by Alyson Noel
She was gone.
The gators had claimed her.
My throat cleared. The scream, finally uncorked, rang out all around until I grew hoarse and it played itself out. And I was just about to renew it, hoping someone would hear me, help me, when I opened my eyes and saw everything had changed once again.
The rain had stopped.
The quicksand was gone.
And I found myself standing on a patch of freshly mown grass, getting ridiculed loudly by a small group of teens for having just screamed my head off.
I shrank back, shrank back into myself, into the shadows so they could no longer see me, though I could see them. Taking a quick look around, I did what I could to assess the new situation I found myself in. Remembering what Satchel had said, that no matter what happened, I had to stick with it, it was the only way the message could be sent.
I was in a park. A park after dark, which meant the little kids had already vacated, were already at home, safely tucked into their beds, while a gang of unruly teenagers took over, littering the sandbox with cigarette butts, and making rude drawings all over the slide.
The kind of teens I never wanted to be—always did my best to avoid—taking great pains to keep a wide distance between us whenever I’d see them lurking in my old neighborhood on my way home from school.
The kind of teens that made trouble, listened to no one, “flaunted authority,” as my mom would’ve said.
The kind of teens that pretty much wrecked it for all of the others.
And even though I knew it was my job to find a way to fit in, to blend, all I really wanted was to sit this one out.
I cowered in the dark, huddled up next to the bathrooms, hoping that unfortunate scream of mine was enough to scare them off.
For a while anyway, it worked.
Until the big four-wheel-drive with no driver flipped on its brights and tried to mow us all down.
I ran.
We all did.
Though we didn’t get very far. Unlike the last dream, in this one, my feet didn’t so much sink as stick. The freshly mowed grass turning into a goopy, green, superglued mess that held fast to the bottoms of our shoes, refusing to release us, refusing to free us. Even the ones who’d stepped out of their shoes were no better off—they’d merely replaced the soles of their shoes with the soles of their feet.
All I could do, all any of us could do, was stare helplessly into the truck’s headlights as it ran us all down.
At the moment of impact, there was an amazing flash of bright light, and the next thing I knew, I was in Paris, a city I’d always wanted to visit. But instead of sightseeing and riding the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower, I was drowning in the River Seine along with a group of loitering teenagers.
Then, the next thing I knew, I was in Brazil, only instead of spending a nice day baking in the sun, I was being roasted for real—a young girl, two boys, and me going up in flames on a Rio de Janeiro beach.
I suffered through nightmares in all of the most exotic places. Places I’d always wanted to visit. Then just as I began longing for home, my wish was granted. I found myself in school—my old school—standing in front of my old class. And when I gazed down at myself, wondering what they were all pointing and laughing about, well, that’s when I realized I’d forgotten to dress.
I froze, figuring I’d die right there on the spot of complete mortification—but then a second later I found myself wearing a cute purple dress I definitely approved of, while sitting at a desk in that very same class. Concentrating hard on the paper before me—part of a very important, grade-making test—unable to read, much less answer, even one single question, all of the words swimming before me in a big, foggy blur.
I raised my hand, about to ask if I could get a new test, explain that there was something wrong with the one that I had—when I saw that my teacher wore the face of a clown, and the body of a black widow spider. Her eight legs and arms trapping me in her web, gazing upon me as though I was dinner.
I screamed.
I railed.
I fought as hard as I could—but it didn’t do the slightest bit of good.
I was devoured by insects.
I was buried alive.
I was chased by knife-wielding zombies who snacked on my brains.
Every scene was different—but, in the end, it was all the same thing. Every time a nightmare ended, a new one jumped into its place. It was one assault after another—one terrifying experience quickly followed by the next.
Some were normal fears—some were outrageous—but all of them penetrated to the deepest part of me.
I’d died once in real life—but as long as I was up on that stage, I’d die many more times, in much worse ways.
And the worst part was, there was nothing I could do to stop it. Nothing I could do to make it go away.
All I could do was go with it.
Blend in.
Act my little heart out and let the dreamer decide when to say when.
So completely terrified by the circumstances, it took me a while to realize there was no actual dreamer.
The last five scenes had starred only me.
But no matter how hard I screamed—no matter how hard I fought to break character, to “wake up”—no matter how much I risked Satchel’s good opinion of me—it didn’t do the least bit of good.
The nightmares continued to loop.
The projector continued to whir.
And each new scene I was thrust into was far worse than the one that went before.
I was trapped.
Stuck in an eternal dance.
Living the never-ending story of all the worst nightmares known to man.
17
Whatever hold Satchel had held over me was long gone. He’d gotten exactly what he wanted—controlling me was no longer necessary.
I was stranded.
Alone.
Trapped in the web of his horrifying dreamweave. The irony being that with my free will fully restored, I had no way to exercise it. No way to release myself.
I was a prisoner. Completely dependent on whatever shred of mercy Satchel might’ve had. Though I knew, way down in the deepest part of me, that any hope of mercy was futile.
The place where Satchel’s mercy might’ve lived was as bleak as the place I’d found myself in.
Though there was no denying I alone was to blame.
I’d ignored my better instincts—just pushed them aside so I could go after my own selfish pursuits. Unwilling to play by the rules, unwilling to wait for my turn, I’d shunned everything I’d been told and ran full speed ahead toward my own goals, my own plans, determined to do it my own way. And I’m sad to admit it wasn’t the first time I’d done such a thing.
Far from it.
While my only real goal had been to find a quick and easy way to progress myself into being thirteen—in the end, the only thing I’d accomplished was turning myself into the opposite—a scared little kid.
From the moment I’d taken Satchel’s hand—from the moment my palm pressed against his, I’d not only sealed our deal—but also my fate.
Without even knowing it, I’d allowed Satchel to take charge of my destiny.
The bad dreams continued, and it wasn’t long before I found myself caught in the all-too-familiar “falling nightmare”—tumbling through a deep, dark abyss—body flailing, spiraling through an infinite pool of bottomless blackness. And I couldn’t decide which was worse—my having tried so hard to please him, to garner his approval, as I’d done from the start—or my having to face the sudden realization that I was stuck—undeniably aware of the big bad mess I’d put myself in.
I shut my eyes, folded my arms across my chest, and vowed to stop fighting—to just allow it to happen no matter what came my way. In my job as a Soul Catcher I’d dealt with menacing ghost boys before, and I knew the kind of scaredy-cat behavior I’d been displaying only made things worse—only fueled their fun.
For whateve
r reason, Satchel, just like the others before him, got some kind of sick thrill by scaring people—anyone and everyone from those poor, vulnerable sleepers to me.
Fear.
That’s what this whole thing was about. Satchel was driven by fear, and he was determined to make me fearful too.
The best way to end it, the best way to suck the wind right out of his sails, was to refuse to take part. I just hoped it wouldn’t take too long for him to bore with his game.
I stuck to my guns—no matter what sort of monster he chose to menace me with—I just kept my eyes closed, kept my arms folded, and refused to take part. And, after a while, after a long while, much longer than I’d hoped for, he stopped.
He stopped the projector, stopped everything, until I found myself alone on the stage, strangely enough still right on my mark, as he stood before me, a dark, ominous glare taking over his face.
And when he flipped on the overhead lights, well, that’s when I saw it.
That’s when I was finally able to pinpoint just exactly what it was I found so weird about him.
He had no glow.
No glow at all.
In fact, not only was his glow missing—it was much worse than that.
The space all around him, the place where the glow should’ve been, was a complete absence of light—resulting in a murky, dark haze that hovered around him.
I coiled back in fear. Then seeing the way that murky, dark haze began to expand and flare as a result, I grabbed ahold of myself. My fear was exactly what drove him. And if I wanted to get through this, I’d have to refuse to react to whatever came next—just like I’d done with the last several nightmares I’d been cast in.
I clutched my hands on my hips, looked at him, and said, “So, Satchel, what’s your deal? What’s with all the nightmares? This how you get your kicks—scaring the beejeemums out of innocent, sleeping kids?”
He glared at me, blue eyes raging. “You think you know everything!” he shouted. “You think you’re sooo smart, don’t you?”
I started to respond, started to deny it was true, but the fact is, it wasn’t the first time I’d been accused of that. Bodhi had said pretty much the exact same thing—on more than one occasion. So I just stood silently before him, deciding to let Satchel finish his rant with no interruption from me.
“You don’t get it. You don’t get it at all! Nobody does. But that’s neither my problem nor my fault.” He dug his hands deep into his pockets, pacing in circles until he stopped and faced me again. “I was doing good work. I was really changing lives. Making a huge difference in the way people handled themselves, and the decisions they made. But then …” He paused, grimaced, rubbed a palm over his spit-shined hair. “But then the … the powers that be, the Council”—he pronounced the word with a disrespectful sneer—“they didn’t like it. They didn’t approve. And the next thing you know, dreamweaving is frowned upon and dream jumping is in.” He scoffed, shook his head, made a face like he was about to hock a big ol’ loogie, but in the end, settled for just looking at me instead. “But they can’t stop me. Nobody can. They can impose closing hours, make this place as dark and uninviting as they want, but they can’t stop me from doing what I do best. You do realize that no one will come for you, right, Riley? You do realize there is no white knight ready to rescue you from big bad me. Nothing is forbidden Here. No. Thing. We progress—if that’s what you want to call it,” he rolled his eyes, “at our own pace. And some of us choose not to progress at all. They can’t force you to do anything Here. Free will is king, and I’m exercising mine.”
Other than a nervous blink, I didn’t allow myself to react. What he’d said was all true. Or at least the part about nobody forcing anyone to do anything—I knew that from Soul Catching. I wasn’t allowed to evict a ghost from the place they chose to haunt, nor was I allowed to physically push them across the bridge so I could cross them off my list (though there were definitely times I was tempted). All I could ever do was get to know them, build some kind of trust with them, then find a way to coax and convince them to move on to the place where they truly belonged.
And that’s exactly what I had to do with Satchel.
I had to treat him like the lost soul that he was. Maybe he’d found his way across the bridge, but from the looks of things, it was hardly enough. From what he’d said, he’d been doing this for far too long, and it was up to me to stop him.
The thought spun in my head.
It was up to me to stop him!
Surely Satchel was on the Council’s to-do list, and if I could just find a way to get him to quit terrorizing people—if I could just find a way to get him to find a better, more productive way to exist, well, then surely that would earn me some major kudos and congrats, if not more …
What better way to get what I wanted?
What better way to get my glow to glow even brighter?
I’d reduce, if not stop, the nightmares that found their way out into the world, which, in turn, would cause me to leap a heckuva lot closer to my one and only goal.
Being thirteen was finally in reach.
All I had to do was get inside his head. Figure out the reason why he did what he did.
Everyone is driven by something. No one does stuff just for the heck of it. There’s always a reason, some kind of motivation. Peer pressure, revenge, the pursuit of world domination or fame, whatever—the motivation’s the fuel that sparks the flame—the driving force behind just about everything. All I had to do was learn Satchel’s, then quickly dismantle it, show him all the reasons why it just didn’t work.
“So, tell me, how exactly are you changing lives by scaring people?” I asked, hoping to get a glimpse inside his sick and twisted head.
Satchel looked at me, his expression open, simple, though if you looked close enough, you could see his blue eyes were simmering just underneath.
“People don’t fear enough,” he said.
I squinted, thinking of all the things I was afraid of: clowns, spiders, quicksand, accidentally going to school naked—he’d pretty much nailed them all. The only thing he’d left out was dentists and, oh yeah, snakes, though I wasn’t about to share that with him.
“People act with abandon. They take unnecessary risks. They think they’ll live forever and so they take their lives for granted. They ignore just how extremely dangerous the world really is.”
Although he tried to appear outwardly calm, it was clear he was growing agitated. I could tell by the way his fingers twitched and fiddled with the tip of his belt, as his mouth pulled and jumped at the sides.
So I kept my voice steady, low, reluctant to add to his distress, when I said, “Really?” I scratched at my chin as though I was truly considering his words. “Because I’m just not sure I see it that way.”
His face went stony, his voice grew snotty, and he said, “Oh really? Then let me ask you this—how did you die? How’d you end up Here?” He arched his brow in challenge.
I shrugged, refused to get riled up. “Car accident,” I said. “They’re pretty common, you know.”
He shook his head, shot me a look like I was too dumb to be believed. “Just because they’re common doesn’t mean they have to be.” He shuffled his feet, rocked back and forth before me. “People don’t pay attention. They allow themselves to get distracted by the stupidest things! They mess with the radio, look for stuff they dropped under the seat. Women put on their makeup, and men shave. And now, ever since they invented cell phones,” he rolled his eyes and sighed, “people actually send e-mails and text! They do all of these things when they should have their eyes on the road and only the road. You should never, ever take your eyes from the road! No matter what!”
His voice grew louder, firmer, as he reached the end of his rant. Sounding almost as though those last words didn’t actually belong to him—as though he was borrowing from some other source.
A source that just might hold the key, but before I could get to that, he asked, “So tell
me, who was driving the day you died?”
“My dad,” I told him, my voice nearly a whisper.
“And … what happened?”
I sucked in a mouthful of air, allowed it to bubble my cheeks, before releasing it in a long, slow whistle. “Deer ran in front of the car. Next thing I knew, we were all dead. Well, except for my sister. She died for a bit, but then she found her way back to the living. It’s a long story.” I shrugged, doing my best to keep to the facts, keep it free of any emotion I may have felt at the time.
He waved his hand impatiently. He had no interest in those kinds of details.
“What I meant is, at the very last second, right before the impact, what happened?” His eyes blazed on mine.
I paused for a moment to think, or at least I pretended to think. The fact is, I’d replayed the scene so many times in my head it was always at the ready, not the least bit difficult to locate. And though I was reluctant to share it with him, knowing it’d be like handing over the perfect scenario for him to use against me—I did it anyway. Figuring a little honesty on my part could only build trust, or at least I hoped that it would.
“I’d just been fighting with my sister.” I looked right at him. “My dad peered in the rearview mirror, they exchanged a look, and then, a few seconds later the deer appeared and … that’s it. It happened pretty fast.”
Satchel nodded as though I’d just proved his point. “See? You distracted him.” His pale eyebrows quirked as he flashed me a gruesome, triumphant grin.
“So you’re implying it was my fault?” I tried to keep my voice calm, tried to smother the slow, simmering rage building inside me. “I mean, seriously, you’re actually blaming me for what happened to my family?”
Satchel studied his hands, inspected his nails. He’d said all that he needed to. The damage was done.
“Maybe some things are just meant to be. Maybe some things just happen, no matter what. Did you ever think of that?” I glared at him, remembering how my sister, Ever, was consumed with blaming herself for our deaths, and how I finally convinced her of all the things I’d just said, how those words served to free her, even if she didn’t completely believe them.