by J. R. Rain
Nightmare was near.
The chill was followed by a faint but pungent smell. She had never noticed the smell before, but now that she was mostly awake, she was aware of it.
It was all she could do to remain calm, to remain in a deeply meditative state, so she did her best to ignore the rotten-meat smell of Nightmare.
Bile rose in the back of her throat.
Her hands rested at her sides. She breathed easily through her nose. Her hair was still wet from the shower. She had delayed this confrontation as long as possible by wasting time in her apartment, first by taking out the trash at eleven p.m., and then by taking a midnight shower. Finally, after applying far too much lotion to her body, she tossed aside the nearly-empty tube and told herself that enough was enough.
It was time to face down a monster.
She wished she could have had someone by her side right about now. Anyone. A boyfriend or a husband would have been nice. She had neither. A friend would have done the trick, too, but she could not bring herself to ask if they’d stay the night with her. She was both ashamed and terrified. In the end, she realized this was a very private affair. She had found the book today, and she would finish it tonight.
Alone.
At the back of her mind, exactly where Randall said the feeling would be, something touched her softly, almost hesitantly. It was the place, according to Randall, where Nightmare penetrates into your private dreams, enters them like a thief in the night.
He’s here, she thought.
* * *
She felt a caressing in her mind—a disturbing feeling really, like someone running a spider web over her exposed brain, sticky, delicate, and clinging. She fought the urge to shudder in revulsion.
He’s going to know you’re not dreaming! Panic surged through her.
The coolness in her brain—his probing, according to the book—stopped. And then the coolness was slipping across her forehead—actually just underneath it.
He’s running! Christ!
She lashed out with her right hand, striking like a cobra, striking where Randall told her to strike, just above her face.
Her fingers sank into damp muck. She dug in her nails with a fierceness that surprised even her.
* * *
Nightmare’s screeching reached only my ears.
He threw back his horse head and emitted a truly horrible sound. It went from a high-pitched, jaw-rattler to a low, warbling moan.
Hang on, girl! I thought.
I only wished I could help her. But how?
Nightmare grabbed at her hand to no avail. His ethereal form mostly swept through her. I say mostly because his passing hands—or claws—left behind a gunky, slimy residue on her skin. Nevertheless, she persisted in gripping tightly, gritting her teeth, her veins popping up on her forearms from her years as a data entry typist.
And then he stopped screeching—and stopped struggling, too.
He’s going to do it, I thought. This is it.
You see, there’s a reason why I hadn’t held on all those years ago. There’s a reason why Nightmare had escaped my clutches, and why I had failed to once and for all destroy him.
Years ago, as I had been in this very same position, holding the vile creature, he had fully revealed himself to me. The sight of the demon standing before me had been so unexpected, so unnerving, that I had shrieked and very nearly had a heart attack and had...let go. That was my mistake. And it was weeks before sleep would find me again.
Mercifully, Nightmare was gone from my life. But I knew the bastard was out there. Somewhere.
And here he was now, spreading his poison to this sweet young lady. This desperate young lady.
And there she was, holding on like a trooper.
My directions were clear: keep your damned eyes shut. And she did. By God, she kept them shut as tight as she could, and now Nightmare’s ethereal form was something more than ethereal. He was physical. As physical as he could be. Hell, he even cast a shadow over her bed.
But she kept her eyes closed as my book had instructed...
God bless her.
Nightmare, infuriated, screeched loudly...but still Susan kept the bastard at bay, holding him fast.
And before my very eyes, I watched as the entity continued shrieking even as he shriveled into something small and ugly, until it finally disappeared altogether. Even the slime that had covered her arm was gone.
Minutes later, Susan, who had been whimpering softly, dropped her empty hand and covered her eyes, still afraid to open them after she had destroyed such a formidable enemy.
* * *
I hung around for a few more days, and by God, the demon known as Nightmare didn’t return. Whether or not he had somehow survived to haunt another’s dreams, I didn’t know, but this time it felt final.
This time, he felt gone. Forever gone. An acceptance spread through my consciousness.
My work here was done. Truth be known, my work was done long ago, the instant that bus decided to use me as a crash test dummy. As such, I had, of course, failed miserably.
I’ve seen things in the spirit worlds that I want to forget. Other demons. Darker entities. Creatures so foul that even I would look away.
But nothing as foul as Nightmare.
Where had he gone? I didn’t know, but all it took was for one brave and desperate young woman to face down her own nightmare. A nightmare in every sense of the word.
Susan was sleeping peacefully on her side, a smile on her face.
Sweet dreams, I thought.
I realized I had nowhere to go. My purpose in life—and death—had been fulfilled. I had no reason to go back to my familiar haunts. And with that thought, golden hands reached out to me for a fourth and final time.
This time, I took their hands.
This time, I allowed them to lead me away.
The End
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Soul Train
Judd Ramses lay in bed with his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the coming train.
Yesterday, after crossing the train tracks, Judd watched the odometer in his mother’s Acura, watched it until they pulled into their driveway. It was exactly 2.2 miles from their house to the train tracks.
And still he could hear the train rumbling along the tracks.
Between his house and the train tracks there was a main boulevard, two smaller roads and even a small commuter airport.
And still he could hear the train roaring down the tracks.
The train’s whistle pierced the air, hooting. In the big-screen, surround-sound television of his mind, he could see train cars rushing past him, each with a faded Santa Fe logo splashed on their broad sides. Judd saw himself standing next to the tracks as this monster of a train roared past him, dirt, gravel, exhaust and trash washing over him. He saw himself grinding the palms of his hands into his ears, trying in vain to thwart the deafening roar against his eardrums.
If the train’s this loud to me, he reasoned, bewildered yet again, how loud was it to those people who actually lived closer to the train tracks?
The night was hot and humid, making sleep nearly impossible. Well, that and the damn train. Judd lay spread-eagled in his Fruit of the Looms. The fan on his desk chugged away, doing its best to disperse the sticky air.
Maybe, he thought now, maybe I can hear it so clearly because night-time is always quieter than day-time.
The whistle had come and gone, and the train’s rumbling was only a memory now. A troublesome memory.
Goodness, he thought, I can’t be the only one who thinks this is insane. I can’t be the only one who hears this thing louder than the freeway that’s not even a block away.
He rolled to his side and finally went to sleep. And in his dreams he dreamed of a train plowing through his backyard, knocking over fences and exploding through homes. A train that seemed alive...and hungry.
A train that was coming for him.
* * *
Her routine had been disrupted by Judd’s persistent questions.
That was a no-no in the Ramses household. His mother had her mornings planned down to the minute. Between the hours of six and seven-thirty he could have told you the exact spot his mother would have been standing. More efficient than clockwork, she now stood glaring down.
“It’s just that I hear it every night, Mom. As loud as can be.”
“I’ll tell you once more, and only once more. What you hear is not a train but the freeway. And as far as I know, those tracks were abandoned years ago.”
“But I hear it all the time, ever since we moved here. I hear the whistle, too.”
She sighed and straightened a framed photo of her dead husband in his uniform—desert camos. She ran a finger down the cheek on the photo and then walked to her son and did the same.
“I’m getting to look more like him, the older I get, aren’t I?” Judd suddenly asked. His mom looked at him quizzically, then kissed him goodbye on the forehead.
“Do I, Mom?” he persisted. “Look like him?”
At the door with briefcase in hand, she said simply, “Make sure you load the washer.” And then she nodded. “Yeah, you do. A lot.”
And then she turned and left.
* * *
Judd listened to Leno poking fun at a female guest. She said something back, apparently equally as funny, and the crowd laughed.
Judd was staring at the ceiling again, listening to his mother’s TV from across the hallway. He was fully dressed in jeans, a light tee shirt and sneakers. In his school backpack hidden under his covers was a flashlight, a sandwich and a digital camera.
Fifteen minutes later, he heard his mother click off her bedroom TV and in the silence, heard the tink of her lamp switch being turned off. Ten minutes after that, he heard her snoring lightly.
He slipped out of bed quietly, slung his backpack over his shoulders, and stepped out into the dark hallway. He paused, listening, verified that his mother was still sleeping, and headed downstairs.
His mountain bike was waiting for him at the side of his house. He hopped on it, opened the latch to the side of the house, and was soon pedaling down his quiet street in the dead of night.
A clean escape, he thought, grinning into the wind. Mom will never know, and I will prove to her once and for all that there’s a train.
With a big, goofy grin on his face, he sped quickly away from his house. A moment later he made a right onto Dale Street, the street that would eventually take him straight to the train tracks. Shortly, he came to the intersection of Valencia Avenue, which was a four-way stop.
He passed some warehouses and the famous sticker factory—heaven on earth as far as students from his school were concerned, where reams and reams of stickers were discarded, stickers that eventually found their way onto almost anything in the city of Fullerton.
He soon came to Commonwealth Avenue. The light was red. He pressed the crosswalk button and when the enthusiastic-looking walking figure appeared, he crossed the street—and found himself across from Fullerton Airport, with its rows and rows of Christmas tree lights paralleling the runways.
Here, Dale Street curved and Judd found himself at Artesia Boulevard. The traffic light here was also red, and Judd waited patiently. He thought about the train. He wondered if he would see it tonight. He also thought about the sandwich.
After crossing the boulevard, he came to an industrial park. Behind high chain-linked fences with strips of white plastic weaved through them, loomed the massive heads of heavy machinery that always reminded Judd of dinosaurs. A true Jurassic Park. At least, in his imagination.
He sped by the industrial park, giving the heavy machinery only a cursory glance, all too aware that they seemed to be staring back at him.
Just before him, perhaps twenty feet away, were two lamp posts on either side of the road. A welcomed sight. Behind the lights was a hundred or so acres of pitch-black farmland. Somewhere to the right, just off the road, was a rickety old fruit stand whose sign read simply: Fresh Strawberries.
Before the fruit stand, however, were the train tracks, where the tracks ran between the industrial park and the farmland. He stopped his bike in the bright pool of light where Dale Street crossed the tracks. The red-and-white striped arms that rose up into the night—arms that, when parallel, held back traffic—were actually not very red and white at all. In fact, they looked as if they’d been through a thousand sandstorms.
It was just after midnight, according to his cell phone. The train always came after twelve, but never at the same time. Sometimes it came around three in the morning, waking him with a start.
He pulled his bike off the narrow single lane of Dale Street and headed down a dirt embankment. The half moon above glowed brightly, and Judd was able to see clearly enough.
This is damned stupid, he thought, looking nervously into the vast farmland around him. He had forgotten about his sandwich. No matter what anyone says, a train comes through here. I hear the darn thing every single night.
Actually, he told himself, getting off his bike and leaning it into a bush where he hoped it was hidden well enough from the street, what’s really stupid is coming here alone.
Yet, he really didn’t know anyone well enough to ask them to come out with him to the train tracks at night. He hadn’t done very well in the friend-making department and anyone he called a friend would have given him too much crap.
Why do you need someone with you, anyway? he asked himself as he stepped away from his bike. You scared? You scared of being alone at night only ten minutes from home?
Actually, yes.
He was almost as tall as the tallest scrub tree that crowded near the tracks, and what possessed him to walk into this mini-forest he didn’t know.
He did so now, and his perception of his surroundings suddenly changed: he no longer felt as if he was in the suburbia of Orange County, but in an actual countryside with woods that could have gone on for miles. Although he couldn’t have told you exactly why he entered the dark shielding of the trees, he was pleased that he had conquered some of his fear.
Granted, he hadn’t gotten very far into the copse of stunted trees, but he was still feeling fairly pleased with himself. By God, he was going to get to the bottom of things.
The trees crowded near the tracks, and soon he came upon a small clearing. He spied a large rock and had just decided to sit there when a thought scooted across his consciousness just long enough to register: he was in a dark, hidden place where different rules applied—rules that didn’t give a damn if you were only ten minutes from home.
At that troubling thought, Judd looked around nervously. He shivered even though the night was quite warm.
To take his mind off the fear that was threatening to overwhelm him, he shrugged out of his backpack and found his sandwich. He also grabbed his flashlight and held it in his lap. Just having the flashlight nearby made him feel better.
He opened the baggie and was soon eating, voraciously. He was nearly done with the PB&J when he heard a sound behind him. He gasped, snapped his head around quickly, fumbling for his flashlight. He clicked it on, but no one was there.
No doubt a mouse, or a rat.
To his dismay, his mostly masticated sandwich had slid off his lap and now lay in the dirt. Damn.
It was suddenly very cold. How did it get so cold? As he rubbed his arms and looked down at the sad remains of his sandwich, Judd was suddenly certain that he had made a very bad mistake.
No, he nearly shouted. Not a mistake. I hear that damn train. I hear it every night. I need to know if it’s real. I need to know why I hear it so clearly. Why me, and no one else?
So, he wrapped his arms around his body and waited, and realized all over again that a friend would have been welcomed just about now.
The tracks were just out of sight from where he sat in the clearing. He looked at his watch: twelve-twenty. He thought about his bike and hoped it wouldn’t be
too hard to find.
He yawned mightily and rubbed his eyes. When he was done rubbing his eyes, he saw someone standing at the edge of the clearing.
Judd squeaked.
It was a man. A bum, actually. Judd squeaked again.
The man took a step forward and Judd nearly wet himself. The man said, “You here for the train, boy?”
Judd couldn’t speak.
“Answer me, boy.”
“Yes,” he finally said, although it sounded too high-pitched to be his own voice.
The man nodded and stepped forward again. “What’s your name?”
Judd bit down on his lips, stopping himself from saying his name, and wondered if that was a good idea anyway. It’s just your name, a voice inside his head said. How much harm could he do with your name?
“Judd,” he finally said.
“Nice to meet you, Judd. I’m Reggie.”
They both stared at each other some more. Judd was suddenly certain that something very, very bad was going to happen to him. Reggie stepped closer, his face still hidden mostly in shadows. Judd shifted his weight. He was ready to sprint in a heartbeat.
“Okay, Judd,” said Reggie, his voice sounding old and gravelly. “Let me guess: you’ve been hearing a train at night. Am I right?”
Judd couldn’t speak again. Indeed, he was having a hard time processing what he’d just heard.
Reggie stepped forward and spoke again: “And only at night, too?”
Judd still couldn’t speak, and so he nodded. He didn’t know if the man in shadows could see him nod or not, but he didn’t care.
Reggie continued, “And, further, you’re also the only one who can hear this train?”
More nodding. Leaves crunched as Reggie drew closer still.
“And not only do you hear it, but it sounds like it’s going to blast straight through your brain?”
Nod, nod.