by Blake Croft
Linda stopped eating. “What kind of nightmares?”
“Oh, just silly ones.” Ashley’s tone had an edge to it. “The usual paralysis while someone’s hovering above you kind of thing. Linda used to have those all the time as a kid. Next thing I know, a vault is being closed and I’m stuck in some crypt or something. Creepy.” She shrugged in nonchalance but Linda could see that the dreams had disturbed her.
The food became tasteless in Linda’s mouth. Marisa had stopped eating too.
“Was there a lake?”
“Was someone crying?”
Linda and Marisa had asked the questions at the same time. Their wide eyes met across the table. Ashley set the beer bottle down with deliberate calm.
“You’re both right,” she finally said. “Eerily so. It’s like…”
“We all had….” Marisa murmured.
“The same dream…” Linda finished the sentence.
The silence of the house was a thick wall around them now. Linda could feel cold fingers dragging down her neck, intensifying the feeling of being exposed and vulnerable. She felt like they were being observed. Linda glanced outside the kitchen windows, but there was nothing but the night out there. Trees rustled in the wind in the distance.
“That can’t be possible,” Marisa snorted. She took a tentative sip of her beer. “Can it?”
“It could be like synchronized periods,” Ashley suggested but she seemed doubtful. “I guess.”
“We haven’t lived together long enough for that.” Marisa shook her head.
“Have you had this nightmare before or just now?” Linda asked.
“I’ve had something like them before; three weeks ago when I’d just started, the house was full of clients and other counselors,” Marisa rubbed the back of her neck, a faraway look in her eye. “But this one was intense, a bit too real. There was a woman.” She swallowed audibly. “I couldn’t see her face. Her dark hair kept coming in front of it, but she was young and beautiful. I couldn’t look away. Then, she starts to get old before my eyes.” Marisa's eyes unfocused and her mouth slightly parted. “Her skin wrinkles until she turns to dust. Then, her bones cave in on themselves until she’s a heap at my feet.” Shaking her head, suddenly her eyes cleared and she pushed her plate away. “I’m bushed. I’m going to go to bed.”
“I’ll clean up,” Linda said picking up the plates and taking them to the sink.
Marisa trudged up the stairs.
Ashley yawned, and stretched her arms. “You need help?”
“No, I’m fine.” Linda shook her head. “You guys made the meal, so it’s only fair that I clean up.”
“I think I’ll call it a night too. Weird thing about the dreams though.” Ashley frowned. “If I wasn’t into practical logic, I’d think we were being hypnotized or something. But at least we’ve found some common ground with your counselor.”
Linda chuckled, but there was no humor in it. The similarity of the dreams had really disturbed her. Ashley was very practical; she had been the first to discredit the existence of Santa Claus, and abhorred creationist beliefs. Linda was more inclined to believe that supernatural elements worked in the world around them, things science had no explanation for.
And Ashley had been right about another thing. Linda had suffered from night terrors and sleep paralyses when she was younger. It had started around the same time their father had started drinking to excess, coming home drunk and angry. Details from her late childhood sprung to her mind.
The fights and hate between her parents. The doors slamming. The glasses crashing into the wall. The screams. The cries. Then the beatings.
Then the therapy she’s been through in her early teen years at Dr. King’s office. She remembered that the desk was made of the finest wood. There was an antique lamp on it right next to a stack of yellowed papers. The outdated phone never rang when Linda was there, and the heavy curtains kept out all the sun and kept in the smell of leather mixed with the smell of the dust on everything. This is where Linda and her mother put a name to the hallucinations Linda experienced when these fights started.
Dr. King had diagnosed her with PTSD and acute anxiety, and he explained to them that Linda suffered from deep sleep paralysis and strange imaginary friends. That’s what the doctor had called the hallucinations she suffered from, as a side effect of her stressful life at home due to the hatred between her parents. He explained that it was not unusual, especially in such a situation. Ashley and her mom were relieved to hear that.
Linda was surprised her sister had mentioned her old issues. Ashley was very pragmatic, and she hated the time when Linda suffered from this episode. Luckily it ended when the fights between her parents stopped with the departure of Linda and her mom, proving the doctor right. Linda and Ashley had never talked about it since.
Her hands wiped the plates dry as her mind flitted back to the imaginary friends her mind created to protect herself from this terrifying period of her childhood.
There had been the man in the old fashioned clothes who walked around with a walking stick, jabbing it at peoples’ feet but tripping no one no matter how hard he tried. Obviously, Ashley didn’t remember him.
And the young girl by the pond in the park that no one, except Linda, could see.
Both disappeared permanently when her mother took her far from her father, and her life relaxed.
Shuddering, Linda shoved that memory to the back of her mind. Ashley’s pragmatism was safe ground to walk on. Those people had all been figments of her overly stressed imagination.
Setting the dishes to air dry on a rack, she wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. She shut the lights off in the kitchen, and was about to leave when a movement outside the window caught her off guard.
It was an inky blot superimposed on the darkness of night. It shifted along the garden path listlessly as if lost.
Throat as dry as sandpaper, Linda squinted hard at the shape but she couldn’t make out any defining features. It was like a wedge of black drifting this way and that. Then, as if it had sensed Linda’s attention, the shape stopped. Linda gasped and stepped back. She couldn’t explain it but she knew whoever it was, was looking directly at her.
She was rooted to the ground. The figure now moved with singular purpose towards the back porch as if Linda had given it a guiding light. Fear licked her spine. Jackson had escaped prison and found her, she should have known he would, and now he was going to teach her a lesson for betraying him.
The figure rushed up the stairs.
It was on the back porch now.
Fingers scrabbling at the wall, Linda found the light switch and flipped it.
Light flooded the kitchen, and the back porch through the window.
It was empty.
Linda took in a few rattled breaths. Her head was throbbing, and her eyes felt heavy.
Taking a hesitant step towards the backdoor that lead out of the kitchen and onto the back porch, Linda grabbed a saucepan from the utility rack by the stove. The heavy weight of it felt comforting in her hand.
Fingers trembling she opened the door.
Pale light flooded the back porch, her own shadow long and dark spilled across the porch and the garden.
There was no one there; no footprints on the dirt path.
Shutting the door quickly, Linda placed the saucepan back and promptly shut off the lights.
She rushed through the living room and the dark main hall, and up the stairs that glowed a pale grey from the lights on the landing. The faces in the portraits looked creepier in the half light. The buxom woman seemed to have grown larger in the dark, the paint of her eyes picking out the light from the front windows and shining with an internal venom.
That’s silly, Linda thought. It’s just a painting.
This was different from what she had experienced in her childhood, but it wasn’t the first time she had hallucinated figures in the dark. Immediately after Jackson’s arrest, she had broken down in her home, screaming and hysterical, because sh
e had seen Jackson outside her window. She had moved to Ashley’s apartment after that.
Her PTSD was back in full swing. The accident had jarred her, and brought back traumatic memories. Linda felt defeated, as if she had made no progress at all. She had been near crazy with terror back when the hallucinations had been a regular feature. She hadn’t known what was real and what was a product of her anxious mind.
Linda didn’t want to go back to being the terrified girl she had been. She never wanted to experience the uncertainty or doubt her own senses again. She hoped the sessions with Marisa would prevent any serious hallucinations going forward.
But what if this time it wasn’t PTSD?
They all had experienced the same dream; it wasn’t isolated to her trauma.
Ashley's and Marisa’s doors were ajar. Not wanting to worry them, she stepped into the bathroom to calm down a little. She turned on the faucet, and raised her glasses on her head. She splashed water on her face, the cool liquid taking the heat out of her skin. Her headache felt a little better.
She turned for the towel and noticed the window was open.
Linda pulled her glasses down.
Yes, the window she had locked was open again.
Her hands began to tremble.
This wasn’t possible. She knew she had locked the window before dinner, hadn’t she?
A sharp knock on the door made her jump.
Linda opened the door.
Marisa was dressed in Harry Potter themed pajamas. She looked slightly green.
“Are you going to be long?” she asked. She swayed a little on the spot and had to hold the doorframe to steady herself. “It’s just that I feel a little queasy.”
“No,” Linda glanced back at the window. “I’m done.”
“Did you lock the window?” Marisa asked stumbling past Linda to sit on the rim of the tub.
Linda stared. How had Marisa known about the locked window?
“Yes,” she said.
“Please don’t do that.” Marisa moaned holding her stomach. “It gets really humid in here, and this weird smell develops. I had to open it a few minutes ago to get some air in here.”
“You opened it?” Linda felt palpable relief surge through her, lifting the heavy feeling of doom off her shoulders.
“Of course I did,” Marisa snapped, wincing in pain. “Who else would it have been?”
“I hope you feel better soon,” Linda said, stepping out of the bathroom.
“It was probably the burgers.” Marisa belched. “Damn it! I hate being sick.”
Linda didn’t reply. She closed the door discretely, and went down the hall to her bedroom. The feeling that somebody was watching her hadn’t entirely left her, but now Linda was worried that it wasn’t just a product of her mind.
Linda’s room was exactly as she had left it. The sight of the bed made all the exhaustion of the day come crashing down on her. She felt bone-weary. All she wanted to do now was get under the covers and sleep for twelve hours.
“Hey, Lin?” Ashley knocked on her partially closed door. “You up?”
“Yeah,” Linda said, still shaken from her mad dash up the stairs. Her nerves were frayed and sensitive.
“I just wanted to check on you,” Ashley stood at the door in her lumpy nightshirt and torn pajama bottoms. She held one hand behind her back. Linda knew Ashley felt most comfortable in the most old and tattered clothes she possessed. “None of what happened today must have been easy for you.”
“I am a little jumpy,” Linda confessed, running a hand though her hair. “The accident was jarring, but the calls were no less disturbing.”
“Tell me about it,” Ashley groaned. She came to sit beside Linda on the bed. She stared at her lap for a second then sighed, and brought her hand forward. “I found this. I knew it would make you feel better.”
It was a small pink pentagon shaped plastic box with cheap string attached to one end. Linda stared at it with her mouth open. This was just as much of a shock as anything that had happened that day, but it was overwhelmingly pleasant.
“My Polly Pocket!” Linda cried taking the box from Ashley who was grinning from ear to ear. “You said Sarah Fuller stole it!”
“I lied.” Ashley made a face. “I was jealous.”
“Why?” Linda asked. “You asked Mom for skates that Christmas.”
“Yeah.” Ashley scuffed her toes against the floor. “But I didn’t think those stupid pocket-sized doll houses would be so neat, and you wouldn’t share.”
Linda opened it up to reveal a miniature doll house in one half of the box, and a small garden in the other. Nostalgia, sickly sweet and syrup-thick choked her throat with tears and twisted her gut with half-pleasure half-pain.
“I lost the doll,” Ashley apologized.
Mom, can I please have this one? I won’t ever ask for anything again, promise!
She could still remember her mother’s broad, tired face… the tired lines that seamed the corners of her eyes and mouth, warring against the desire to gift Linda the world. But the reality of their financial situation weighed heavy on her brow.
“I never wanted this one,” Linda said, her voice husky. “I wanted the big purple heart Polly Pocket with the prince’s castle and moat and grand staircase. I kept taking Mom to the store to show her which one exactly, and I kept telling her not to forget.”
“But she forgot.” Ashley placed a hand on Linda’s shoulder.
“No,” Linda laughed, brushing away her tears. “She remembered. She just couldn’t afford it. I realize that now.”
“She was a good mother.” Ashley rubbed her back.
“The best,” Linda agreed. “Thanks, Ashley, for keeping it safe all these years.”
“Don’t mention it,” her sister said. “You should get some rest. Sleep off this horrible day.”
Linda nodded, and closed the Polly Pocket. Ashley left, closing the door softly behind her. Linda placed it on top of a pile of books and looked at it as she lay her head down and prepared for a sleep that came so suddenly it was like someone had switched off the lights.
Chapter 9
Linda’s head rested on a lap.
Someone was singing softly in her ear, their breath tickling the side of her neck. The words eluded her but the tune evoked lush green hills, under dark skies. Her heart constricted in her chest and her eyes filled with tears.
Hands stroked her hair gently.
“Mom?” Linda whispered.
She smelled damp earth, and something else she couldn’t put her finger on. Her eyes grew heavy with sleep but a nugget of dread kept her from giving into that need. Something dangled in front of her; a silver chain with a peridot pendant in the shape of a shamrock hanging from its center.
Linda lifted a hand to touch the necklace but it hiked up.
She turned a little to retrieve it, disturbing the lap she was lying in.
Bone white hands stroked her face, and from the depths of a black cowl a pointed white chin was visible.
Linda screamed but the sound was lodged in her throat. She began to choke, willing her limbs to move, to run away, but her body refused to obey. Like she was immersed in quicksand, her limbs fell through the lap to the viscous earth sucking her in face first.
The unreality of it all dawned on her, and she realized she was dreaming. She managed to moan, fracturing the dream, coming back to wakefulness.
She sat up in bed, her head still swimming from the terror of her nightmare. They were getting more bizarre with each night.
A sound kept filtering through the haze, nudging at her ears to grab her attention. She listened carefully. The telephone was ringing downstairs.
She heard a door open on the landing. Footsteps tiptoed down the hall and a pair of feet came to rest outside her door. A muffled knock, and then Ashley’s face poked inside. She looked white, heavy bags rested dark beneath her eyes.
“Who do you think’s calling at this time of night?” she asked.
&nbs
p; “What time is it?” Linda asked.
“About three am. I woke because of a stupid dream… what?”
“Me, too,” Linda was suddenly very afraid. “Where’s Marisa?”
Ashley shrugged.
Linda stepped out of her bed. She didn’t waste time putting on her shoes but rushed down the hall and the stairs. The main hall was empty. Ashley followed her looking a bit perplexed with Linda’s actions. Linda felt the same; she couldn’t explain why she was in such a hurry but she knew she needed to find Marisa before… before what?
She found her standing in the middle of the living room illuminated by the grainy street light filtering through the windows. Her curly hair was messier than usual and her face was sickly yellow. She was staring at the telephone as if she didn’t really see it. The phone kept ringing, ringing till it finally went to the answering machine.
“Marisa,” Linda gently touched her arm. “Are you okay?”
Marisa didn’t respond.
Her eyes were glazed and there was something frozen about the way she stood as if she were still asleep but had been propped up to stand there.
The machine beeped and the message began to record.
Sound surged and then muffled like a badly tuned radio. The sound of boiling water, bubbles bursting as they reached the surface, then a low hum of music and a haunting voice singing.
Realization hit Linda. Her eyes widened and she stared at Ashley.
“I know that song!” she said. “I heard it in my dreams.”
“What?” Ashley looked paler than usual. “How is that possible? You must have heard it somewhere else.”
“No.” Linda shook her head. “I’m telling you Ash, I heard it in my dream. Twice now!”
“I didn’t.” Ashley frowned, she suddenly didn’t look very sure. “I mean… no, I didn’t.”
“If we shared that dream about being buried, maybe we shared this one too,” Linda said. “What do you think Marisa?”
Marisa hadn’t moved, she didn’t even look like she had heard the message.
“Marisa?”
“I want to know who’s calling us,” Ashley went to the phone and checked the caller ID. “It’s from a cell number this time.”