttoned my shirt as I did. He kept pulling at me until finally I could flail my arms out of my sleeves, disentangling myself from the fabric and staggering back toward the door.

  Grandfather held the shirt in his lap and looked at it.

  I stared at him, wide-eyed, in my yellowing undershirt.

  “What is wrong with you, old man?” I wanted to shout it but didn’t want to wake Ma, so I whispered it through a hiss.

  “Look,” said my grandfather. I looked down at myself. All I saw was me. And the hole in the knee of my trousers.

  “No. Koszula.”

  I looked up. He held my shirt bundled in his lap, and then with aged shaking hands and pencil-thin fingers, he held my shirt up for me to see.

  And I saw.

  And I stared.

  “Look,” said my grandfather.

  The light from outside shone through the shirt, making it see-through. Making it so I could see the back of the shirt easily. So that I could make out the dark shadow imprint on it.

  I reached out and took the shirt from him. He let me have it easily.

  “You see,” said my grandfather, sounding satisfied and lying back against the pillow.

  A handprint.

  Exactly where I had been pushed.

  On the back of my shirt.

  A large, black, ink-stained handprint.

  Today I didn’t know what this was.

  Today I looked at these pages and forgot why it was here. What this object was supposed to be. It confused me.

  I had to dig deep into my mind.

  The five senses:

  Touch: rough edges to pages.

  Smell: ink and paper.

  Taste: not tasty at all.

  Sound: hollow quiet.

  Sight: words on pages.

  Words on pages. Buddy. Dot. Ma. Grandpa.

  Joey Drew. My story.

  This isn’t just my story, it’s your story too, Dot. I wish I could tell it from your point of view sometimes. I wish I knew why you believed me and sought me out that first time. I wish the answer was more than just your “gut.”

  I wish I understood you the way you seemed to understand me.

  Maybe it was all a lie.

  But you were never a liar. That was the whole thing, wasn’t it? You chose not to lie.

  People can make that choice.

  I wish I knew why you believed me when I told you about the Infirmary. About the creature in the darkness. About my shirt. I’d been stupid not to bring it in to work the next day with me, but it hadn’t mattered because you believed me. It was
n’t just some dark fairy tale.

  It was real.

  You came with me to the Infirmary hallway at lunch. I showed you the room. There was nothing there, of course, but that didn’t make you not believe me. It just made you want to investigate more.

  You, Dot, always asked questions.

  She really did. In case this is someone else. In case this isn’t her reading this. She was great at asking questions.

  “What about Sammy and Tom?” she asked, quickly pocketing her master key after I handed it back to her. She didn’t seem to mind at all I’d taken it, but maybe it was because she was so interested in what I’d found.

  “What about them?”

  “What about that conversation you overheard? About ink?” I shook my head, I wasn’t sure what to think. “Come on, Buddy. These guys are being secretive about ink in this odd way, and then you end up with an ink-stained handprint on your back. Might be no connection, but does it really feel like there isn’t? I don’t think so.”

  True.

  There was something I hadn’t told her. Because it made me sort of uncomfortable. I didn’t totally trust what I’d seen and I hated jumping to conclusions, looking stupid. But if anyone would listen to me it would be Dot. So I told her about after the conversation. About going to Sammy and seeing the ink bottle beside him and the black smudge at the corner of his mouth.

  “Like he’d had his pen in his mouth?” she asked.

  I felt now even more conflicted saying this bit. “Maybe, but I feel like I remember that the bottle had more ink in it and then it had less ink in it when I looked again.” I didn’t want to say it outright.

  I worried she’d look at me funny, but instead she immediately asked, “Do you think he drank it? That’d be toxic, wouldn’t it!?”

  She asked the question I hadn’t dared ask myself.

  “I dunno.”

  “Well, it’s a place to start. First Sammy, and then that Tom person.”