"I'm afraid you've lost me. It sounds as though you're saying monsters do exist.”
Jillian unfastened the top button of her pajama top, exposing part of the wound he'd seen earlier. "If there are no monsters, John, then how do you explain this? It's not the first time I've found myself slashed to ribbons."
"You were attacked by a wild animal."
"A wild animal? And exactly what kind of wild animal is it that hunts during a blinding snow storm?"
He almost said, ‘a hungry one.’ But he saw her point. The human race depends upon weather forecasts. Animals do not. Any animal that wasn’t already in hibernation would have instinctively sought refuge long before the storm hit. Even a polar bear – and there were none in this part of the world – wouldn't be out hunting prey during a blizzard. It was...illogical. Almost as illogical as monsters living in the twenty-first century.
The woman was visibly shaken when she continued: "Remember what I said earlier about acting out nightmares? What do you think would happen if those nightmares projected into reality? And when you woke up from the nightmare, it was still going on. And what if it was a recurring nightmare? One that you'd have to live with forever."
"The monster comes in your dream," he said then wondered why he'd think such a thing.
Jill nodded, lips pressed together. "And this is what it does," she said, once again exposing the slashes she'd shown him earlier. "This... This is what it always does."
Calm from numbness rather than apathy, John added: "And you make it become reality. Your dreams."
"My nightmares. That's why I can't allow Valerie to sleep with me. And why it takes so long to heal. If all my strength was used up making myself well, I'd have no way to fight back when...when it happens." John inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. In a roundabout way, the woman had just informed him that, sometime tonight, something very unpleasant might be visiting his home. He wished he could laugh and pass it all off as a joke of poor taste. But something inside him grated, churned. Fear was too mild a word. Sweat beaded above his brow. His palms were moist, cold. The only thing holding him in his seat right now was his inability to move. All along, she'd been telling the truth. He'd doubted her several times along the way. But not now, for the woman had no reason to lie. It was, in its own strange and unique way, beginning to make sense.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God," he whispered. "What have they done to you?"
"I'll understand if you feel threatened and want me to leave."
"No. You have...no place to go."
"Valerie is safe as long as she stays out of the room while I'm sleeping. You'll be safe, too. It's not like it happens every night. Just sometimes, and they are specific times. I thought I should warn you, just in case you should happen to hear me scream during the night. No matter how horrible it may sound, please, don't come in. I can take care of myself. I've been doing it for a few years, and I haven't died yet."
CHAPTER 10
John had no concrete evidence that it would make any difference, but when he looked at the cross he’d painted on the inside of the guest room door, he felt a little more at ease. He had a relaxed smile on his face at the time. He joked about it with the woman, as if it were a game. But it wasn’t a game.
John pulled back a drape panel and stood at the window. The darkness of the still night had closed in around the house. It was as if a thick blanket of blackness had settled over the windows. There was no moon tonight, no stars, and no wind. The boundaries of the universe were the cold, stone walls of the house. Beyond that, nothing seemed to exist. He knew he could put an end to the problem. Brewster could be here within twenty minutes. But that would be like walking out on a four star movie halfway through. Or closing your eyes when Linda Blair’s green infected head spun circles in The Exorcist. Or worse: Throwing a young woman and her child to the wolves.
He said goodnight to the woman then locked the door behind him as he left, pocketing the key. Sleep would not come easy tonight. Despite the battery meter being barely above sixty, he left the hall lights on and had the lamps glowing in the living room, where he was to sleep (or attempt to sleep).
He laid there, fingers laced behind his head, eyes wide open, listening to the seconds ticking away on the clock, waiting for the nightmare to begin. Twenty minutes later, he found himself in the kitchen boiling water for tea. From there, teacup in hand, he walked the length of the hall all the way around, coming out on the far side of the living room by the library. He glanced over his shoulder as Bear padded up from behind. The dog whined, tail wagging, as if looking for reassurance. John had none to give.
Only time would tell if the woman was lying. And John trusted she was not. Tertullian’s ancient words entered his thoughts: ‘Credo quia impossibile.’ Translation: I believe because it is impossible.
Every hour, John looked over at the clock to find that only a few minutes had elapsed. Each time he raised his head from the pillow or sat up, he sensed Bear’s dark eyes boring into him. The dog’s tail would begin to wag, tapping the floor. The whining would begin.
At half past three, John found it impossible to keep his promise. He bolted upright on the sofa bed, took the key from his right front pocket and headed for the guest room door, each step whispering that it was the late hour – and nothing more – that had his nerves on edge. He was certain that if he could look in that room and find nothing abnormal, he’d finally be able to sleep.
<<>>
She had extinguished the candle not long ago. The scent of hot wax hung in the air. And something else: the light scent of fresh soap. It was warm in there. And dark. John gave the door a gentle nudge and took another step into the room. The hall light cast his long shadow across the center of the bed. The quilt was folded back, leaving the woman with only a sheet. She was on her side, both knees slightly bent. Her head, centered on the pillow, eyes closed, lips parted. Her legs moved dreamily beneath the satin sheet while her hand slid beneath the pillow. He had almost forgotten the pleasure of watching a beautiful woman sleep. It was a pleasure he could stand not a moment longer.
John was about to turn around, when something caught the corner of his eye. Shadow moved against shadow along the wall by the window, as if a timid breeze had touched the velvet drapes.
He made it to the far side of the bed, when a voice from behind whispered into the night: "Oh…It's you."
Startled, John spun around quickly, losing purchase of his cane. His right leg took the brunt of his weight, screamed with pain all the way up then buckled beneath him. His hand made a quick sweep in the air, grabbing for the bedpost to soften the fall. The post, instead, popped him in the chin. The effect was similar to that of being hit in the head with a lead pipe. He was jolted, dazed. His body headed for the floor and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it. Dropping on his bad leg finished the trick. He experienced a brief but bright explosion of agony, and then passed out cold.
<<>>
A moment of disorientation swept over him when he first opened his eyes. It was the view, he realized, which made everything seem odd. His head lay on a pillow – yes. But his back was to the floor, the guest room floor. He lay parallel to the bed. The woman knelt over him. The room was no longer dark.
A smile crossed her face when she saw his eyes open. "How are you feeling?"
He brought a hand to his jaw, which had been knocked out of whack. Fortunately, his leg wasn't throbbing, but ached only mildly. "Like a clumsy fool," he said with a smile. "I must have been out for an hour."
"No. Only a minute or two."
"My leg."
"I'm sorry. It must have hurt terribly. I didn't mean to spook you like that."
He sat up slowly, carefully, expecting his leg to send another agonizing message. It did not. He smiled with relief, flushed with humiliation. "I've got to admit, it's not every day I fall head over heels for a beautiful woman." What he'd meant to say as a way to lighten the mood had a very serious tone. The tone felt right. As did the way in w
hich her glimmering eyes met his.
"Do you, by any chance, like classical music?"
"Very much."
"Spaghetti?"
She smiled. "My mother was Italian."
It was kooky. After all, she was his houseguest and had little choice. But he had to ask the question. "Will you have dinner with me, tonight?"
"I’d be delighted."
Using his cane, he picked himself up off the floor. He went to the window, found it secure and overlapped the drapes. "I guess this is the part where I'm supposed to explain my being here in this room."
She shook her head lightly. "You came looking for monsters."
"Guilty, as charged."
"You're lucky there were no monsters. Curiosity kills more than cats, you know. Two men are already dead because of my nightmares. Granted, they weren't the nicest men I've ever met. But I'm sure they had families who loved them and miss them still. The responsibility for their deaths is something I'll have to live with for the rest of my life, which may be a very long time. So be careful, John Mills. I don't know you very well, but I do consider you a friend."
"You have a tactful way of telling a man off and making him like it. Goodnight, Jillian. May all your dreams be pleasant ones."
Her nostrils flared as she sniffed the air. Then she stood perfectly still, listening for trouble.
"Something wrong?" John asked.
She smiled nervously. "No. For a moment there, I thought I heard something. I guess it was nothing. Goodnight."
CHAPTER 11
John spent the remaining predawn hours in the library, conducting a little research into the woman's problems. What he'd learned from the books was very disappointing. The average first-grader knows more about the planet Jupiter, than the entire medical community knows about dreams and their causes.
His encyclopedia set was only five years old. He had purchased every yearbook. So, it had been updated annually with the latest information. Almost everything he'd read on the subject of Dreams, however, was conjecture. It listed very few facts.
About the only insightful information was on "lucid" dreams. And, of course, half the medical community didn't believe in lucid dreams. But several of those who did claimed it was possible to control the topic of the dream through a type of autosuggestion. Topic could be controlled; content could not. In other words: Even if Jillian could make herself dream of a grassy meadow during the spring, she had no guarantee that her demon wouldn't show up uninvited.
He could always sit at her bedside and wake her the moment she showed signs of REM. However, the facts were clear on one issue: REM sleep is essential. Which meant, he was no closer to solving the problems now than a little more than three hours ago when he'd come in here.
Outside the window, the snow began to glimmer beneath the first rays of sunlight. Another night faded into morning. The lack of sleep showed on his face. His sore eyes were somewhere between open and shut. His back had gone stiff from sitting so long.
He felt old.
John folded the book closed on the table, lit a match and watched it burn, finding difficulty in keeping his eyes focused. His thoughts grew foggy. Yet, he was still able to draw a logical conclusion: His time in here had been wasted. A psychiatrist and a neurologist – with perhaps two-dozen years of medical school between them – had worked together, had searched for a way to stop the nightmare, and had ultimately failed. If an answer to the problem existed, it certainly wouldn't be listed in an encyclopedia.
Regardless, hope hadn't died completely. It would be several more days before he could get to a telephone. Even then, the person he wished to contact might have moved. A man with a reputation like Mel Talbot's wouldn't have his number published in a directory. And it had been four long years since he'd last seen Mel.
They had met many years ago at a book signing. John had bought the book, Knowledge Unbridled, for his wife, and asked the author, Mel Talbot, to autograph it. The man couldn't have been much more than twenty‑two years old at the time. Talbot wore his hair long, pulled back with a rubber band. He sat there with his young wife, who passed out bookmarkers. After the book was signed and handed back, Mrs. Talbot asked John for his autograph. The mutual admiration society of three then convened for drinks at the pub down the street. By the time they'd emptied three pitchers of ale – Mrs. Talbot, who didn't look old enough to drink, was all smiles and giggles after her first glass – Mel had enlightened John as to the unlimited possibilities of the computer.
He remembered the way Mel tapped the long ash from his cigarette, leaned forward, and whispered: "Every system can be breached. You can bring an entire country to its knees with a computer, look into top-secret files, or transfer funds from Margaret Thatcher's bank account into yours. I'm not saying a person should do those things. Hell no! It's highly illegal, man. I'm just saying it's...well... possible...if you know a few tricks."
Top secret files. FBI medical files on Jillian Braedon, compliments of Dr. Carl Neas? There might be a way...
The woman's screams shattered the stillness. Every nerve in John's body jolted, coming alive at once. Though morning had arrived, it was obvious that the nightmare had just begun.
<<>>
The dream was a familiar one:
Jill is alone in Jim’s Volvo. She’s driving down a dark street. No streetlights. To either side are trees. The headlights only work on low beam. The gas gauge is in the red. She’s trying to find an open drugstore. Valerie needs Ora‑jel. Or, perhaps Jim is the one who needs the medicine; Jill isn’t sure. She can’t even remember getting into the car. She knows it’s summer. The night air is heavy, muggy, and laced with fog. The street is deserted.
A car comes out of nowhere, riding her tail. Its headlights are flashing between high‑ and low beam. She realizes the driver wants her to pull the car over. Yet, she doesn’t slow down. She can’t slow down. As the fear lurches into her mind, she’s suddenly aware her life is in jeopardy.
Her eyes connect with the rearview mirror. She screams with stark terror. The incubus rises from behind her seat. Its huge, grotesque body is slick and shimmering as if covered with black oil. It hisses, blowing plugs of maggot infested snot from its pig‑like snout. It snarls, revealing razor sharp teeth dripping saliva and blood. Large, pointed ears fold back against its hideously deformed head. It leans forward over the seat. Jill momentarily freezes as the demon’s long, split tongue laps the side of her face. Its breath is tainted with putrid rot.
Her foot slams down on the brake pedal. With the car still rolling, she throws open the door. A twisted, talon‑fingered hand swipes at her face. She ducks, but not before inch‑long claws part the skin on her cheek. She fumbles with the seatbelt, shrieking with pain and terror as she jumps from the car…
…and fell to the hard stone floor of the bedroom. She lay wide-awake, but the nightmare had not ended. She rolled over on her back. In another world, a dog barked, a child screamed and cried. In this world, the foul smelling creature loomed over her, its massive chest plated with armor-hard scales. Talon‑like claws swept through the air in a taunting fashion. Its reptilian tail smashed against the floor with a heavy thud, jarring the room, rattling the windows, knocking books from the shelves as it swept back and forth.
She scurried to her feet and turned to face the demon, heart jack-hammering beneath her breast. “You’re not real!” she cried. “You’re not real!”
Its demonic laughter thundered through the room, simmering down to a wicked cackle. It moved closer. Slowly. Closer. Jill retreated, body twitching with fear, matching its steps, backing into the wall. The smell was foul; she could taste the rot on her lips. The creature seemed to be grinning at her with purpose and intent. Its demented eyes expressing they had all the time in the world, that each moment would be spent in fear and in pain. Then it hunkered down, ears perked, tail whipping back and forth, hissing, as its orange eyes made a sweep of the room.
From deep within its scaly throat came a low-pitched growl
. It flashed a set of razor-sharp teeth, dripping slime and saliva on the stone floor. The woman threw back her head and screamed bloody terror.
<<>>
Jillian's battle in the guest room wasn't the only war being waged inside the house this morning. Bear continued barking, growling, racing up and down the hallway. Valerie cried for John to unlock the guest room door. Her eyes had gone wild with fear. Tears coursed down her face. Her little hands had balled into fists, which she used to batter John's legs. He refused to unlock the door and she threw herself against it, pounding, screaming, "Mommy! Mommy! MOM‑MEEE!!"
A heavy thud came from within the room and the whole house seemed to tremble on its foundation. John tried to pull the little girl away. But she fought back and fought hard. Frantic, her arms flailed; her teeth bit into the soft tissue between his thumb and forefinger, drawing blood. John dropped his cane and sacked the screaming child over his shoulder. Leaning into the wall for support, the little girl kicked and screamed as he made his way down the hallway, into the master bedroom, where he dropped her on the bed and pointed a foreboding finger in her direction.
"Stay put!" he ordered.
"It's gonna kill her!" Valerie squealed, jumping to her feet, screaming, "You gotta help her. Pleeeese! You gotta make it go away!"
John limped to the closet – the pain in his leg not even registering – and took down his shotgun. He cracked it, slid two shells, one into each chamber and snapped it shut.
"Don't you dare leave this room!" he shouted. "You hear me?"
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