Sign of the Sandman

by Tom Turner

  Snaking in around him, hundreds of vines, thick as tree trunks, snatched furies from his web and hurled them high into the air and away from the castle. The vines moved lightning quick, striking like vipers. Moloch steered his beastly chariot around them, but the vines were everywhere. So with a wave of his arm and a whisper only they could hear, Moloch commanded his web of darkness to burrow beneath him and attack the vegetation from below. His furies obeyed and tore through a maze of twisted roots. One by one, trees and vines toppled with a thunderous crash, clearing a path to the castle. Moloch kicked into the backs of his beasts, urging them forward.

  Suddenly, a rogue vine snatched one of the furies from beneath Moloch’s feet. He tried to steady himself on the remaining beast, but the vine struck again, hoisting him violently into the air. If the vine pitched him into the desert, the assault would be lost — over before it had really begun. Moloch would sacrifice the last fury of his army before he would let that happen. So he tore into the vine’s flesh with a wicked snap of his jaws. Filled with venom, the vine weakened and shriveled into ash, freeing him.

  Moloch opened his cloak and coasted down onto the beach that separated the castle from the oasis. Its white sand burned like acid beneath his feet. The pain was excruciating. Each step he took toward his target was like treading upon the blade of a knife. Nevertheless, he vowed to press on, for he had known pain far worse in his lifetime.

  He was almost to the foot of the grand stairway leading to the castle doors when his knees buckled and he collapsed in the sand. The blistering grains seared through Moloch’s skin, but he did not move. He allowed the pain to hold him down.

  Come for me! he thought. Come for me now!

  When a guardian swooped in to finish him, Moloch leapt up, and a pack of furies shot from the sand, ripping their winged enemy from the sky. The beasts were about to entomb the guardian in a pit of black sand when Moloch shouted, “Spare him!”

  The furies obeyed, presenting the fresh prey to their master, as if a sacrificial offering. Lifting the captured guardian off the ground, Moloch used his prisoner as a shield, protecting his front, while his furies drew in close, defending him from the rear. They followed him up the castle’s sweeping stairway. Every time a guardian launched a new attack, Moloch brandished his captive, knowing one guardian would never fire upon another.

  Furies scurried up the castle’s outer walls, climbing over turrets and towers. They gnawed and clawed at the sandy exterior, burrowing their way through, into the castle’s inner core, swarming any guardian that blocked their path, outnumbering them three or four to one.

  Moloch could feel his power grow with every guardian that fell. The endless battle between good and evil was finally shifting in his favor. It started on the fields of Dorian and would end here. There were only two remaining obstacles. The first was a young boy, but Moloch would deal with him soon enough. The other was the Archetypes, the foundation of every human dream. They were his present aim and slept within the castle walls, just beyond the massive doors that now stood before him.

  Moloch pulled his hostage close, growling into his ear, “You will open these doors.”

  “Never!” said the guardian. The veins in his neck swelled beneath his captor’s fingers. “I’d rather face the black sand than betray my leader.”

  “Rustam is gone! Unity is gone! The Sandman is gone!” roared Moloch, as he tightened his grip around the guardian’s throat. “I am your leader now!”

  “I will never follow you!”

  “So be it,” said Moloch. “Succumb instead!”

  With one hand, he sunk his dagger-like fingernails into the guardian and, with the other, thrust the guardian’s sword deep into the heart of the warrior etched into the doors. Evil flowed through the sword. The etching cracked open and gold sand spilled out. The castle was bleeding.

  “Thank you,” said Moloch to the captured guardian. “You have served me well.”

  Moloch let the sand sift through his mangled fingers. Each grain turned black as night, forming an expanding pile at his feet. He dropped his victim into the black mound and watched as the guardian was entombed. Moloch grinned at the ensuing destruction. Towers crumbled and sand debris rained over him as the castle doors swung open.

  You will hold dominion over me no more! I will crush you and all that you hold dear!

  With great satisfaction, he stepped across the threshold. The flames lining the castle walls extinguished as he passed, and the castle’s natural glow seemed to die a little more with every step he took deeper into its halls. His furies followed behind, moving in packs that searched every corner, every shadow, and eliminated the remaining enemy, sparing none.

  Moloch charged into the vestibule of a great tower near the castle’s center. A floating staircase spiraled up the tower’s inner wall. At the crest of the staircase, at the castle’s highest point, was the Hall of Archetypes. The sight caused Moloch to roar with pleasure, setting his furies into a fit of madness.

  Just then, two guardians swooped from the darkness and seized him. They hoisted Moloch into the air. His furies were caught off guard. They tried to snatch their master from flight, but the guardians were already out of reach and racing toward a window high in the tower wall. Moloch knew if he did not act soon, his captors would whisk him from the castle, and the battle would be lost. But rather than fight, Moloch let the force of the guardians’ wings whip back the layers of his ragged cloak. From beneath it, black vapor spread like a storm cloud over a defenseless village. The vapor clung to the guardians’ wings, weighing them down. With the speed of an arrow strike, Moloch produced his dagger and drove it into each guardian, plunging all three of them toward the floor of the vestibule.

  One of the furies reared and caught Moloch on its back before he hit the ground, as if instinctively knowing its master’s needs. Then it bounded up the stairs, four at a time, clashing with more guardians along the way, dragging some in its powerful jaws before infecting them with venom and dropping them into pits of black sand in the vestibule below.

  Moloch reached the top of the stairway. He could feel the walls tremble. All that remained between him and his prize was another set of large arched doors. He gathered his strength and pushed on them. They resisted but failed to hold, nearly ripped from their hinges. The castle was bending to his will. It was all too easy.

  He marched into the Hall of the Archetypes, but the pain of a blade being plunged into his chest soon halted his triumphant entry. His knees buckled in agony. He looked up, expecting to find a guardian towering over him. Instead, the sight was far more menacing. A hideous, yet familiar, face glared back at him. The face was his own!

  But how?

  His twin thrust its dagger deeper, driving Moloch to the floor. Evil venom flowed into Moloch’s veins, paralyzing him, much like one of his enemies. He began to cough up black sand and sink into a dark pit. Was it possible? Could the Sandman have devised a way to defeat him — by using his own power against him? Moloch felt victory slipping through his fingers. He was gasping for his last breath when he suddenly noticed his twin’s eyes. They were gold!

  A trick!

  Moloch clawed his way from the pit and plunged his fist into the mysterious attacker, causing an implosion of light. The twin vanished, and Moloch’s eyes opened. He was alone in the Hall of Archetypes, his own hand gripping the dagger still buried in his chest. It was just an illusion. He removed the dagger and watched his wound close. The Sandman was more cunning than he had imagined, but not cunning enough. Moloch had broken the last line of defense. His red eyes burned with brutal anticipation as he studied the white-veiled forms that lay at the bases of six statues in the room’s center.

  The Archetypes!

  Like a creature preparing to feast, Moloch circled each statue, digging his nails into their marbled pedestals. The scraping echoed throughout the domed ceiling, strangling sounds from the tapestr
y of occurring dreams. He paused beneath the statue inscribed with the name Wisdom, staring down at the Archetype that slept beneath it. Long had he waited for this moment: for the day he would face his enemy and enact his revenge.

  “The sins of your past have finally caught up with you,” he whispered, his breath rising to a growl. “I have come to collect on my promise, to claim my rightful throne.”

  Moloch opened his mouth and spewed his black venom over Wisdom’s misty, white veil. He watched with pleasure as the evil seeped into the mist, causing the Archetype to convulse on its bed of compressed sand. The venom spread like a virus, moving through Wisdom and then across each slab to the other sleeping Archetypes. One by one they were infected, caught in the grip of Moloch’s nightmare — a nightmare from which they could not wake.

  “Now you will know the feeling of being trapped in a grave of eternal darkness,” howled Moloch.

  His venom flowed across the floor of the great hall. The walls shook as large cracks snaked down the statues, splitting them in two. In the domed ceiling, color faded away from the tapestry of occurring dreams. Images became frightful. Sounds were filled with cries instead of laughter. Moloch relished the fear he had unleashed. None would be spared from suffering. A furious wind swept through the hall, snuffing out the six torches held by the statues and casting the hall into complete darkness.

  It is done, thought Moloch. The Dreamscape is mine.

  He stepped up to the large, triple-arched window and watched his wickedness spill from the castle. It washed over the Dreamscape like an unstoppable tsunami of darkness, entombing every guardian, casting every dream portal into nightmare, and sending a ripple of evil across dimensions…

  And into the waking world.

  The school crossing guard stood by the window in Charlie’s apartment. He scanned the courtyard of the complex, still on watch for any signs of danger. Outside, pigeon man sat on his bench, feeding the birds. His crystal bow was tucked beneath his trench coat. His gaze was sharp. He looked up toward the window and gave the crossing guard a nod, indicating all was clear.

  It seems quiet, the crossing guard thought. Too quiet.

  Then the silence broke. A high-pitched shriek came from the other room. The crossing guard charged in with his bow drawn and ready to fire.

  The room was clear of any intruders, but Charlie’s mom was thrashing in her sleep. She cried at the top of her lungs.

  “Charlie!”

  “What happened?” the crossing guard asked the school janitor, who was by her side.

  “I don’t know. She was fine a minute ago. Just singing in her sleep.”

  “A nightmare,” said the crossing guard. His eyes tensed. “Something’s wrong, terribly wrong.”

  The sound of another scream bled through the walls of the apartment. And then another. And another.

  “Wait here!” the crossing guard commanded. He charged out of the apartment and down the corridor.

  “Help! Help!” came a yell from behind a neighbor’s door.

  The crossing guard broke the door down and found an elderly woman inside, crying hysterically. Her husband was jerking back and forth in a recliner, tearing at the arms of the chair, ripping out the cotton filling.

  “What’s wrong with him?” the lady cried. Her hands were shaking. “He was just taking a nap.”

  She reached for her husband.

  “Don’t!” ordered the crossing guard. “Do not wake him!”

  He pulled her back. If Moloch’s evil had caused the man’s nightmare, the rage and fear, which now consumed him, would remain even when he woke. At least while he slept, the evil was contained. The crossing guard produced a small pouch and poured some gold sand into the palm of the woman’s hand.

  “If he begins to stir, throw this over him! Do not hesitate!”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “It will keep him from waking,” said the crossing guard. “And whatever you do, don’t fall asleep!”

  More shouts of fear and confusion filled the hallway as the crossing guard raced back to Charlie’s apartment. The janitor was waiting for him.

  “It’s happening,” said the crossing guard, shaking his head in disbelief. “Moloch has seized the Archetypes.”

  Charlie’s mom’s eyelids twitched and sweat poured from her brow. The crossing guard could hardly imagine what kind of fear Moloch had unleashed on her mind.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SHARK CAR TERROR

  Remi snapped to attention and drew her bow.

  “Charlie! Your mother’s dream is becoming a nightmare!” she screamed.

  She was right. His mom’s halo had vanished, and every reflective surface in her room, from her dresser and handheld mirror to the windows and glass-plated picture frames, even the facing of his mom’s wristwatch, had turned black as the midnight sky. From the blackness dark vapor poured into the dream, squeezing the color out, like liquid from a sponge. It was accompanied by a stench that turned Charlie’s stomach and hung in the air.

  “What’s that smell?” screamed Plug. His nose wrinkled like an old accordion. “It’s like rotted meat!”

  “The smell of evil,” replied Remi. “The smell of a dying dream.”

  Her words unnerved Charlie, and he clutched the infant in a tight embrace. Sure, the child was only part of the dream, but this was his mom’s dream, and this baby… him! He was prepared to do everything in his power to protect it.

  The musty vapor cloaked Charlie like a thick fog. His eyes burned, and he struggled to see, blinded by the sting of tears. His senses were being strangled, all but his sense of touch. And what he felt growing around his fingers worried him deeply. The infant he cradled so close was changing. It felt stiff and prickly, like a cocoon. Even worse, something inside it was moving. When the fog broke, Charlie saw what he was holding — a tangled nest of tiny eggs. They were pillow-shaped and encased in tacky, web-like sacs that stuck to his fingers. He was about to drop the nest when hundreds of little creepy crawlies hatched, running over his wrists and up his arms.

  Spiders! thought Charlie. My mom hates—

  BOOM!

  Without warning, the window she had inscribed with the sign of the Sandman exploded, sending shrapnel across the room. It happened so fast Charlie couldn’t react, but Plug yanked him down. Remi curled her wings around them, deflecting the flying shards of glass.

  “Thanks,” said Charlie. “That was too close!”

  Plug nodded, but seemed unsettled. He squeezed his eyes shut and began to mumble beneath his breath, “It’s just a bad dream. It’s just a bad dream.”

  “Plug, what are you doing?”

  “Nana says to make a bad dream go away, just close your eyes and tell yourself: It’s just a bad dream.” He began chanting louder, “It’s just a bad dream. Just a bad—”

  “—Open your eyes! This isn’t your dream!”

  Charlie barely got the words out before the floorboards splintered beneath them.

  They freefell into darkness. A rush of wind slapped them in the face, and bits of debris pelted them from all sides, as if they had been sucked into the mouth of a tornado.

  “I don’t want to die!” screamed Plug.

  And neither did Charlie.

  “Remi, your wings!” he shouted.

  “They’re not working!”

  How is that possible? Charlie thought.

  But when the darkness lifted, it was obvious. They weren’t falling at all. They were crammed into the back seat of a speeding car.

  “The dream changed!” shouted Charlie.

  The car was big and rusty and reminded him of an old, New York City taxicab. It sped along a narrow suspension bridge that seemed to go on forever, spanning to infinity on either side with nothing but dark clouds above and below. They jerked back and forth, like a funhouse ride at an a
musement park. Only this was one ride Charlie wished would end, because even though his mother was up front at the wheel, he sensed she wasn’t the one in control. Something else was behind this, and it was trying to hurt them.

  Charlie and Remi held on for dear life as the car veered left then right, throwing them across the back seat. Charlie picked himself up off the stained carpet and buckled in, when he noticed—

  “Where’s Plug?” His friend was nowhere to be found. “He was just here! Plug!”

  “There!” said Remi, pointing.

  The car headlights illuminated a rounded figure standing in the road, just ahead. It was Plug. The car sped toward him, but he did not budge.

  “What’s wrong with him? Why won’t he move?” asked Remi.

  Charlie stuck his head out the window and screamed over the roaring engine.

  “Plug, get out of the way!”

  “I can’t!” Plug cried. He tugged at his feet, but they didn’t move an inch. “I’m stuck!”

  Charlie quickly unbuckled and climbed into the front seat.

  “Mom, what are you doing? Stop the car!” he shouted.

  She pumped the brakes, but nothing happened.

  “The brakes are out!”

  “Press harder, mom!” yelled Charlie.

  “I’m trying!”

  Charlie tore at his hair in a bout of frustration. It was almost as if he could hear an evil laugh echoing through his head, taunting him.

  “Try turning!” he shouted.

  His mother yanked the steering wheel, but the airbag deployed, and from it, bony, insect-like hands emerged. They grasped her own, refusing to let her veer off course.

  “We’re going to hit him!” screamed Remi.

  They were about to slam into Plug when the car suddenly lurched to a stop. Charlie exhaled and sank into his seat, too relieved to move. But that relief soon disappeared when he heard a loud gurgling sound, followed by the unexpected soaking of his feet. Water was flooding into the car.