Sweet Dreams

by William W. Johnstone

  Among the teenagers, Anne and Sheri and Holly and Tanya felt slightly nauseous. The girls didn’t really feel like doing much of anything—except throwing up. Which they did. As the morning passed, so did their sickness. But that which had taken life and was growing in their bellies was growing much faster than any normal fetus. It would burst forth in a shower of blood and corruption if the girls were not aborted very soon.

  In the Lancaster House, the time travelers slept on, exhausted by the events of the previous night. The rooms were silent except for the occasional padding of the big shepherd as he paced around near the sleeping Heather and Marc.

  The big shepherd occasionally glanced up to the landing of the second floor, his eyes seeing what no human could. He knew what lay behind the closed doors and shuttered windows, and he was not afraid for himself, only for the children.

  The travelers occasionally stirred in their sleep as they experienced something cold and slimy touch their very souls. Then the coldness vanished, as if pushed away by some other unseen force. That was the case. The hands of death were fighting, invisibly, with the hands of life, each wanting the souls of the travelers, for very different reasons.

  This time the hands of life were victorious.

  The small town of Good Hope lay quiet under the morning sun. No one walked the streets. Almost everyone stayed home from work. Those who had ventured out were now returning to their homes, to lock and bolt the doors.

  But no one came near the Lancaster house.

  For Trooper Kowalski, Deputy Bob Vanderhorn, and Captain Larry Rogers, the real horror was about to begin.

  5

  “Three miles from the city limits of Good Hope,” Kowalski radioed his position.

  “Ten-four.” Larry spoke into his mike. “Bob, let’s lay back here.”

  “Pulling over,” Vanderhorn said. “Right behind you.”

  The men sat in their cars at the side of the road, just inside the parking area of an old store. Minutes ticked by. The men grew restless. Finally, Larry reached for his mike, as Bob sat down beside him.

  “Kowalski? Come in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You copy this all right, boy?”

  “Yes, sir. Loud and clear.”

  “What is your ten-twenty, Kowalski?”

  There was a moment’s pause. “I ... ah . . . well, sir, I don’t really know, sir.”

  Sitting on the passenger side of the unmarked MHP car, Bob Vanderhorn looked at Larry, sudden fear in his wise cop’s eyes.

  “All right, Kowalski, you listen to me. I want you to head toward the dig site where you helped Lieutenant Voyles investigate the death of Lisa Baldwin. You remember that, don’t you?”

  Another pause. “Oh! Right, sir. I’m in Good Hope. Sorry, sir. I must have had a slight lapse of memory.”

  “What’s the town look like, Kowalski?” What in the hell is his first name? Larry pondered. He couldn’t remember.

  “Well, sir. It looks weird. I mean, there isn’t anybody out moving. It’s like a ghost town.”

  “Traffic?”

  “Nothing, sir. I don’t even see a dog or a cat out.”

  “My God!” Bob said.

  “Keep rolling around town. Forget about the dig site.” A sudden feeling of alarm came over the trooper.

  “I’ve got chill bumps on my skin all of a sudden,” Bob said.

  “I know the feeling.”

  “Captain Rogers?”

  “Go, Kowalski.”

  “Sir, what am I doing here? Last thing I remember is having coffee with you and Deputy Vanderhorn in Sikeston early this morning. How and why did I end up in Good Hope? Am I losing my mind, sir?”

  “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Bob said.

  “What do you remember of our discussion?” Larry asked.

  “What discussion, sir?”

  Larry exhaled slowly and looked at Vanderhorn. The deputy shook his head. “We’re in over our heads, Larry. Man, let’s call this thing off and ask for some help.”

  “Dammit, Bob—who do we ask and how? It’s too early. You said it yourself: they’d commit us all for observation.”

  “Probably right,” the deputy replied glumly. “So what do we do?”

  “I’ve got an idea. You have a small portable tape recorder in your car?”

  “Yes.”

  “O.K.” He reached for the mike. “Kowalski? Pull over and turn around. Head back toward 61 and turn north. You’ll see us about three miles outside of town.”

  “Ten-four, sir.”

  After a few moments, Kowalski’s voice rang out of the speaker. He was not using the radio technique he had learned at the academy. “What the goddamn hell is going on?” he blurted.

  Despite the situation, Larry had to smile. “Keep rolling north, Ski.” That was what he was called. Larry didn’t know his first name. “I think you entered what I called a dead zone. You sound as though you’re out of it, now.”

  “Those people were right, Captain . . . about not remembering anything. It’s wild, sir.”

  “Yeah,” Larry agreed. “At least that.”

  Jerry was the first one awake. Looking around him to get his bearings, he attempted to clear his head and make some sense out of what had happened. He rose to his feet and walked to the windows at the front of the house. Sunlight streamed through. Jerry rubbed his eyes, then his face. He jerked his hands away in shock.

  He remember shaving the day before, and his was a very heavy beard, sometimes requiring him to shave twice in the same day if he was going out for the evening.

  But except for his mustache, he was still clean-shaven.

  “Impossible,” he muttered. “Flies in the face of science.”

  Then he laughed at that. Whole goddamn thing was flying in the face of everything logical.

  He rubbed his face once more. His skin was smooth to the touch. He found a mirror and stared at his reflection. Clean-shaven.

  “Limbo,” he whispered, as the truth came home. “We’re all stalled in time. Stuck in some sort of time-warp.”

  He looked around. Everyone else was still sleeping.

  Jerry heard someone singing outside.

  “Bes’ ice in town, bes’ ice around.

  “My stuff is hard, an’ the only game in town.

  “De iceman here, all you womens gather ’round.

  “Fill up your box wit’ de coldest ice in town.”

  Jerry heard the back door slam and a woman’s voice said, “You there, boy! You hush that nasty singing and brings me some ice ’fore all my perishables goes bad.”

  “Mama, your perishables ain’t gonna go bad, not ’long as I’s here.”

  “Lord, you are a bad one!” she said.

  At a slight noise, Jerry looked around. Voyles was sitting up on the floor, rubbing his face. “What in the hell is going on now?” the highway cop asked.

  Both of them noticed the huge shepherd standing guard over Heather and Marc.

  The dog looked at the men—not an unfriendly look, just a curious one.

  The iceman laughed and sang, “My baby got a washboard. Lard, I loves to rub on that thing. She shore got a washboard. Lard, I—”

  “Boy!” the black woman’s voice rang sharp and clear in the midmorning air. “You wakes up Miss Maryruth with that nasty singin’ and Mister Clint gonna take a whip to your ass.”

  “Them days been gone for more’n twenty years, mama. Ain’t you heard the Union was victorious?” He laughed. “ ’Sides, I ain’t skirred of Mister Clint.”

  “Not only is you a damn fool, you is also a damn liar. Now brings that ice into the house and I’ll give you a cup of coffee and some hot bread. Maybe that’ll hush your nasty mouth.”

  The man’s laughter was strong and proud. “Mama, I’ll shore take some of your hot stuff. An’ anything else you’d like to give this hard workin’ man this mawnin.’ ”

  The woman’s laughter joined his, and Jerry realized this was a game they probably played daily. Talk, a
nd nothing more. “My husband hears that kind of talk from you, boy, and you won’t have to worry none ’bout Mister Clint. My old man’ll whup your ass.”

  “Ain’t skirred of him, neither.”

  “Go to hell for lyin’, boy.”

  Jerry looked back at the dog. But the big shepherd had disappeared. Heather was sitting up, rubbing her face and eyes. Marc sat beside her, stretching. The others were awake, rubbing their faces, running fingers through their hair.

  A large black woman with a bright red bandana covering her hair walked through the house. Standing beneath the archway to the large party room, she said, “Lawd, Lawd!” She shook her head as she surveyed the mess from the night before. “What a mess. How is I ’posed to cook breakfast, clean up after messy white folks, get Miss Maryruth up and dressed, look after the twins, and do ever’thang else they’s heaped on me? Where is them lazy no-count house niggers? Find me a stick, that’s what I’ll do. Beat me some ass.”

  Then she walked right through Janet on her way back to the kitchen.

  Janet stood open-mouthed, in shock.

  When one of them could finally speak after witnessing the impossible, Maryruth said, “I gather that lady runs the house—with a firm hand, I would imagine. I’m trying to think of what they used to call that person.”

  The back door slammed and the slightly bawdy singing of the iceman faded away as he made his rounds.

  “It’s odd,” Vickie said. “I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours, but I’m not the least bit hungry.”

  “Nor am I,” Janet said, recovering from the shock of the woman walking through her.

  “Of course, you’re not.” A man’s voice spun them all around.

  Clint Lancaster stood at the top of the stairs. He smiled at them, his eyes touching them all. He was dressed in riding clothes, a small crop in his hand. He tapped the crop against his leg as his eyes settled on Janet.

  “I should think you would be a picture of loveliness in the nude. Would you care for a bit of old-fashioned slap and tickle in the morning?”

  Janet could but look at him.

  “No?” Clint said. “Well, by-and-by perhaps. Personally, I am ravenous. So if you all will excuse me?”

  Then he vanished.

  “This is how we’re going to play it,” Larry said. “We will tape-record what we’re supposed to remember and do; tape it several times for insurance. On these index cards, we’ll write instructions telling us to turn on our tape machines when we suffer memory blanks.”

  “Everybody here got a will made out?” Vanderhorn asked drily.

  Ski had just completed three more runs to determine just how far out the dead zone extended. He’d concluded it extended about three miles in any direction from the town of Good Hope.

  Larry looked at Ski. “I won’t order you to take the point again.”

  “I want it, Captain,” the young trooper insisted. “I’ll make my recordings and write out my instructions and take off.”

  “O.K., Ski, you’ve got it. Now listen, both of you.” He unfolded a county map. “I’ll come into town on this road that runs by the side of the levee. Bob, you cut off of 61 here. We’ll all meet in the courthouse parking lot, in front of the jail. Ski said the town is free of any traffic, so that step should be an easy one. O.K., boys, let’s roll.”

  The first step was not as easy as the captain had anticipated. The men had to pull over and stop a dozen times to read the instructions taped to the sun visors of their cars. Then they clicked on the tape recorders and listened, dumb, confused looks on their faces. After that, they pulled out and got about a block before the Manitou’s power wiped their minds clean. The process they’d established was repeated, over and over.

  They began to realize, as they repeatedly listened to the instructions taped in their own voices, that the strength of the mysterious force seemed to be waning. Ski was the first to radio in that he was free of the force and once more able to think clearly.

  “I copy that,” Bob radioed. “I’m free.”

  “Or the force has deliberately freed us,” Larry dashed cold water on the men’s words. “I’m thinking that’s probably the case.”

  “Jesus, Larry!” Bob said.

  “It has to be considered,” Ski said. “All we can do is jump in with both feet and be ready for anything. Right, Captain?”

  “Right, Ski.”

  The men rolled onto the asphalt of the courthouse parking lot and got out. Larry walked over to a deputy sheriff sitting in his car in front of the brick jailhouse.

  The deputy paid no attention to Larry. Finally, Larry said, “Good morning, Deputy. How’s it going today?”

  The deputy turned his head and lifted his eyes. Larry fought to keep from backing away from the man.

  The man’s eyes were dead.

  “I’m just fine, sir. How are you?”

  “Pretty good.” Larry identified himself, Ski, and Vanderhorn. “We’re looking for some people. Perhaps you could help us?”

  “Maybe. But I have to go home real soon.”

  “Well, this won’t take but a minute. Where is Sheriff Lennox and his Chief Deputy?”

  “They’re at home.”

  “Little early for lunch, isn’t it?”

  The deputy did not reply.

  “All right,” Larry said, realizing then he was attempting to converse with the next thing to a zombie. “How about the chief of police?”

  “He’s home too.”

  “Well, son,” Bob said, “who is minding the store?”

  “No one, really. Don’t need anyone. There isn’t going to be any crime.”

  Larry’s laugh was a little shaky. “How do you know that?”

  “I just do.”

  “Well, how about Doctor Jerry Baldwin? You know where we can find him?”

  The deputy gave him directions to Jerry’s house.

  Before Larry could thank the man, the deputy put his head on the steering wheel and fell sound asleep.

  Larry reached in and shook the man. The deputy slumped over sideways and fell across the front seat. Larry checked his pulse. Normal. He lifted one eyelid. The eye looked lifeless.

  “Christ!” Bob breathed the word. “What in the name of God is happening here?”

  “Check the jail, Ski.”

  The Trooper was back inside of two minutes. “Place is deserted except for the dispatcher. He’s functioning, but just barely. He looked right through me. Never even acknowledged my presence. He’s handling traffic all right, though.”

  “I’ll check the courthouse,” Bob said.

  Vanderhorn was back in five minutes. “Only a few people in there, Larry. Like Ski said, they’re barely functioning. Only person that acknowledged my presence was this elderly man sitting outside the clerk of the court’s office. He seemed a little confused, but coherent. He asked me how I got into town. I told him we drove in. He laughed; said he doubted that very much. Said he didn’t think the Manitou would allow that to happen.”

  “The what?” Larry asked.

  “Manitou,” Bob repeated. “Hell, don’t ask me what that is.”

  “I thought a Manitou was some kind of big fish,” Larry said.

  “No, sir,” Ski said. “That’s a manatee, sir. And they’re not fish; but animals. They’re called sea cows. They are a part of the whale family, I think.”

  Larry looked at him. “Thank you, Trooper Kowalski. I shall treasure that information always, I’m sure.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” Ski said solemnly.

  Larry shook his head. “What else did the old man say, Bob?”

  “He got a little strange, Larry. Said the town was doomed, he thought. Said it was cursed. Said I should leave, if I could find my way back out, but that he doubted I would be allowed to leave. Said those people out at the dig site had disturbed some ancient Indian God and the God had taken possession of the light and was using it for evil purposes. Said don’t expect any help from anybody, but not to blame the peopl
e of Good Hope ’cause it wasn’t really their fault. Said the townspeople had no control over their actions.”

  Kowalski crossed himself.

  “That it?” Larry asked.

  “Just about. The old man just stopped talking all of a sudden and looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time. Asked who I was. Then he just got up and walked off.” Bob was thoughtful for a moment. “Oh. There was one more thing. He said to stay away from the Lancaster house.”

  “I’m not from this area, Bob. What is the Lancaster house?”

  “It’s a pre-Civil War home just outside of town. The state’s been talking about turning it into a historic site for years. Big old three-story mansion.”

  “Why would he warn us away from there?”

  “Beats me, Larry. But I got the impression the old boy wasn’t drunk or nuts. He really believed all he told me. He had a pretty firm grip on a Bible.”

  “Well,” Larry said with a sigh. “I don’t know about evil spirits and Manitous—whatever in the hell they are—but something is damn sure wrong around here. You boys get your pistols and stay armed. Be ready for anything.”

  “I don’t have any authority in New Madrid County, Larry,” Bob said.

  “You do as long as you’re working with me. Bob? You are a religious man?”

  Vanderhorn shook his head. “Not as religious as I should be.”

  “Ski?”

  “I go to Mass every Sunday, sir. Yes, I’m a religious person. Or at least I try to be.”

  “I used to be,” Larry said. “When I first went into pure investigation, I worked a case with the St. Louis P.D. A bunch of young street punks broke into an elderly couple’s apartment one night. The things that were done to that old couple were unspeakable. That street gang tortured them horribly, finally killed them. Because they were juveniles, fifteen years old, the case was given—quote—special consideration—unquote. Goddamn little snakeheads were back on the streets on their eighteenth birthdays. That’s about the time I stopped going to church. Maybe the former prompted the latter. I don’t know.”