Sleep Savannah Sleep

by Alistair Cross

  Jason smiled. “Just some routine questions. Savannah had an appointment with me not too long ago and they wondered if I’d seen or heard anything that might help them.”

  Dottie shook her head. “That poor girl’s family. What they must be going through.”

  “I know. It must be … just terrible.” An obvious understatement, but he doubted there were accurate words for the fear and desperation Savannah’s loved ones were feeling.

  Dottie sighed. “Well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

  “It’s fine, Dottie.” Jason liked the woman but wasn’t in the mood for her speculation and gossip. Seeing Scott and Flynn earlier had given him a new perspective.

  “Well, if I hear anything more, I’ll let you know.”

  And everyone else in town, no doubt. “Thanks, Dottie.”

  He closed the door and headed into the living room.

  “What was that about?” Brent lay on the couch, his laptop open on his chest. “When were the cops here?”

  Jason had hoped Brent hadn’t overheard. “They came by earlier to ask if I’d heard anything about Savannah’s disappearance that might-”

  Brent’s gaze snapped to Jason. “You’re not a suspect, are you?”

  “No.” At least he didn’t think so. It hadn’t occurred to him. “Of-of course not.”

  Brent didn’t seem convinced, and suddenly, Jason wasn’t either. “There’s really nothing to suspect yet, Brent. She’s been missing but that doesn’t mean-”

  “Then why would they want to talk to you?”

  “Because I see a lot of people, Brent. They thought someone might have said something that might help them. And we can’t assume the worst. It’s very likely she just ran off and is starting a new life somewhere else.”

  Already bored, Brent’s attention was back on the laptop, but Jason remained uneasy. He knew the statistics, and it was perfectly possible Savannah was dead. And her disappearance - let alone her death - wasn’t something he wanted to be involved in. They don’t think I had anything to do with it, do they? They couldn’t, could they? He hadn’t gotten the impression they suspected him of anything, but then, they certainly wouldn’t have let on if they had. That cop. If anyone had something to do with it, it was that guy. He was the one who … But Jason cut the thought off. He was sick of thinking about it.

  As he made his way into the kitchen for a glass of water, he recalled Dottie’s words. ‘That Savannah is nothing but trouble … no good can come from having dealings with her …’

  He wished he’d never let Savannah Sturgess into his house.

  Jason lay awake in bed, trying not to think of the visit from Sheriff Redding and friends, listening to the howling of the wind and the unrelenting creaking of the stairs. Each time sleep wrapped itself warm around him and he was on the edge of succumbing, it came: Creeeak … Creeeak … CREEEAK! Outside, the wind whistled at the windows, rattling them as vine leaves tapped the glass.

  Then a new tapping came - this time from behind him, on the bedroom door.

  “Daddy?”

  He’d been expecting this. He opened his eyes, his head on the pillow, and stared at the wall. “Yeah, sweetie?”

  “Is it okay if I sleep in your bed tonight?” Her voice was edged with worry but she was trying to sound brave. As always, Jason wouldn’t let on that he sensed her fear.

  He smiled in the darkness. “Of course, honey. Come in.” He waited, secretly glad his daughter still needed him. He needed her, too.

  Several seconds passed and she said nothing more; there was no sound at all. Jason sat up. “Amber?”

  The room was silent.

  He fumbled for the lamp and switched it on.

  The door was shut, the room empty. “Sweetie?” An eerie feeling settled over him. Certainly, he hadn’t imagined her voice. Or the tap at the door.

  He got out of bed and went into the hall, turning on the light. At Amber’s room, he cracked the door and looked inside.

  She lay sleeping, Ruby in one arm, Reginald Breedlove by her head. Her breath came deep, slow, and steady.

  “Impossible.” His whisper resounded in the silence. He stared for several moments, trying to make sense of it. Deciding he must have somehow imagined it, he closed her door, turned off the hall light, and headed back down the hall, trying to convince himself he wasn’t having another delusional episode.

  A groaning creak on the stairs stopped him cold. It wasn’t like the others - it was forceful, deliberate somehow, as if someone were slowly pressing their weight onto it. More than that, he felt someone’s presence there - felt it as surely and inexplicably as you feel it when someone’s staring hard at you from across a room.

  On swift, silent feet, he headed to the top of the stairs, pausing to look down.

  Nothing but long dense shadows that turned pure black at the bottom of the stairs.

  Jason became aware of the sound of his own breath, deep, fast, and raspy - but otherwise, the house was silent. Unnaturally silent, he realized, as if the clock downstairs dared not tick and the wind outside rose on tiptoes, risking not so much as a whisper.

  “Daddy?”

  He whirled, his heart in his throat.

  In dark shadows, Amber stood in the hall, just outside her bedroom, Ruby in her arms.

  Jason, not yet trusting his senses, started slowly toward her, feeling for the light switch. When he found it, he flipped it on.

  Dusty orange light bloomed from the flame-shaped bulbs in their cast iron sconces and Amber squinted, shielding her eyes with one hand. “What are you doing, Daddy?”

  “Oh, sorry.” He shut the light off and went to his daughter. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay, Daddy, but what are you doing?”

  “Nothing, sweetie. Did you want to sleep in my room tonight?”

  She considered. “No. It’s all right.”

  Jason felt like a coward for wishing she’d said yes, but was proud of her courage. “Okay. Let’s get you back to bed.” He paused. “Amber? Were you in my room earlier?”

  “When, Daddy?”

  “Just a few minutes ago.”

  She shook her head. “No. How come?”

  “It’s nothing. I just wondered.” He led Amber back to her room, tucked her in, and kissed her goodnight.

  “Don’t forget to kiss Ruby, Daddy.”

  Jason kissed the doll.

  “And Reginald Breedlove.” She yawned.

  Jason planted his lips between the bunny’s ears. “There. All of you are ready to go back to sleep now.”

  “Goodnight, Daddy.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Jason returned to his room and lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The wind had picked up again, but wasn’t nearly as fierce as before. I must be going out of my mind. He worried over his mental health, trying to think of kinder, gentler things, and soon his mind began to drift, detaching itself, and floating off to wherever it went when unconsciousness took the helm. And then Jason was asleep, his possibly malfunctioning mind at rest.

  Until the dreams came.

  He stood in Shadow Springs Cemetery. Threads of fog eddied around his cold, bare feet, the sky was painted silver by a frosty moon that cast anemic light on tall tombstones and the slow-swaying limbs of the weeping willows.

  ‘You like it when I fuck your mouth, don’t you?’

  Jason spun.

  Sheriff Marshall Redding stood, his back against a tree, his shirt open, hands in Savannah’s hair.

  ‘Don’t you?’ But Redding wasn’t speaking to Savannah. His dark eyes were on Jason, piercing him, paralyzing him. ‘Don’t you?’ His mouth curved into a cruel, wet, gleaming grin.

  Savannah’s head bobbed in vicious thrusts, her blond hair bouncing as she slammed her face into Redding’s groin.

  ‘Don’t you?’ Redding’s features were frozen in a lunatic grin - his glassy eyes never even blinked.

  Savannah unfastened her
mouth from Redding with a sickening moist sound, then turned to face Jason. Gone were her china-blue eyes, replaced by glistening orbs, black and damned, that stared with empty, dead intent. Her mouth was slick with a dripping fury of red-black blood, and a raw, chewed-up hole gaped and oozed where Redding’s genitals should have been. Savannah wiped her mouth and smiled, revealing impossibly long sharp teeth.

  ‘Don’t you?’ asked Redding. ‘Don’t you?’ His body jerked like a short-circuiting robot, the back of his head smacking wetly against the tree. Bone cracked sickeningly.

  Then Savannah, a grotesque puppet on tangled strings, brought herself brokenly to her feet. She screamed - a shrieking teakettle cry that tore the silence and made Jason’s teeth ache. From an unseen wound, blood dripped into her eye and she crumpled, falling like a ragdoll back to the ground.

  ‘Don’t you?’ Redding took no notice of any of it as he continued jerking and bashing his own head against the bark, starring it with blood. ‘Don’t you? Don’t you?’ Then the man’s features began to change. The strong Greek face melted away as bones slid and moved under his skin, rearranging themselves in grotesque bulges, depressions, and shifts. The shadows and fog both hung thick, but there was no mistaking who the sheriff had transformed into.

  Jason gasped, looking into his own face. ‘Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you! DON’T YOU! DON’T YOU!’

  Jason stepped back, locked in his doppelganger’s black glassy stare. “No.” The word escaped on a burst of frost. “No.” Something cold and hard brought him to a stop: a jutting tombstone. He glanced down at the name; it was written boldly in deep-etched letters gilded with gold: Tabitha Cooper.

  The cemetery went silent and when he looked up, Savannah, Redding, and the Jason effigy were gone.

  And for a moment, he was alone.

  Then he heard a rush of wind as a massive white owl beat its wings and swept down, gracefully perching on the tall marble headstone beside him. It swiveled its head and blinked massive gold eyes at him. ‘Who?’ it asked.

  Jason shot awake, bathed in perspiration. The blankets flew to the floor from a compulsive, frantic kick.

  And then he heard the creaking of the stairs, barely there at first, then almost ear-splitting, as if at any moment the wood would crack and splinter and the stairs would give way - or the entire house would come apart. He put his hands at the sides of his head, but the wrenching would not be muted. The house shuddered and groaned. Violent wind threw spatters of rain against the windows and as he watched, the water turned to blood. It streaked down the glass, pelting and hammering until the window cracked and shattered - and glass and blood exploded through the opening, painting the curtains and staining the floor dark red.

  Jason shot to his feet to yank the curtains closed, but the wind and rain - the blood! - had stopped - and all was silent except for the rain. It dripped from the eaves, gently ticking on the leaves of the vines: Tap … tap … tap. But the smell of humid air, of wet streets and fresh grass, of rain and blood - so much blood! - assailed his senses and cloyed to the walls of his lungs.

  He stared out the window, his senses questing for signs he hadn’t imagined it all. In the house next door, a single light burned.

  Tabitha Cooper sat in her room, rocking in her chair. Her eyes were no longer opaque, but bright blue and lucid. She looked up and locked eyes with him. His fear was loose inside him like a pack of rabid wolves, but his body just stood there, trapped in the woman’s gaze. She sees me … She had the look of someone who’d been staring into the dark for too long, and at last, was able to see what was before her.

  Tabitha Cooper’s lips peeled back into an odious grin that showed too many teeth and involuntarily, Jason fell a step back.

  Then movement caught his attention in an upstairs window and, Tabitha Cooper forgotten, Jason’s gaze shot to the second floor.

  Human-shaped silhouettes danced, dipping and swaying like shadows thrown by a flickering candle. Muffled piano music sounded as bodies undulated, merging and dividing. Jason squinted, focusing his gaze. And then it was if a great black curtain had lifted and he could clearly see the dancers. He recognized Flynn Garvey, his nude body wavering like a flickering flame, quivering and snapping far too fast for the music.

  Jason’s eyes moved to another figure. Coop. He, too, was naked, sitting alone in a chair, his face twitching, body oiled by sweat, his head down and eyes raised to flit furtively over the other partiers.

  Marlee Delgado sat spread-eagled on a sofa, a leopard-print skirt hiked up to her waist, her head tossed back as a man’s head bobbed between her legs. Marshall Redding came up for air, his mouth smeared with blood. He grinned at her, running his shockingly pink tongue over his red-smeared lips, and Marlee pushed him back into position. Fred De La Paz placed a full champagne glass in her hand, leaned in to say something that made her laugh, and moved on.

  Jason followed Fred toward the piano where Hallie Bessner leaned casually in a transparent white dress, a long string of pearls dangling between her breasts. She took a champagne glass, downed it, and laughed at something Fred said. He gave her another full glass, and Jason’s gaze moved to the pianist.

  Liam Sturgess’ doll-like face was so placid and empty - so vacant. His fingers danced expertly over the keys, and Jason saw bone poking through. Their tips, as if gnawed away by rats, had eroded. As the intensity of his strange discordant tune grew, his empty eyes blazed at a large framed portrait propped in front of him. Within it, Savannah Sturgess smiled back at him, large black Xs drawn over her eyes with a marker. Angrily, the doll-faced Liam pounded the keys, sweating as his fury - and the song - mounted.

  The music not only grew louder, but closer somehow, and more insistent. Marlee Delgado, her skirt still hiked to her waist, and the bloody-faced Marshall Redding stood and began to dance. Even Coop was on his feet, his entire body twitching and sweating profusely as he did a jerky little jig that looked a lot like a grand mal. Fred De La Paz, with his own glass of champagne, began moving to the music and was soon joined by Hallie, who plucked up the framed photograph of Savannah and, giggling, slammed it down on the piano, shattering it.

  Laughter rang out and Jason knew without knowing how that they were celebrating - all of them - the disappearance of Savannah Sturgess.

  He strained to hear their words, tried to pluck a coherent thread of conversation from the cacophony of voices and pounding piano music - but it was useless.

  And then Travis Delgado was in the window, his broad naked frame filling it so entirely that he blocked out everything else. His and Jason’s gaze struck like swords and locked, and in that razor-sharp stare, Jason saw black, naked hatred and his blood turned soupy and hot. Travis’ body, unrealistically massive and greased to a high shine, was as bald as an egg, showing every ripple of every muscle, and Jason could practically feel the crushing power of the man. Then his lips moved, forming two unmistakable words: Dead man.

  At that moment, the lights went out. The music stopped. The voices died. The house went black and everyone was gone.

  Everyone except Tabitha Cooper.

  Jason heard the creak of her rocking chair and glanced into her window. She sat, rocking slowly back and forth, back and forth. With the ginger movements of the elderly and frail, she pulled herself to her feet and stooped to the window to stare out the glass at the black night beyond. Her eyes were fogged with blindness again, and she raised a clawed hand and began drawing invisible designs on the window. In the absolute silence, Jason heard her fingertips skidding across the glass. His heart stuttering, he followed her finger and this time, he was able to make out the message:

  S … O … S …

  Jason woke with a start, eyes popping open, head on his pillow. It took a moment to realize the whole thing had been a dream.

  A dream within a dream, actually.

  For long moments, he sat there, perfectly still, waiting in tense silence for the terrible ripping creaks to return to the stairs, or to hear some ghostly s
et of footsteps making their way to his bedroom. But nothing happened and eventually, he was sinking back into sleep, the dream memories fading into a series of indecipherable, meaningless flashes. But even as the dream tucked itself away in a dust-covered corner of his mind, a low-grade terror remained, humming in his blood where it would linger for days.

  The night terrors had returned after all - of that much, he was certain.

  11

  Haunted

  After guzzling a cup of coffee alongside two bowls of Boo Berry Monster cereal, Jason showered, started the laundry, checked his calendar, and spent the next few hours setting up his weight sets in the spare bedroom in the basement.

  After all that, he was exhausted. As he studied his new in-home gym, smiling at a job well done, he knew he’d have no more excuses to eat burgers and fries for dinner and Boo Berry cereal for breakfast. Unconsciously, he touched his stomach, which had softened from the few extra pounds he’d put on. It was time to start running again, too.

  But not today. Getting the gym put together was enough exercise for one day. And he hadn’t slept well. He hoped for better rest tonight but refused to worry, knowing from past experience that getting anxious about nightmares only made them worse. Still, he couldn’t help wondering: Why did they come back? Why now? He couldn’t go back to that way of life - with his nights plagued with terrors. I need to read more horror, he thought. Reading horror kept the real-life monsters at bay; it had a way of casting light into the dark corners of his mind and showing him there was nothing there to fear.

  When Jason was fourteen, his mother, sick to death of the middle-of-the-night screaming, had forced him to see a counselor about his night terrors. The two of them hid the fact from his father, who didn’t believe in such nonsense as therapy, and though Jason was reluctant to go, it had turned out to be one of the best things that had happened to him.

  His counselor, an incredibly wise and understanding old man named Roger Simms, had suggested that rather than hiding from his fears, Jason find a safe way to face them. Jason turned to horror novels, and soon learned that Roger Simms couldn’t have possibly made a better suggestion. Contrary to popular opinion, the scary stories didn’t worsen his fears, not at all. They’d done the opposite - and Roger Simms, the rather unconventional therapist he was, had been wise enough to know it.