He didn't wait for a response. There wasn't time. The woman shrieked again. He knew that sound. It was the same sound his heart made five years ago, when he realized little Ryan had drawn his last breath. It meant madness loomed just beyond the threshold.
<<>>
It stood only inches away, snout twitching and oozing, ears standing like membranous bat wings on its oily black head.
Jill tried to bring her thoughts into total focus. She feared the pain. And yes, feared dying. But she had to focus. She had to do the one thing that repulsed her most: make physical contact.
<<>>
On the third attempt, John jammed in the key, turned it, and as he threw the door open, the floor trembled beneath his feet. Nothing could have prepared him for the repulsive abomination he saw. He brought the shotgun up, but failed to pull the trigger. His instinct for self‑preservation demanded he shoot. He could not; the woman was in the line of fire.
"Out of the way!" he yelled.
The beast turned on him, venomous eyes of orange. It took a step towards him, cocking its demonic head from one side to the other, thick tail snapping through the air as if it were a separate entity. John leveled the double barrel at the demon's chest, repeating his command for the woman to move. John heard himself scream, "NOOO!" as she jumped the creature from behind, arms clinging around its neck, legs straddling its back.
It turned a full circle, throwing back its head, screeching, clawing at the woman who clung to it. John grabbed hold of the bedpost, working his way to the beast. He brought the gun up once again, only to have it knocked from his hands by a powerful blow. The demon spun around. Its tail caught him in the face, sending him sliding across the stone floor onto his back. John regained his footing, hair falling over his sweaty brow. He grabbed for the shotgun, brought it up for a third time and was knocked back down to the floor with a sweep of the monster's tail.
The pain was unbearable. His vision went blurry. His head swam in a sea of dizziness, throbbing where it had impacted the stone floor, stinging where it had connected with the long, whip‑like tail.
He managed to get to his hands and knees, but for the moment, could summon neither the strength, nor the coordination to stand.
The woman's arms were locked about the creature's neck. She didn't appear to be trying to strangle it, but merely trying to hold fast as it clawed at her again and again. He glimpsed a gash open up on her shoulder. Blood ran, soaking into the silk pajama top she wore.
Using the wall as a brace, John got to his feet. His mind screamed that it wasn't real. His body was sheathed in cold sweat. The need for adrenaline had his heart thudding triple time. He swung a fist at the monster's chest and felt his body being lifted. He was a good eight feet off the floor, suspended above the creature's head, in its powerful talon grip. And now, he passed through the air on a collision course with the stone wall. His life did not flash before him. There simply wasn't enough time.
Every bone in his body reverberated with the crashing impact. It knocked him senseless. He could no longer hear the evil hissing. His eyes would not focus. He lay there upon the floor, immobilized, wondering where he was, and how he had come to be here. John closed his eyes, welcoming the darkness that promised to take away the pain.
CHAPTER 12
Valerie stood over John, tipping a glass. Water spilled onto his face, neck and chest. He shook his head, opened his eyes, sputtering.
"Mommy said to get you some water."
"Valerie, I didn't mean for you pour it on him!" Jill said from the doorway, both amused and appalled. She went to her knees, taking the empty glass from her daughter's hand. "John, are you all right?" She swept back his hair, pressed a cold compress to his forehead, and ordered Valerie to get a towel from the bathroom to mop up the water. "John?"
"You didn't...by any chance...see..." He shook his head again, eyes wild with awe, entire body trembling with the memory. "That was the...the meanest, ugliest sonavabitch that...that..."
"It's gone," she said with a heavy sigh. "John, you shouldn't have come in here. I am so sorry, so very sorry."
"Big ...Huge. Its eyes...they were orange. Jesus, did you see its eyes?"
Jill got up, went to the bed, and returned, slipping a pillow beneath his head. His eyes rested on the blood drying on her sleeve.
"I should be doctoring you," he said, lifting his head, and dropping it back to the pillow. "How bad is your shoulder?"
"Not half as bad as that welt on your forehead.” Jill pulled at her torn sleeve. "It's just a scratch. I'll be fine."
"Where did it go?" he asked, suddenly realizing he had reason to panic. "Where?"
"Back where it came from."
"I got a towel," Valerie said. She looked down and frowned, seeing the pillow soaking up the water she'd poured.
"Honey," Jill said, "there's a bottle of peroxide on the nightstand. Get it for me."
John attempted to sit, but instead propped himself up on his elbow. "We've got to find a way to keep you from dreaming. I don't know how you can live with something like that sneaking out of your dreams."
"We all have our demons, John. And we all have to learn to live with them."
"No. We have to learn to defeat them."
"Mommy, I'm hungry."
John turned his wrist, noticing the smashed crystal on his watch. It was, however, still ticking. And, unbelievably, it was after ten o'clock in the morning. He had been knocked unconscious for nearly three hours.
"How are your legs?" Jill asked.
He moved his left leg – no problem there. He moved his right leg, smiling and gritting his teeth. Although his bad leg hurt, it only ached mildly. He'd been knocked around, thrown into a wall, and the only evidence he had to show for it were a few throbbing lumps on his head.
"I don't understand it at all. My leg should be screaming."
"You've had a few hours to recuperate," Jill replied.
Valerie gave her mother a sideways glance. And for several moments it appeared as if the two females were holding a silent conversation. Jill gave the child a slight nod. Valerie shook her head firmly. Jill smiled. Valerie did not. Jill winked at her daughter. Valerie crossed both arms at the chest in defiance. Jill got to her feet. And Valerie ran from the room, taking the peroxide with her.
"I don’t understand," John confessed, shaking his head. "If it starts out as a dream…? I mean when? How? How does it end up..?"
"Real?" Jillian supplied, filling in the blank.
John nodded.
"Remember I told you that pain triggers the healing process? It attacked me in the dream. It always does."
John’s eyes fell to the two-inch cut just below her right eye. He frowned, noting her face had already been washed and the wound beginning to heal. Following his gaze, Jillian brought a hand to her face. "It did that in your dream?" he asked. "Is that what started it? How is this possible? Where the hell did that thing come from?"
If the truth repulsed even her, how could she ever expect anyone else to accept it? Or accept her. Jillian glanced around the room, wishing to avoid the topic altogether. "We’ve been over this already. I thought you understood."
John inhaled deeply through his nose, letting it out slowly, trying to contain the outrage that caused his jaw to clench to the point of pain. He finally shook his head. "That thing is not a part of you," he stated firmly. "No matter what you say, no matter what anyone says, I refuse to believe it."
"John, think about it. Dreams are a product of the subconscious mind. A person is the sum total of the conscious and subconscious mind. If I didn’t exist, then it wouldn’t exist. And that makes it as much a part of me as my own two hands."
"So you say," John muttered. "But I don’t buy it. Now, if you can find me my cane – it was left in the hallway – I think I can get up and fix breakfast before everyone starves."
When Jill returned with the cane, he was already on his feet, one hand leaning into the wall for support. She handed him the cane, th
en took a step back. "Why don't I fix breakfast," she suggested. "You look like you could use a soft pillow and a firm mattress for the next eight hours. I'll bring you in a tray when it's ready."
"What about your face and shoulder?" he asked, wondering if he'd ever be able to sleep again. "I think you need to take it easy for a bit."
"Don't worry about me. I heal quickly, or have you forgotten?"
<<>>
As promised, Jill brought in a tray with one bowl of oatmeal and two cups of steaming tea. She had visited the master bedroom last night, in the dark. Now, for the first time, she saw it in the light of day. John hadn't fully closed the drapes and the sun was shining in all its glory. She noticed how neat and clean everything was in here. She took a moment to examine the books shelved near the doorway.
Pewter statuettes – a dragon, a wizard holding what appeared to be an amethyst orb, a miniature castle – were enclosed in a glass case by the bookshelf. A large mahogany desk stood before one of the many windows. A tablet of writing paper rested on the desk, a pen crossing it. She could picture John sitting there, leaning over the desk, pen in hand, drafting love letters to a girl he knew in England. The stone mantle over the fireplace served as a stand for several framed snapshots. She didn't need to ask; they were pictures of his wife and child. Christmas. Easter. Birthdays. The little boy with the blond hair was Ryan. He had his father's amazing eyes.
She went to the nightstand, pushed aside a candlestick, and replaced it with the breakfast tray. She didn't want to wake him. He rested so peacefully. She studied his features, which all fit together to form a handsome face, one that, despite reassuring herself they had never before met, was eerily familiar.
Jill turned away, embarrassed that she'd stared so long. Her eyes focused on the platinum albums that hung on the wall, encased in glass. There were five of them. Jill now understood why John could sound so much like the lead singer of Stretto.
She gave pause and her attention returned to the man in the four-poster bed. She'd once wondered what happened to all those Rock 'n’ Roll legends that slipped off the charts years ago.
Now, she knew what happened to one of them.
Jill left the room quietly, leaving the breakfast tray behind, minus one cup of tea. Bear met up with Jill in the hallway and followed her into the kitchen where Valerie studied flashcards of the ABC's. Jill took a seat at the table, taking a sip of tea before setting it down.
Without looking up, Valerie said, "You made the monster mad, huh?"
"I had no choice."
"You didn't hafta do it."
"Yes, I did. John's gone out of his way to be nice to us. The favor had to be returned."
"Couldn't you have just said 'thank you' to him? You didn't hafta go and make the monster mad. Now, it's gonna come back and hurt you."
"Valerie, if you saw someone being hurt real badly, would you just stand there and watch? Would you? Or would you try to help?"
The child slapped the flashcards on the table, pouting. "It's just not fair!"
Jill took another sip of tea. "Honey, John tried to help me. Even when he knew he could be killed, he tried to fight the monster. How could I turn my back on him after what he did?"
"You really like him, huh?"
"I think he’s a good man."
"You're gonna make the monster mad again, aren't you?"
"I haven't decided."
"But John wants you to, doesn't he?"
Jill shook her head slowly. "John doesn't know. I didn't tell him about it. I don't want you to tell him, either. At least, not until I've decided what to do."
Valerie picked up the flashcards, frowning. "I know it's good to help people, Mommy. And I like John, I really do. But it's just...not...fair!"
"Look at it this way: You might have been dead right now if it wasn't for John. He didn't have to send Brewster away, either. He could have told him we were here. John stands to lose a lot if the bad people find out he's been helping us. He could go to jail for that, or worse. We owe him our lives, honey. Isn't that worth the risk of making the monster mad?"
"You're gonna do it, huh?"
"Probably. But right now, I need to take a nap."
"No!"
"I have to be brave and so do you. I want you to go into the living room and take a nap, too."
Valerie stood up and Bear went to her. "It's coming, huh? You hear the bees buzzing, don't you?"
"Yes. But it's weak because I just fought it a few hours ago. It shouldn't be very bad this time."
"I know, Mommy. But I’m still ascared."
Jill walked the little girl into the living room. They prayed together, hugged each other. Then Jill went to the guest room, leaving Bear to guard her daughter. She found the key in the lock. And when she closed the door behind her, she secured it, putting the key in the nightstand drawer. Bees were buzzing. Rubber was burning. The air was charged with electricity. Her senses were aware that something terrible was about to happen. As many times as she'd been through the horror, her fear of it had not diminished. Instead, it grew stronger with each encounter. Angering the demon was much like placing a single bullet in a revolver, spinning the cylinder, and putting the barrel to her head for one pull of the trigger. The odds were in her favor. Yet the more she played the game, the more dangerous it became.
She slid between the cool sheets, thoroughly exhausted. It was possible to put off sleep for a few more hours. John had tea in the house, coffee in the house, and she wouldn't be at all surprised to find a few No-Doze pills in one of the medicine cabinets. Stalling, however, wasn't the answer. If she had learned nothing else about facing creatures of darkness, she had discovered that it was always better to do so in the light of day.
And so she did.
CHAPTER 13
The scream woke him from a sound sleep. He sat bolt upright in bed, listening to another sound, one that brought him into the hallway. Valerie stood before the guest room door, singing at the top of her lungs. Bear stayed beside her, barking, tail wagging.
"What's going on?" he asked.
She didn't respond, but kept right on singing as tears slipped down her cheeks.
"Valerie?"
"...played four.
He played knick‑knack on my door..."
He tried the door, finding it locked. "What's going on? Is your mother in there?"
"With a knick‑knack paddy whack..."
He turned the child around to face him. She didn't miss a note. "Is your mother in there?"
"This ole man came rol‑ling home..."
"Jillian?" he yelled, rapping his knuckles against the door. "Jillian, are you in there?"
He went into the kitchen, calling the woman by name. From there, he passed through the dining room and entered the living room. He hurried into the laundry room, and opened the main supply cabinet where the duplicate keys to the house were kept. John pulled one from its post in the cabinet, checked its label then, key in hand, followed the hall around to the guest room.
The child continued her song. She appeared to be in some kind of trance. The tears had dried on her face. She had gone pale. Her eyes were vacant. John slid the key into the lock, turned the knob, and slowly opened the door. He told Valerie to stay in the hallway. The child seemed not to hear a word he said. Yet, he was sure she wouldn't follow him. She was too caught up in her song, seemingly oblivious to everything around her.
It was still daylight. The drapes had been left slightly parted. The woman lay quietly in bed. If there were any demons in here, they hid well. For the life of him, he couldn't understand how the woman could sleep with that racket going on in the hallway. Forgetting the child's loudness and intensity, the sour notes alone were enough to make anyone cringe. Jillian sighed and rolled to her side. John realized that for the past several seconds, he'd been holding his breath. He let it out slowly. Hers was not the face of a woman having a nightmare.
Regardless, he worried. Because the scream that woke him a few minutes ago had not
been made by a child. And the child had evidently lost her mind.
He left the room, closing the door behind him.
"Valerie."
She didn't respond, but started the song over again for the third or fourth time.
"Valerie!"
He went into the kitchen, returning moments later with a glass of water. "Look at me," he said. When she failed to respond, he tipped the glass over her head, dumping its contents.
She gasped, shot a glance in every direction then began to cry. "My shirt!" she bellowed. "It's all wet! My shirt!"
"Valerie?"
"Where's Mommy?"
He couldn't help but smile. The water had done the trick. "She's sleeping."
Her eyes widened with alarm. "The monster!"
"I was just in there and am pleased to report there were no monsters."
She pulled at the large T-shirt, trying to keep the cold, wet spots from touching her skin. Her feet moved, high stepping, yet she wasn't going anywhere. "You sure?"
"Quite. Come on. Let's find something dry for you to wear."
As they passed through the hallway, Valerie stared at the empty glass in John's hand then lowered her gaze to the wet shirt. She looked up at him, lips pursed, a question in her eyes.
"Did you spill water on me?"
"Yes."
"How come?"
"For the same reason you spilled water on me. You wouldn't wake up."
Her eyes narrowed for a moment then she nodded. "I was sleepwalking again, huh?"
"That’s a very big word for such a little girl. Yes. You were sleepwalking and singing."
"Mommy says I sleepwalk a lot. But she says it's okay, that a lot of people do that. She says once, just before we moved to California the last time, she woke up and couldn't find me, 'cause I was out on the porch. Most times, she says, I just get up and walk around for a while, saying funny things."
John went to the mahogany dresser in his bedroom, opened the second drawer from the top, and removed a fresh shirt. "Put this on. I'll get a towel from the bathroom to dry your hair."
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