by Tim Meyer
She was alone. And that fact comforted her.
She grabbed the key, slipped it into the lock, and popped open the door. Before barging in, she poked her head in the kitchen and called the old woman. “Mrs. Jeffries?”
No answer. The interior sat in still, silent shadows.
All right then. Let's do this.
She crossed the threshold and stepped onto the linoleum floor, closing the door behind her. Bypassing the light switch, opting for security the shadows provided, she trekked across the kitchen, into the living room. She headed for the bay window and peeked out. Still no car in the driveway. The woman was not here. She had beaten her home, which didn't seem possible unless the woman either drove ten miles per hour under the speed limit or stopped several more times than she had. Either was likely, she supposed.
Or maybe she's still stalking me in Red River, Angela thought.
Seek me out, the woman had said.
No, she's on her way back. She has to be.
Angela decided she'd wait for her. But, while she waited, she figured she'd have herself a look around.
* * *
After dawdling around downstairs, Angela made her way to the second floor, heading directly for the bedroom. When she reached the bedroom door, she felt different. Scared. Like she wasn't supposed to be here, like she didn't belong. Much like she had in her own house lately, that harrowing sensation of being lost in familiar places. A sense of dread pulled at the hairs on her neck. Her stomach swirled like a renegade tornado. A dull throb kicked around her eardrums.
In the entire two months she'd spent there, she had never felt that way.
An unrecognizable odor reached her nostrils, the unpleasantness causing her stomach to swell with nausea. Pressure built up in her sinuses, forcing her to squint. She fought through it and pushed open the door, revealing the madness inside.
The smell nearly caused her to faint. The pungency bowled into her like some palpable thing, pushing her back, pressing her spine against the wall in the hallway. The room reeked of rotten meats and sun-spoiled dairy. She turned her head and retched. Slipping the collar of her shirt over her nose (not that it helped block the odor), she headed into the bedroom. The putrid stench was so fierce her eyes began to water. Surveying the corners of the room, she quickly detected what was causing the horrendous odor.
Dead chickens.
Three of them. On the dresser, the headless sacks of feathers lay casually as if they were a stack of mail or some other ordinary household clutter. A collection of flies hovered over the carcasses, buzzing with delight. She avoided eye contact with the savage display, hoping the less she saw, the less she would smell. But that wasn't the case. As she focused her attention on something other than the raw flyblown meat, the smell remained just as bold.
The condition of the walls seized her vision next; they were once painted almond, but now held dark tones, and engraved in the sheetrock were symbols, the same exact insignias she'd seen during the season premiere of Switch! Circles over triangles, fused with ellipses and hexagons. Various combinations of symbols holding no distinguishable meaning, at least not to her.
Droplets of blood speckled the carpet.
Dreamcatchers hung from the ceiling like party streamers at some five-year-old's birthday party.
A bloody blade lay in the center of the bed. Crimson soaked the comforter.
Whose blood is that? she began to wonder, and her eyes drifted back across the room, over to the dresser where the headless chickens continued to serve as snack food for a horde of busy insects.
Before she moved into the master bathroom, her eyes ran over the walls, taking in every elegant detail of the scrawled shapes.
“I've been praying day and night,” a voice said from behind her.
Angela spun so fast she nearly lost her footing. Clutching onto the bedposts, she sucked in her scream. She tried to yell, but her voice died, fear killing the words as they entered her throat.
“Hush, child,” the old woman said, placing her free hand on her chin, extending one finger and resting it on her lips. “Don't be frightened. You have no need to be scared.”
Angela begged to differ. The chill currently crawling over her flesh, trespassing to various parts of her anatomy, sang a different song.
“At least,” Rosalyn Jeffries started to say, looking down at the bag full of dead chickens in her other hand, “at least, not of me.”
For the moment, the chickens still had their heads.
* * *
Rosalyn set a mug full of something dark down in front of her, the broth murky like a bold-roast coffee. Angela breathed in the steam, inhaling the herbal scent wafting up from the unknown liquid.
“It's tea,” Rosalyn said reassuringly. “A very special blend.”
She lost most of her thirst at “special blend” but Angela decided to drink it anyway. If the woman's plan was to kill her, surely there were more direct approaches. She sipped slowly as Rosalyn set herself down on the chair across from her.
“It's good,” Angela said, licking her lips, savoring the nutty aftertaste.
“Thank you.” Rosalyn looked at her, smiling. “I'm so glad you're here.”
“Why am I here, Rosalyn?” Angela didn't return the smile. She stared into the woman's eyes, unblinking.
“You're not one to beat around the bush, are you?” She nodded. “All right, all right. Let's get down to it.”
Angela couldn't place the woman's accent, not exactly. Definitely European. German or Austrian, if she had to guess. “Where are you from, Rosalyn?”
“Me? America, sweetheart. My parents were from Germany. I grew up speaking their language. If you're wondering about my accent, it's because—yes, English is my second tongue.”
“I didn't mean to offend.”
The old woman raised her palms. “No offense taken! I'm proud of my heritage.” She must have noticed the uninterested look in her guest's eyes because her expression faded. “But you didn't come here to talk about my roots, did you?”
“No, Rosalyn. I did not.”
“Well, then. I guess I should ask—how much do you know about what's happening on 44 Trenton Road in Red River, New Jersey?”
Angela shrugged. “Not much. Other than I'm seeing a whole lot of freaky shit that isn't really there.”
Rosalyn nodded as if she shared a common problem. “Tell me, sweetheart,” she said, glancing down at the table where she traced circles with her finger. “Have you ever heard of something called a Mare?”
“A Mare?”
The woman nodded.
Angela shook her head. “No, I can't say I have. Unless you mean an old horse?”
Rosalyn didn't speak.
“Or a night-mare.”
The old woman looked up from the table, her expression dead still. “That's precisely where they got their names from.” The corner of her mouth pulled slightly, the faintest evidence of a smirk. “Or rather, nightmares got their name from them.”
“Them?”
“Mares. They have many other names. Alps. Sleep demons. I prefer to call them what they truly are—dream goblins.”
Angela stared at the woman, her eyebrows stretching as high as they would go. “Oh-kay then.” She stood up from the kitchen table, sliding the chair across the linoleum floor, making a loud scraping noise that caused both women to cringe.
“Where are you going?” Rosalyn asked, squinting at her guest.
“Far, far away from here.”
Rosalyn pushed herself to her feet. “Nonsense, child. You are in terrible danger.”
“Because of dream goblins?” She scoffed. “Do you know how goddamn ridiculous that sounds?”
“Ridiculous or not, that is what I believe has marked your home. A Mare is an ancient creature, a demon of sorts, that latches onto a certain individual and tortures them by infiltrating their dreams, manipulating them until their mind can no longer bear the horrific images, until there's nothing left of the victim's sanit
y. Then... it takes what it wants. In this case, Mrs. Shepard, I believe what it wants is your home. And something else...” The old woman's face became long, drawn with worry. “It chooses victims who have experienced some sort of tragedy.”
[we do not speak his name]
Raising her chin, the old woman gulped. “Those who have gone through terrible ordeals make it easier for the goblins to access their dreams. They're more susceptible to this kind of, what I'd like to call, possession.”
“This is crazy.”
“Hard to believe, yes.” Rosalyn offered what looked like a comforting smile. “But not crazy. I knew something was amiss the second I stepped foot in your house. I felt it wash over me, an incredible wave of perpetual evil. I haven't felt intense power like that since... well, since a very long time ago.”
“Like, say... since 1968?” The question came out sharp, with more venom than Angela desired.
The woman didn't seem fazed, her expression hardly changing. “I assume Barry told you about his discovery. Yes, it's true. All of it.”
“You killed a woman.”
There was a pause. Rosalyn Jeffries sat completely still.
“Oh my God,” Angela said, covering her mouth with her hand.
“She didn't die by my hand, but by another. I was there. The woman's death hangs over me every day I open my eyes.”
“Did your husband know?”
“I told my husband everything. Much like I assume you do. Or did. Before...”
“How did he take the news?”
Rosalyn's eyes darted across the room, as if something had flashed in her periphery, then settled her vision back on her guest. Angela followed the old woman's gaze to the corner of the kitchen, but saw nothing.
“My husband has forgiven me for my past, the decisions I made when I was a young, stupid girl.” She reached her hands across the table, palms up, asking Angela for hers. “I'm asking you to do the same, Angela Shepard. You and your husband's lives depend on it.”
Slowly, Angela planted herself back in the chair. She didn't offer her hands to the old woman.
Rosalyn cleared her throat. “Mrs. Shepard, please. Do not make the same mistakes I have.”
“Same mistakes?” Angela laughed incredulously. “I have no intentions of killing any—”
“Forget that. That's not what I'm talking about.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“Do not let yourself ignore the signs before you.” Her eyes filled with water, glistening in the dim light the overhead bulbs provided. Those surging tears were the only thing keeping Angela seated, preventing her from fleeing the house, screaming for the entire neighborhood to hear. The woman's story, impossible as it sounded, felt authentic. Angela was surprised to find herself buying into Rosalyn's tale.
Sort of.
Not quite.
It can't be real.
But something in the back of her mind said differently.
It's all real. All of it. The dream goblins. They've marked you. They're coming to get you. First your dreams. Then your reality.
“My husband, Carl,” Rosalyn began, blotting her eyes with a napkin. “He was... he was in terrible danger. Much like yourself. He had something chasing him, following him night after night. I sensed it somewhere in the distance, somewhere hidden in the darkest regions of the netherworld. Even though I haven't practiced in years, I'm still connected to the darkness, the places where light doesn't dare go. Something was following him, all right; I sensed the foul spirit the way a rabbit senses a sneaking wolf. The creature was good and clever, always kept dodging my eye. The blasted thing covered its tracks well, leaving no traces of its existence behind. I couldn't find it. I searched the darkest places, points on the celestial map I haven't trespassed in years, and I came up empty. Carl told me he was fine and not to worry, whatever it was would pass, but I knew better. I knew the thing was persistent and desperate to have him. But, like a good, obedient wife, I listened to him.” She sniffled as more tears streamed down her face. “But I shouldn't have. I should have persisted. I shouldn't have ignored the signs. The evidence. I... I let that thing kill my husband, Mrs. Shepard. All because I was too complacent.”
Angela shook her head. “You said on television he died of a heart attack.”
“Yes, well, who would believe me if I said he had been stalked and killed by some unspeakable evil?”
“I don't know. Maybe the same amount of people who believed you when you said he visits you nightly. Maybe about that many?”
“People believe in communication with the other side, Mrs. Shepard. A recent national poll showed that last year forty-two percent of Americans believed in supernatural entities. In Europe, it's well over fifty.”
Angela closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip. “That doesn't make it true.”
“No, but as someone who has tampered with the darkness, who has harnessed certain energies invisible to the naked eye, I can assure you, Mrs. Shepard—it's all true.”
“Well, I haven't seen a shred of evidence other than what's been going on in my house. And that's just me losing my fucking mind.” The woman's eyes bulged. “Pardon my French.”
She ignored the foul language. “You need to believe me.”
“Whatever is happening, Rosalyn, it isn't supernatural. It's just a product of what happened over eight months ago. It's me.”
“In a way, you are correct, Mrs. Shepard. It is about what happened to [we do not speak his name]. The tragedy. These monsters thrive on it. Feed on those negative emotions like vampires to an open wound.”
Angela snarled at the old woman. “How dare you,” she barked.
Rosalyn recoiled as if she'd been slapped. “How dare I what?”
“Speak his name. You have no right.”
Rosalyn twirled her hands in the air. “I don't mean to be disrespectful. I only want to help you.”
Angela's eyes traveled up the stairs. She pointed to the area of the house where she thought the master bedroom was, where the pile of dead chickens rested on the bureau. “By sacrificing chickens? Cutting off their fucking heads? I'm starting to see who the crazy one is here, and I'm starting to think it's not me.”
The old woman shook her head. “It was an old ritual to keep the dream goblins out. I thought it would help.”
“Enough with the dream goblin shit!”
“Mrs. Shepard, you and your husband are in grave danger.”
“Yeah, so you've said.”
“I've been trying to warn you. Reach you. You need to stay away from that house. You need to stay away from Red River altogether. Your son...”
Angela's eyes grew with rage. “Watch your tongue, woman...” she said venomously.
“Your son. He isn't dead.”
Angela's heart stopped. The air in the room instantly died. For a second, the world around her did not exist. She recalled the pharmacist's assistant and what Angela thought she'd heard her say: He's still alive... in your heart. She got the sense that that wasn't what she'd meant, that the second half of her uninvited opinion was only a cover-up for the first.
“How dare you say that to me.”
“Mrs. Shepard, please. It's holding him. The dream goblin has him in the Everywhere and it won't let go until he has you... and the life inside your belly.”
Angela felt her heart skip, stop, and take a full five seconds to start pumping again. “What the hell did you just say to me?”
“You don't know?”
Her mouth went dry. She could barely speak the word, “No.”
“You're pregnant. Only a few weeks. Haven't you been feeling unwell?”
She recalled the three barf sessions on the way up here. “I thought...” Her eyes fluttered. The room began to slide like a carnival funhouse trick. She thought she might be sick again. “I thought that was...”
“You're pregnant, Mrs. Shepard. It's the other thing the dream goblin wants. Your unborn child.”
“But how?” She swa
llowed what felt like a pebble. “I'm on the pill.”
“Hardly a miracle, I'm guessing. Something tells me someone has been messing with your medication.”
Angela shook her head. Medication. The pharmacist's assistant.
She immediately went for her purse and rummaged around for the prescription bottle. Once she located it, she removed it and quickly scanned the label for its litany of warnings. “May render birth control pills ineffective,” she read, and with the words, her heart plummeted. “Son of a bitch.”
“The dream goblin's reach extends beyond the dream world, I'm afraid.” The old woman's eyes narrowed. “It may exist in the Everywhere, but it has agents. Right now, it's trapped there. But it's chosen you, marked you, to be its carrier.”
“Carrier?”
“It wants to become you, Mrs. Shepard. That's all these creatures ever want—a way out of their world and into ours.”
Angela closed her eyes. “Why me?”
“Maybe because you lost him.”
Seething, Angela shot her a warning glance.
“Maybe because you lost yourself,” Rosalyn added. “I know what I say angers you. And it should. But know this—I am not filling your head with falsehoods. What I say is the truth. All of it. And deep down, I know you believe what I am telling you.”
The old woman's confidence in her story made a compelling argument. As she stood there, Angela couldn't help but buy into at least a small portion of what she was claiming.
You're pregnant. It wasn't like the thought hadn't crossed her mind while puking roadside. Impossible as the two words sounded to her ears, she knew they held some truth. She felt it. Inside her, grew life. New life. A child. [we do not speak his name]'s brother or sister.
The thought of having a baby, a new responsibility to look after, filled her chest with a familiar sense of comfort.
“I know this is all a lot to take in,” Rosalyn said. “And I want to tell you more. I want you to know everything.” She scooted her chair closer to Angela. At first, she seemed hesitant to reach out and place a calming hand on Angela's shoulder, but once it was there, she squeezed, a gentle way of letting her know she wouldn't have to face the maleficent spirit alone. “Let me run up to my room. I have books there. With incantations inscribed in them. They will help us. Together, we can battle this incubus. Send the daemon back to the Everywhere, for good this time. Where it belongs.”