Darkness Descends

by J. C. Kavanagh

  “I don’t like it. And I don’t want it,” Georgia whispered.

  Connor inhaled sharply. The words were familiar. It was the same phrase used in Richard Hatemore’s hateful chant from the dream world’s Valley of Tired.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I don’t like my dream and I don’t want it,” Georgia emphasized.

  Connor’s mind whirled in multiple directions, seeking answers. For sure she’s been to the Valley of Tired. He wiped a tear from her cheek. But why? Why Georgia? He kissed the top of her head and pushed the curly hair away from her face.

  “You come and get me the next time you have this dream, okay?”

  “I’ll try but it was tho hard to wake up,” Georgia explained, sniffling. “And I was tho thcared. You have to thave me.”

  Connor smiled. “I will save you. Isn’t that what big brothers are for?”

  The rest of the day went by in a blur for Connor. He was in his first year of college and trying to figure out what he wanted ‘to be’ for the rest of his life. He was leaning toward investigative journalism and factual writing, but a creative assignment from his last year in high school aroused the resourceful side of his brain. In that assignment, he developed the plot for a video game which was based on his adventures in the dream world’s Valley of Tired. He even wrote a rap song for it. The teacher gave him an ‘A’ for the assignment and wrote the comment, “Very imaginative” on the cover page.

  “Mmmm,” he thought, “creative skills versus analytical skills?” Connor used to dream about becoming a famous hockey player or a celebrated soccer star. Training to be a fireman like his dad also appealed to him. As a kid, he thought strength and courage were the key components in choosing a career. That was then. Now, he knew there were so many other options available. He grimaced. I know what I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be a sleep climber.

  * * *

  “Connor.”

  There was a glow above him. Connor could see it, even though his eyes were closed. He placed a forearm across his eyes and shifted deeper into the bed.

  “Connor.” The strange voice was gentle but persistent. Connor’s sleepy mind tried to make sense of the voice and the brightness. He could make out a shape in the light behind his eyelids, a shadowy human shape surrounded by an extremely bright light. Is that a person?

  “Connor, you need to cross over.”

  Connor sat up abruptly, instantly awake. The vision began to fade into the darkness but, before disappearing, it said, “You need to cross over… before it’s too late.”

  Chapter 5

  That Scar

  The snarling, scratching sound of wolves attacking the padlocked door brought a scream to her throat.

  “No-o-o-o,” cried Georgia. “I don’t want to be here, not here… I want my bed!” Tears streamed across her cheeks as she hunkered down, hugging her knees. Moonlight shone through the lone, dirty window of the shack, revealing its gloomy interior. Under the window was a small table strewn with body-type harnesses, their shiny metal clips glowing softly in the moon rays. Beside Georgia was a large wooden wardrobe, its two doors slightly ajar.

  She stood and moved closer to the window, closer to the moonlight. A metallic box with a large lever on its side was mounted onto the dirty wall. A label with the words ‘Activate Shield’ stood out boldly on the face of the box. Georgia stared at the words while her six-year-old brain read them out loud.

  “Acc-tive Thile.”

  No, that doesn’t make sense.

  “Act-vatee Thileed.”

  Oh, I don’t know what it says. Georgia began whimpering again, fear welling up in her throat and goosebumps building fortresses across her neck and arms. The wolves were suddenly quiet and the quiet seemed to be louder in her ears than their grunts and scratches had been on the door.

  Were they gone? The silence seemed to beckon but Georgia ignored the urge to open the door.

  I want my mommy. I want my daddy. I want Connor. And I want my Foleydota. She hiccupped through her tears.

  AND I WANT TO FALL ASLEEP.

  Hugging her arms again, Georgia began to rock, much like her mom would do after she skinned her knees. She looked out the window and paused in mid-rock. A skinny, bald boy with long bony arms was walking slowly across the field toward the shack, dragging something in the dirt. His large, misshapen head was glinting in the moonlight. There was a bright red scar running across the top of his head, from one ear over to the other. Georgia’s mouth opened in a silent scream as her worst fear was confirmed.

  IT’S THE STOMPY MONSTER.

  Racing back to the wardrobe, Georgia jumped in and closed the doors. It was pitch black inside its dusty confines and, like most six-year-olds, she was afraid of the dark. But she was even more afraid of the Stompy Monster.

  She tried thinking of puppies and kittens and unicorns and pangolins but there was no consolation, no getting away from the terror that wanted to split her mind in half.

  “Don’t fall asleep,” she whispered, “or he’ll find me.” She pressed her hands against her skull and squeezed her eyes shut. “Stay awake. Don’t climb and don’t sleep. Stay awake. Don’t climb and don’t sleep. Stay awake.”

  Georgia’s mind recoiled and her body began sinking into a black hole of unconsciousness. Pure, primal fear overwhelmed her senses but the sight of the Stompy Monster was the final straw. Quivering with terror, her brain searched for the elusive dream-door, the quickest escape route to the deepest, safest corner of her mind. Night and fright mingled to become one.

  Georgia’s mind folded.

  * * *

  “CONNOR!”

  There was fear and panic in his dad’s voice and Connor bolted out of bed and into the hallway. His father stood in the doorway of Georgia’s room, holding her limp body in his arms. Georgia’s eyelids were partially open, displaying glazed, unfocused eyes. Foleydota was clenched in the crook of her arm.

  “What happened?” Connor asked, his heart pounding with trepidation. “Is she… ”

  “She’s alive,” his dad responded, sensing the unfinished question. “But there’s something wrong.” He was almost in tears. “She won’t wake up and I don’t know why. I need you to call 911, and then call your mom at the hospital and tell her we’re on our way.”

  Within minutes, an ambulance arrived, taking Georgia and her father to the local hospital. Connor followed the speeding ambulance in his car, slamming the steering wheel with impatience at each stoplight. There was a queasy feeling in his stomach, a feeling her nocturnal dreams in the Valley of Tired and her unresponsive state were somehow related. “Please God,” he implored, looking up to the sky. “Help her. And let me be wrong.”

  The atmosphere in the emergency room was one of quiet chaos. Nurses and doctors were moving about with urgent strides while moms and dads cuddled sick children and older patients moaned softly. Connor’s inquiry into Georgia’s whereabouts led him to the Pediatrics’ Intensive Care Unit on the 4th floor. Bypassing the elevators, Connor raced to the stairwell and charged up the stairs, two steps at a time.

  He hustled to the nurses’ work station. “My sister – Georgia Fitzpatrick – where is she?” Connor demanded. The nurse seated behind the work station inclined her head to the left.

  “You must be Connor,” she affirmed. “Your mom is in the ICU with Georgia, but you can join your dad in the waiting room.”

  “I can’t see her?”

  “No, not until the doctors finish their examination.” Connor ran both hands through his wavy hair and clasped them at the base of his skull. He was desperately trying to stem the panic accelerating through his body. The nurse smiled compassionately and pointed down the hall. “Go find your dad,” she urged. “Your mom will let you know what’s happening.”

  Connor hurried toward the ‘Waiting Area’ sign just as his dad stepped into view.

  Connor blurted out a volley of questions: “Is Georgia okay? Is she alright? Where is she?”


  “The doctors are checking her now but… she still won’t wake up.” His dad swiped his forehead in confusion. “She’s not responding to any verbal commands, so they’re hooking her up to IV while they run blood tests.” He put his hand on Connor’s shoulder. “They don’t know what’s wrong with her. Did you notice anything peculiar about Georgia in the last few days?”

  “No. But yeah, maybe,” stammered Connor. “Her dreams… they sounded similar to my dreams, you know, the ‘climbing to sleep’ dreams I was having earlier this year.”

  “But you said they weren’t the same,” his father challenged. “You said there were no talking trees and bushes in your dream world.”

  “No, there weren’t any of those things. But I was in a dark, moonlit place just like Georgia described, and even though the trees weren’t screaming ‘climb,’ something in my mind definitely was.”

  Clenching his jaw, Connor’s dad stepped back. “I don’t know what to think about these dreams… all I know is my little girl is in there and I have to figure out what to do, and I have to figure out how to help her. So Connor, whatever you know or think you know that will help bring your little sister back, you need to do it.”

  They were interrupted by a worried-looking nurse in a cheery lime-green uniform. “Mr. Fitzpatrick?”

  Connor’s dad nodded. “Can we see her now?”

  “Yes, please follow me. The doctors are hoping your voices might stimulate a reaction.”

  Connor and his dad exchanged glances. Not good, Connor thought. They matched the nurse’s brisk walk as she took them deeper into the ICU.

  Connor’s thoughts were cascading like the dust from a swirling dervish and he took a deep breath. “Be calm,” he whispered. They stopped outside the glass window of Georgia’s room. His dad groaned softly and then staggered just as Connor grabbed him by the elbow. Buttressed against each other, father and son stared at the scene before them.

  Georgia’s face was as white as the pillow underneath her head and her small arms and legs were exposed above the sheet. A cotton blanket loosely covered her torso. I.V. tubes snaked out of one arm and electrodes led from her scalp to a monitor, keeping track of vital signs and brain activity. A nurse was filling vials of blood from a needle in Georgia’s left arm while a doctor performed some kind of reactionary test on her right foot. Another doctor was shining a small, slim strobe light across her eyes, testing for dilation. Georgia’s mom stood behind them and watched silently, hands clasped at her breast.

  The lime-green clothed nurse entered the room and spoke to Georgia’s mom, pointing behind her. Glancing at the window, Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked relieved at the sight of her husband and son and hurried out of the room.

  The trio hugged without words. They were still absorbing the strength from their family embrace when a doctor approached them. They separated slowly but Connor held on to his mom’s hand. Clearing his throat, Connor asked the question to which they all wanted an answer: “What’s wrong with Georgia?”

  Before the doctor could respond, Connor’s mom interjected. “Dr. Stirpe, this is my son Connor and my husband, Sean. It was Sean who found Georgia in bed this morning.”

  Dr. Stirpe turned his eyes to Georgia’s dad. “Did she eat anything unusual last night? Or come into contact with anything poisonous – insects or snakes or vegetation?”

  “No,” they replied in unison.

  He adjusted the stethoscope around his neck. “We’re going to run a battery of tests to determine why Georgia’s in this catatonic state. She’s not responding to any external stimuli, yet the EEG scan shows her brain activity appears to be normal. We need to know if she’s been exposed to something that would have triggered such a severe, catatonic response.”

  He looked at them expectantly. Connor looked at his dad and he, in turn, looked at his wife.

  “She’s been having bad dreams,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick acknowledged.

  “Bad dreams?” Dr. Stirpe shook his head. “I have to uncover the physical source of her medical condition,” he emphasized, “and it would be highly unlikely that her state is the result of one or two bad dreams.”

  “But could there be any relation?” Mrs. Fitzpatrick prodded. “I mean, if you can’t determine the physical element that’s keeping Georgia in a comatose state, is it possible her mind is running away from these dreams and her body is kind of left behind?”

  Dr. Stirpe dismissed her comment with a wave of his hand. “As I said, logic, medical science and a good dose of common sense will help us get to the bottom of this. First, let’s start with blood tests.”

  Connor shuffled his feet along the hall, hands in the front pockets of his jeans. His parents had decided they would stay and try to verbally coax Georgia out of her catatonic state. He wanted to stay too, but then reluctantly agreed it would be better if he returned in the evening. Connor squinted in the extremely bright overhead lights and stared sadly through the open door of each room he passed. Most rooms had beds for one or two patients, all young children. The annoyingly bright lights were in their rooms too. At least there are no shadows to be afraid of, thought Connor. A large metal cart containing dozens of food trays was trundling down the hall, pushed by a young man wearing a white cap. The fellow stopped and several nurses began removing trays and delivering them to each room.

  Connor’s stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since the night before. He was a few steps behind one of the nurses when she stopped and opened the door to room 417. The door was closing slowly on its mechanized hinge as Connor walked by. His view into the room lasted only a moment, but it was enough time for Connor to stop dead in his tracks. Lying in room 417 was a bald-headed boy with electrodes snaking from his head and IV lines protruding from his long, gangly arms. The upper part of the bed was elevated, leaving the boy in a semi-upright position with chin resting on his chest. Even after the door closed, the momentary image burned into Connor’s brain – the boy’s grotesque scalp was exposed in all its stunning horror. The image kept repeating in Connor’s mind like a broken record. That scar. Running from the top of one ear over to the top of the other ear was a thick red scar, the inflamed bumpy edges resembling a red-skinned poisonous snake. Tufts of coarse black hair jutted out from the back of the boy’s ears.

  It was him. Richard Hatemore. ‘Dick’ from the Valley of Tired. Connor grabbed the handrail in the hall, stumbling in shock.

  Richard Hatemore is real.

  Connor clutched his chest, unable to breathe.

  If Richard is real, then the Valley of Tired is real. If the Valley of Tired is real, then the dream world is real too. If all this is true, then Georgia is in the dream world.

  Connor dropped his head into his hands.

  “How do I get her out?”

  Chapter 6

  Dreams are Dreams

  Jayden unlocked the apartment door and closed it quietly. Her mind was still reeling from the revelation that Max was not a figment of her dream world adventures, and that in a couple of days, she would be driving her own car.

  “Jayden?” her mom’s voice blasted over the sound of the television in the living room. “Izzat you?”

  The slurred words meant one thing. Drinking again. Oh great.

  “Of course it’s me,” Jayden responded. “Unless you gave someone the key to our home?”

  Patty Watson-Nanjee staggered into the kitchen, empty wine glass in hand, her curly blond hair matted on one side as if she had been sleeping. Passed out more likely, thought Jayden. Patty placed the glass on the counter and stepped in front of her daughter. She strained her neck forward until she was a few centimetres from Jayden’s face. There was a momentary stare-down: bloodshot green eyes versus clear, brilliant green eyes. Jayden was the first to break eye contact.

  “How about that job search – any luck with that, Ma?”

  Months before, Jayden’s mom had been fired from her waitress position at the local hotel. The management accused her of stealing liquor, though Patty preferred
to blur the lines of thievery, calling it instead, a case of ‘permanently borrowing a few things.’ She was consequently ‘permanently’ sacked.

  “I’m working on that,” her mom answered. “Get it? I’m working on that.” She cackle-laughed at her own joke and Jayden winced at the sound.

  “Whatever you say, Ma,” Jayden replied, backing out of the kitchen slowly. “I’ll be in my room.”

  Jayden semi-sprawled across her bed, notebook in her lap and a pillow propped between her back and the wall. Hers was a small bedroom, just big enough for a dresser, a chair and a bed. The chair served as her night stand; the bed was her couch and desk and dream station.

  She doodled on the math textbook while her thoughts shifted between her new car and catching sight of the genius boy from her dreams. The exhilaration of owning her own vehicle was overshadowed at seeing Max in real life. What does it mean? Why are we seeing each other now? Even her dad was confused about seeing Max in the real world and he promised to discuss the encounter when he picked her up for the weekend. They were planning to sign the ownership papers for the Jeep on Saturday morning.

  Jayden yawned. Placing her books on the bedside chair, she slipped under the covers. The thought of the orange Jeep made her smile. Two more sleeps and the Jeep is mine.

  * * *

  THUD. THUD. THUD.

  There was a momentary sensation of floating and then she was falling. It started as a slow, gentle fall, like the start of the downward motion on a wooden swing after your legs pump you up to the maximum arc.

  Jayden leaned forward to escalate the downward descent but the metal chain of the swing dissolved in her hands. She blinked and realized her eyes were already open – the blackness was so deep that there was no change between eyes shut and eyes open. And there was no wooden swing to hold on to. She was falling in slow motion, head-first, into blackness.