Baylor's Guide to Dreadful Dreams

by Robert Imfeld

  “It seemed like an accident,” said Mr. Gilbert, the band instructor at Keene Middle School. “I doubt he did it on purpose.” Gilbert’s judgment can understandably be called into question, however, thanks in large part to his hairstyle: a greasy mane of curly red hair.

  After ruining his band’s performance, Bosco then proceeded to attack a group of second-graders, with isolated reports stating he went so far as to set a demon after the kids.

  “Who knows what that guy is capable of,” reports my source, who wished to remain anonymous due to fear of any repercussions. “All I know is he scared my little brother to death.”

  Perhaps most shocking, though, is Bosco’s most recent grab for attention. Sources tell me Bosco called the hotline for missing Floridian children Helena Papadopoulos and Archie Perceval, first saying the children had crossed over, and then retracting his claim, stating that the kids are still alive and he had somehow managed to communicate with them.

  Needless to say, the parents of the missing children are not amused with Bosco’s tricks—especially today, of all days, when our country is celebrating Thanksgiving. For someone whose job is to pass on healing messages, Bosco sure seems bent on causing as much pain as he possibly can.

  —Carla Clunders, editor-at-large, NewEnglandRealNews.net

  “Stop it, Connie,” Dad said calmly as he tried to grab my mom’s phone out of her hands. “We don’t have time for this. And it’s Thanksgiving. We’ll take care of it tomorrow. Just try to relax.”

  “Let go, Doug,” she growled. “I need to track her down and kick her a—”

  “Connie,” he said through gritted teeth, “your younger son is now up and watching you behave this way.”

  She froze, turning her head to see Jack staring at her from the hallway leading into the kitchen.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, honey,” she sang, her voice unnaturally high.

  “What’s wrong?” Jack asked.

  “Nothing, nothing,” she said, letting Dad take the phone. She rushed over to Jack and guided him to join me at the table. “Cereal? Toast? What do you want to eat?”

  “Toast, I guess.”

  “Coming right up!” she said frantically.

  I could tell she was about to lose it. She’d been up since six, chopping and mixing and baking, and when I showed her Carla’s new article, she went absolutely ballistic. I’d been obsessively checking that website twice a day and was horrified to a find an update this morning.

  “That woman . . .” Mom muttered under her breath as she jammed two pieces of bread into the toaster so forcefully you’d have thought she had a personal vendetta against gluten. “Thinks she can write whatever she wants.” She scoffed. “And on Thanksgiving? What monster raised her?”

  Jack looked at me in confusion, and I just shook my head, feeling guilty. “Sorry, bro. Didn’t mean to upset Mom on Thanksgiving. I keep messing things up for you.”

  She buttered the toast and threw it in front of Jack, who took small, tepid bites.

  “Is the turkey ready to go in?” she asked Dad. “If it doesn’t go in soon, we’re going to be off schedule.”

  “Right,” he said. “We have a schedule to stick to. Okay, just another minute. I need to finish stuffing it.” He stared at her cell phone, and for a moment, I thought he was going to jam it into the turkey so my mom wouldn’t be able to look at the article again or attempt to contact Carla Clunders. But he set it aside and reached for the bread and lemon peels.

  “Everyone’s arriving around one,” Mom said. “Jack, you need to strip your bed and put on new sheets for Uncle Horty. He’s sleeping in your room, and you’ll have to sleep in Baylor’s room.”

  “Oh, man,” he said. “Why can’t Baylor sleep in my room?”

  “Because his room is bigger and your cousins need to fit in there too.”

  “Slumber party?” Jack said, his face lighting up.

  Mom smiled. “Sure,” she said. “Slumber party. Finish your toast and go fix up your room.”

  Jack wolfed down his toast and ran upstairs, leaving me alone at the table.

  Mom was shaking her head at me. “That woman, Baylor. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I am going to track her down and tell her exactly what I think of her, and her journalistic integrity, and her . . . her . . . stupid website.”

  “Connie,” my dad said quietly, a hint of warning in his voice.

  She looked at him out of the corners of her eyes, and then glanced back at me.

  Tomorrow, she mouthed, her eyes wide.

  I nodded, giving her a thumbs-up.

  “I’m going to shower,” I said, heading upstairs. Really, I planned on reading the article ten more times. When I pulled up the website again, I was pleased to find a bunch of comments defending me.

  Baylor4ever, 9:21 a.m.: Carla Clunders, you are a hack. Writing inflammatory gossip articles about a 13yo boy? SAD.

  BigBayliever11, 9:45 a.m.: Can you say “AGENDA”????? Clearly biased article. Amazing that Baylor was able to make contact with the missing kids. He is so blessed!!! Hope I can meet him soon, I miss my momma so much.

  CamTheMan, 10:01 a.m.: the part with the anonymous source seemed really legit, Baylor scares kids for no reason, what a weirdo.

  I rolled my eyes. The last commenter was clearly Cam Nguyen. How on earth had she tracked him down for this nonsensical article? No, seriously, could this even be called an article? It sounded like a flame piece written by one of my classmates trying really hard to seem like a grown-up.

  I read over a few more comments, embarrassed by the different usernames that incorporated part of my name. I knew there were people who called themselves Baylievers, but I didn’t think they were rabid enough to be defending me on random news articles.

  I searched for “Baylor Bosco Bayliever” and was shocked to discover the first result was for a website called BaylieversUnited.com. I clicked on it, and my cheeks burned. An image of me popped up. It looked like a screenshot from one of the news segments that’d aired shortly after the Sheet Man incident. I was looking off into the distance, focusing hard on something, and my arm was raised, with my hand turned up slightly, fingers spread evenly apart. It looked like I was performing a magic spell.

  The home page looked like some sort of message board, with several different threads.

  RECENT NEWS

  SHARE YOUR EXPERIENCE

  PRESS

  PHOTOS/VIDEOS

  I clicked on RECENT NEWS, and the Carla Clunders update was the first one listed. I glanced down and saw there’d been a crazy hubbub of activity the last few weeks, with all sort of different articles posted about Rosalie and Alfred.

  I clicked on the post about this morning’s article. There were already seventeen comments on it.

  OhioMom1212: Baylor is THIRTEEN and so gifted. It must be such a burden for him sometimes to have so much power. I can’t imagine.

  TranscendentXX: She seems like a pleasant woman . . . NOT!

  GhostBoy11: sounds like a mean jerk to me, he should just mind his own business

  BondedByond1980: Wonder if he delivered a message she didn’t like and now she’s out to get him. Poor kid. He helps so many people, doesn’t deserve this treatment.

  I was happy to see the vast majority of comments were in my defense. I guess it wouldn’t make sense for a lot of people to hang out on a website called BaylieversUnited.com if they weren’t actually united. Well, unless they were united in their dislike of me.

  Part of me wondered if there was an opposite forum somewhere on the web—some sort of hate site, like BaylorsABrat.com, and it would just be a bunch of people talking about how they thought I was a fraud and hoodwinking people left and right. I didn’t bother to check, though. That kind of negative energy was the last thing I needed.

  I’d nearly forgotten I had to shower and clean my room, so I jumped into high gear and did everything I needed to do in less than twenty minutes. Jack slinked into my room and rolled out his sleeping bag on the opposite side of
the room from my bed.

  “Oli and Gillie can have the middle,” he said, smoothing out the top part.

  Kristina and Colonel Fleetwood materialized out of nowhere, and I jumped back, not expecting them to pop up so suddenly. Jack looked up and frowned.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, catching my breath. “Kristina just surprised me.”

  Jack’s face fell a little more. “Oh,” he said. “I forgot my pillow.” He slinked out of the room.

  “What’s his problem?” Kristina asked.

  “Everyone’s a little on edge today,” I said. “Carla posted another article, and Mom’s not happy. And when Mom’s not happy, no one’s happy.”

  “She’s the best,” Kristina said with an adoring sigh.

  “She really is a delightful woman,” the colonel said.

  But I didn’t know what to say, because my attention was squarely focused on the uninvited ghost standing behind them, hunched over and staring back at me with shadowy eyes.

  TIP

  12

  Do NOT let old people sit on your hand.

  “KRISTINA,” I WHISPERED, MY VOICE hoarse. I reached slowly and steadily for the candle and lighter on my desk. “Colonel. Don’t panic.”

  The colonel cocked his head to the side, curious, and followed my gaze past his shoulders.

  “Oh, apologies, Baylor,” he said with a hearty laugh. He had bright brown eyes that somehow seemed to shimmer vibrantly when he laughed, and Kristina always stared and smiled at him like she couldn’t get enough of looking at them. It was really annoying. “We should have mentioned this first thing. You have a visitor!”

  He took a step to the side to reveal a short man with matted gray hair and the complexion of a wild mushroom that desperately needed to be cleaned. His stance was a bit lopsided and gave the impression he was in danger of falling over, as though his left leg was four inches too short. He was attempting a grin, but it looked more like he had some gas-related discomfort.

  “Uhh,” I mumbled. “Hello?”

  “Baylor Bosco,” he said, his voice at once smooth and raspy, like an old-fashioned jazz singer’s. “A pleasure to see ya.”

  “I’m sure I’d like to say the same,” I said.

  “Baylor,” Kristina said sharply. “This is your great-great-great-grandpa Charlie.”

  “A bit long, that name, innit?” he said. A light accent that I couldn’t place lingered at the end of his words. “My friends—back when I was still walking around on your side, I mean—they always called me Ten-Buck Chuck.” He smiled proudly. “Always up for a ten-dollar bet. Wha’s ten bucks at the end of the day, really? Was a good way to pass the time on the docks, if anything.”

  “I’d imagine it was a lot of money back when you were alive,” I said, shrugging. “Probably could have paid half your rent or something with it.”

  “Nah, don’ be silly, Baylor,” he said, stepping past Kristina and the colonel. “Let me get a good look at ya in the light.”

  “Okay?” I said, suddenly wondering what to do with my hands as he looked me up and down. “What are you doing here, uh, Ten-Buck Chuck?”

  He chuckled. “Jus’ Charlie works fine too.” He seemed fixated on my legs. “We’ve gotten taller through the years, we O’Briens, haven’ we?” He nodded with approval. “Probably needed to jus’ survive in these big new cities. That Darwin knew what he was talking about. Won’ shut up about it these days, mind ya, and sometimes to rile him up, I’ll say, ‘Hey, Charles’—see, he’s a bit of a snot, goes by Charles and all—so I’ll say, ‘Hey Charles, isn’ it just a theory, though? Nothing actually proven, right?’ ” His eyes lit up and he slapped his hands together. “Ya should see his reaction! Blabbers on and on and on, as if any of us really care.”

  I gawked at him, entirely speechless.

  “Charlie decided to join us for Thanksgiving this year,” Kristina said through gritted teeth. “He is family, after all.”

  He motioned as if he were tipping down the brim of a hat. “Might get some of the other family members to show up, too, but you never know on Thanksgiving. Busy travel day and all, things get crowded.”

  “Crowded?” I scoffed. “You’re ghosts! What does that matter?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Kristina said, glaring at Charlie, who smiled back at her in confusion.

  “Wait, do you—?” I began, but Kristina cut me off.

  “We have other things to discuss, Baylor,” she said quickly. “Namely the fact that you’re seeing the dreams of a couple random kids who are drifting somewhere thousands of miles away.”

  I immediately thought of the grim scene with Helena and Archie, their weak, thin bodies battered by the sun and the waves.

  “What’d you find out?”

  “Well, it’s not particularly good since—”

  “Baylor!” my mom shouted from downstairs. “Your uncle just called. They’re getting here early. Come down and help me set up the kitchen!”

  “One second!” I shouted back. “Okay, go ahead, Kristina.”

  “So they’re—”

  “We do not have one second, Baylor Douglas Bosco!” she screamed up again. “Get your butt down here right now before I come up there and drag you to this kitchen by your ears.”

  “Oh, I like her,” Charlie said. “Is she an O’Brien? She sounds like one.”

  Kristina nodded.

  “This is going to be a fun evening,” Charlie said.

  I sighed. “Coming!”

  I marched downstairs and found my mom whirling in the kitchen, my dad attempting to set up the long table, and my brother, who never returned to my room with a pillow, keeping Ella busy in the family room.

  “Help your father,” she said, her face covered in a bit of flour and some type of yellowish mashed vegetable. “He needs it.”

  “I don’t need it,” he said through gritted teeth, “but I can’t get this thing to snap!” He was banging on one of the metal legs, trying to get a clasp to click into place.

  “Let Baylor try,” she said.

  I walked over and shook the table a little while the trio of ghosts lingered around us and looked over our shoulders.

  “See?” Dad said triumphantly. “It’s stuck.”

  “It looks like the left side is a bit dented, Baylor,” the colonel said, peering over the table, his body bent at the most awkward angle I’d ever seen any ghost attempt. Certainly no human could ever mimic it, at least not without sustaining serious injury; he was nearly at a perfect right angle, bending from the middle of his thighs as though they contained hinges. “Try pressing hard on that side while you pull it down.”

  I followed his advice and the clasp snapped into place.

  “It worked!” I yelped, and I smiled at the colonel, who was nodding his approval, before I coughed and looked away.

  “Yeah, well, that’s because I sat here loosening it for ten minutes,” Dad grumbled, more to the clasp than to me.

  “You tried, Doug,” Mom said. “Now put the tablecloths on, line up the runner down the middle—make sure it’s not crooked!—set the table, put out the flowers and candles, and then help me wipe down the counters.”

  Dad and I looked at each other and sighed. “I wonder if we can escape unnoticed to the Kirkwoods for pizza?” I said quietly.

  “Son,” he said just as quietly, “neither one of us is talented enough to pull one over on your mother.”

  * * *

  After a frantic hour of setting up and last-minute cleaning (“You checked behind the toilets, right, Baylor?” my mom had shrieked at one point), we heard Jack announce that Uncle Glenn’s car had pulled into the driveway.

  “They’re here!” Mom yelled from the kitchen.

  “Yeah, we know, Jack just said so,” I said, confused.

  She turned my way, her face freshly cleaned of random kitchen residue, arched an eyebrow, and wordlessly assessed me, her eyes wide and threatening. I gulped, and she continued to
stare for a few more seconds.

  “Mom?” I said, wondering if I was about to get grounded for some unknown reason.

  The sound of a knock pierced the air, and she suddenly smiled, the dark look disappearing from her face and the chaos and stress of the morning dissolving from her mind. “It’s Thanksgiving time!” she sang, her voice the cheeriest it had been all day. She rushed to the front door and opened it to find Uncle Glenn holding three large casserole dishes and a huge bag slung around his back. Next to him, my cousin Gillie smiled in a forced way, like someone had placed hooks in the corners of her mouth and pulled hard. Behind them, Aunt Cathy and my other cousin, Oli, were futzing with something in the backseat.

  “Glenny!” Mom said, going in for a hug but realizing a second too late it was an impossible task with everything he was holding. She wound up tenderly caressing the aluminum foil of the casserole dishes before she stepped back and said, “Come in, come in!”

  “Thanks, baby sis,” he said, crossing the threshold and disappearing into the kitchen. Gillie followed him, but Mom pulled her in for a hug, much to the dismay of Gillie, who stood motionless as my mom tightly squeezed her arms around her. For the second time in less than ten seconds, Mom appeared to be hugging an inanimate object, and she was fully aware of it.

  She released Gillie after an awkward few seconds, clapped her hands together, and said, “How are you, my beautiful niece? Are you liking high school? Made lots of new friends?”

  Gillie stared back at her, tugging at her straight, shiny brunette hair, but looking like she wanted to wrap it around her neck and pull until she didn’t have to talk anymore.

  “It’s fine,” she said, her voice different than I remembered it, now a bit slower and higher. “You know. It’s . . . good.”

  Mom nodded. “Great!” she said. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.” She looked at me and said, “Say hello to your cousin, Baylor!”

  I looked from Mom to Gillie and was unsure of what to do. It seemed like a better idea to shake her hand or give her a casual pat on the back, but I knew my mom wouldn’t be happy with that, so I endured the same fate as my mom and found myself hugging what felt like a very thin, bony pole.