The Dream Catcher's Daughter

by Steven Fox

  There, to his left, wedged between damaged goods and diapers, stood the entrance. Jason poked his head through the slight crevice, which was barely wider than him, hoping he’d successfully navigated the maze. For a moment, he saw nothing but thick blackness. Then he spotted it, to the right—a red, pulsating beacon. Jason pushed himself farther into the gap. As he pushed himself in, the space stretched around him, encasing him like a latex glove.

  Up ahead, the darkness lifted: The real Silver Moon Grocery bustled with its true patrons. Several wooden stands with shelves were set up in a long stretch of alley. Each stand was stocked with glass jars of floating eyes and pots heavy with pixie dust. Several customers glanced at Jason. If he’d been in his street clothes, he may have had a problem. Even in the midst of modernity, magi preferred traditional robes and cloaks to t-shirts and jeans. Jason didn’t see what was so special about musty-looking capes and ratty, moth-eaten hoods. Some were nice, sewn with star-like patterns that glimmered like diamonds, but most were plain, holey robes.

  Jason greeted the customers, as his father would have him do, then slipped away. The cobblestone floor stretched on for what seemed like a mile, and along the way Jason observed the magi as they pondered Mr. McKinney’s wares. There were mason jars and cauldrons filled with green and white powders and purple liquids. Jason walked briskly, hoping to avoid the eyes of customers in need of help. Despite explanation by his father, Jason had little to no idea about his father’s magical wares.

  The alley ended with a sign that hung above a door decorated with iron-wrought gargoyles. The sign read: “Have a complaint? Let me fix it for you!”

  As he stepped up to the door, a chill fell upon his body. He recognized the feeling. And he hated it. He hated it because, as every mage knew, only people who couldn’t use magic would feel a chill in the Guardian’s presence.

  He opened the door, and shadows billowed out like a black fog. Looking up, he saw his father’s office first—the immaculate array of magical objects with normie things. Jason would always remember the day Mr. McKinney attended a major-league baseball game and caught a foul ball. He had the ball signed—“It’s something you always do when you get a piece of someone else’s work!”—and mounted it on the wall, right next to a portrait of a hydra that seemed to grow more heads each time you looked at it. Signed by the artist, of course.

  Mr. McKinney stood from his desk and smiled. “Jason, m’boy! How goes it, son?”

  Jason didn’t answer, because the Guardian, with only his piercing green eyes visible in the shapeless, inky-black mass of his form, stared at Jason from a chair just right of his father’s desk. The chill snaked into Jason’s spine and his lips twitched. Somehow, normies developed a fight-or-flight reaction to magic. Jason could control it, but it wasn’t easy.

  “Greetings, Jason, son of Arthur McKinney,” said the Guardian, his voice deep yet whispery. “Have you yet to learn a spell?”

  Jason glanced at this father, who smiled at him with unwanted expectations—things Jason could never hope to meet.

  “No, sir, I haven’t.”

  “But h-he’s learning!” said Mr. McKinney. “There’s no reason to get hasty, Master.”

  “I’m not your master, Arthur. Call me Guardian.”

  “Yes, Guardian.”

  Jason looked into the Guardian’s green eyes. His body seized up, his sides and thighs twitching, pleading Jason to run or attack. Don’t just stand there, they said. He’ll kill you if don’t do anything. Part of Jason wanted to believe this, to give in to his normie instincts. But another part said not to. This part, as he gazed into the Guardian’s eyes, felt strange. Guilty, almost, though he wasn’t sure why.

  “It puzzles me,” said the Guardian, “that you would return to work so close to your eighteenth birthday. You will have no memory of it in less than half a week.” For the longest, most unbearable stretch of time, no one said anything. In that time, Jason wanted to claw his own eyes out. But he kept his gaze locked onto the Guardian’s. This twisted staring contest drew a shift from the shadows around the Guardian’s face—a smile? “I believe you have something to tell your son, Arthur.”

  “Ah, yes, let me see here…” Mr. McKinney rifled through the papers on his desk, and held up a sheet of paper inscribed with a thick block of print. He cleared his throat, and said, “This is the contract we usually read to those about to retire. In your case, Jason, it says you have to train someone before you leave.”

  “Ah, I see. Found anyone?”

  “Not yet. But we’ve got a few applicants. We should know by tomorrow or the day after.” Mr. McKinney skimmed the document’s print, then handed it to Jason. “Just sign and date the bottom, son.”

  So Jason did, and hated the scratch of pen-tip on cheap paper. This is what my death sounds like, he thought. After dating the contract, he handed it back to Mr. McKinney, who stashed it away in the top drawer of his desk.

  “Thank you, Jason. You can go home now.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McKinney.” And he turned to the Guardian. “Thank you, Guardian, Master of my father, Arthur McKinney.” Another shift in the Guardian’s hood—a lift of the brow? Jason stood and turned to leave when the Guardian’s voice caught him.

  “Have you any dreams as of late?”

  The smell of rotten chicken salad flooded his nose. How she came to be was a mystery to him. Not something he wanted to discuss with the Guardian, especially not with his father present. Especially since his dreams were supposed to be sealed.

  So without a word, Jason left.

  ***

  Silver Moon Grocery stood nearly center between downtown and uptown. To the east and west were the residential areas—east with more of the rundown, slum-like housing. These were the houses cast in mold and rot instead of paint hues, with glassless windows and overgrown jungles for front yards. The people who emerged from these houses wore wife beaters and spaghetti straps. The streets smelled of trash and cigarette smoke.

  Jason’s house stood just past these houses, situated between a neighbor and an alleyway. The McKinney house was a two-story, peach-colored building with pleasantly trimmed grass. Despite the unbroken windows, the lack of mildew, and the absence of crushed beer cans strewn throughout his yard, Jason stared at his house for a moment or two before lumbering up the front walk, unlocking the door, and shoving inside. Jason took off his shoes at the door, letting his eyes wander the hallway. He had been back nearly a week, but still couldn’t believe how little had changed in a year. The walls still remained half-painted, a pet project Mr. McKinney picked up every once in a while, maybe painting bits and pieces here and there. But he would stroke once, maybe twice, then put the brush back in the paint bucket. He wouldn’t even look at the paint for months on end.

  Jason moved into the living room on his left. He didn’t enter, but hung at the entrance, casting a glance at every article of furniture—the plush, gaudy red couch against the east wall, bookcases on the north wall, and a small television and entertainment center on the west. A love seat occupied the south wall. Jason could still see his mother and father sitting, cuddling, and giggling on that love seat. They had looked happy.

  Jason caught himself massaging the back of his head, and quickly turned away.

  He headed farther up the hall and passed a door on his right. He stopped, then turned. This door, a thick slab of oak bolted into the maple frame with gold-painted hinges and screws, complete with gold-painted doorknob, had remained closed for such a long time.

  He reached for the handle, slowly. Hand quivering. Breath. Hitch. Ing. When his fingers brushed the doorknob, he winced. There was no enchantment on this door, but Jason wished there was so he wouldn’t feel so stupid for flinching. He turned the knob and pushed, but the door caught—locked. He let his hand fall and, shaking his head, Jason turned toward the door at the end of the hall. Behind it stood a staircase. The first steps creaked, then, as if he were walking on the keys of a piano, the steps’ creaks rose to squeaks
. The bare landing at the top offered no sound—a broken key—and Jason continued down a short hall toward an empty doorframe at the end. He lingered here for a long moment. He still couldn’t believe how spotless his room was.

  “Sorry! Cleaned your room while you were gone. Most of your clothes are still in the closet, but if you want your toys or video games, you’ll have to dig through the shed. They’re safe, I promise.” This had been a note left by Mr. McKinney the first day Jason returned. Jason had yet to rummage through the shed.

  Now his room was nothing but the barest of bare: his bed, with plain white sheets and a flower-embroidered comforter with matching pillow set; the sand-colored floorboards that disappeared under the wardrobe on the wall opposite of his bed; the barren desk and nightstand beneath the window. Generic-brand Lysol and Windex permeated the air.

  He plopped down on his bed, his schoolbag sliding off one side and landing hunched and small on the floor. He stared at the bag, blue with black straps and stitching. It had two pockets: one for books, the other for pens, pencils, rulers, and calculators. He hoped it might soon contain a Megatron figure, the one he’d deliver to Trevor after class. First he had to find it. He looked up, and his eyes landed on the desk. In that split flicker, another chair appeared next to Jason’s. In it sat a girl, bent over the desk, a single leaf of notebook paper before her.

  Once upon a time, there was a knight who didn’t want to be a knight.

  Jason jerked back, clasping his hand to the back of his head. The pressure had pooled there again, and he tried twisting his head every which way, begging for something, anything, to pop, to relieve the nagging pressure at the base of his skull. His brow cinched tight, his breath shallow. He clutched his hands to his chest, curling his arms up, as though he would flap them and fly away. Too heavy to hold up, they fell to his sides.

  Green flesh and pearly-white teeth—a cruel smile—flashed through his mind, followed by a heaviness that pooled in his fingers and slowly rose into his wrists.

  He gasped, falling onto his back. The bedsprings grunted under his weight. He stared at the ceiling, trying to move, but could only manage to wiggle his toes and open his mouth. The aftermath, he thought. Guardian told me how to get out of this. How to deal with the day dreams.

  Say something, said the Guardian in his mind. Create a special word of power. It matters not the word’s origin, but it must have a strong connection with you. If not, then I hope you enjoy life as a statue.

  He wiggled his toes, his mouth flopping open. The word was there, but he couldn’t get his tongue or lungs to work together. The heaviness, like wet cement, had crawled up his arms and overflowed into his chest. Green flesh and glistening teeth still loomed before him.

  “Forth!” he screamed. “Forth!”

  The teeth and flesh, the liquid heaviness—they disappeared, receding deep into his brain, into a dark place where all of Jason’s dreams and shadows now lived. The daymare slithered into his head, clicking into place like the puzzle piece of a larger, more grotesque collage.

  Jason bolted upright, letting loose a scream that seemed to rattle the air about him. When the scream vanished and Jason was left breathless, he sat there, hunched over. He survived another one. What should he do next? Something. Anything. He decided to retrieve Megatron from the shed. He changed out of his work uniform, replacing it with a plain t-shirt and jeans. After lacing up his shoes, he stood and walked to his door. There, he stopped. He threw a glance over his shoulder. Only one chair now sat before the desk.

  Jason headed downstairs through the living room and into the linoleum-tiled kitchen with its mountain-high stack of dirty dishes in the sink. The moldy stench of food scraps curdled the air. He passed through the back door and descended the stone steps into his fenced-in backyard. Across the yard, next to the apple tree, he came before the shed. It took a while, but he didn’t have to sift through as much garbage as he feared. There was such a lack of garbage, he wondered if his father had contracted a fatal illness in the year Jason had been gone. Father never cleaned so much before, he thought.

  Clutching Megatron under his arm, he closed the shed door, held the Transformer up to his face, and turned to head inside.

  It stood as tall as him, with no visible eyes or limbs—a ragdoll of inky darkness, pulsating and writhing like the coils of a snake. For a moment, Jason thought it might be the Guardian. But it couldn’t be him; he had green eyes. This creature’s eyes were red.

  Before he could say anything, the creature rushed past him, and a stench similar to ripe trash wafted up his nostrils. Jason clasped a hand over his mouth and hunched over. He struggled to keep his blurry vision on the figure as it leaped over the six-foot fence. When the nausea and bile receded, he straightened himself, slowly, just in case the nausea hadn’t completely settled.

  What was that? he thought. That smell…It reminds me of something.

  Jason set the Megatron figure on the steps and tore through the alley behind his house, clutching his gut. The nausea still threatened him, but not as bad now. Something about the phantom’s smell—he didn’t know where he had smelled something so vile, but he recognized it from somewhere. That’s why he had to chase it. To try and catch that memory. The sun was now half-past the horizon, its light peeking around buildings and Sheriffsburg’s large, Space Needle-like water tower. There were a lot of places for a shadow phantom to hide at twilight.

  Jason reached the intersection in front of Silver Moon Grocery. The seven o’clock traffic had arrived and bustled like every nervous driver’s worst nightmare. The shadow appeared just across the walk, on the other side of traffic, and stared him down with its red eyes. The walk light turned white, and Jason prepared to jet off after the shadow, after the answer to his question.

  “Yo, Jason!”

  He wheeled around, and nearly screamed at Darlene. But he bit his tongue, shifting from foot to foot like a five year-old with a full bladder. “Darlene. Sorry, got to be somewhere.”

  “Whoa, what’s the rush? Do you gotta take a piss?”

  He glanced back over his shoulder. The shadow remained still, but how much longer would that last? “No, and listen: There’s this thing I have to do.”

  “Cool. I’ll come with.”

  “No, I don’t think—”

  “Oh, by the way, I reported those two asshats to your dad.”

  “Cool, thanks. Now please—”

  Darlene looked up, and her eyes widened. She pointed past Jason’s shoulder, her mouth forming an O. “Hey, um, Jason…Look behind you.” He did, and saw the shadow, still glaring at him from across the street. The walk sign was still white.

  If Darlene would just…

  “See that shadow thing? What is it?”

  “I’m chasing…Wait, you can see it?”

  “Well, yeah. I’m sure most magi can.”

  Jason stared at Darlene blankly for a moment. The light’s white picture of a walking person changed to a blinking orange hand. Jason gripped Darlene’s wrist, and she yelped as they ran over the crosswalk. The shadow moved slowly at first and when Jason and Darlene were three-fourths across it picked up speed, gliding over the sidewalk unnoticed by drivers and pedestrians. Jason would apologize to Darlene later, but for now he figured having someone who could use magic was a lot better than his normie-self chasing after a mysterious phantom.

  It led them to the bridge, which arched over a railroad and an old industrial district—the perfect place for a shadow to hide. The phantom leaped over the edge, disappearing into the umbra of an abandoned two-story building. Jason didn’t slow; there was a staircase on the side of the bridge. It was only wide enough for a single-file line, so Jason let go of Darlene.

  “What is that thing?” she said.

  “I don’t know. It just showed up in my backyard. Is it one of those snake women you told me about?”

  “A lamia? No. But…I haven’t seen anything like it.”

  They shot down the steps two at a time. For all Jaso
n knew, the shadow could be a lamia—one of those half-woman, half-serpent magic-eaters. While certain the creature would starve if it came after him, he felt guilty for bringing Darlene along. She had magic, but wasn’t even graduated from magi high school. How the hell was she supposed to fight a feral lamia?

  But Darlene charged down the steps with him and didn’t hesitate to leap from the bottom step. She tore off toward the two-story building. A wide smile stretched her face and her eyes sparkled. Jason admired her lead on him, the bravery she showed, the caution she discarded. Jason remembered that she wanted to be a paladin, and he would be surprised if she didn’t achieve her dream.

  They crossed onto the building’s threshold. As they approached the front doors, the shadow burst out and brushed past them. Jason braced himself this time, plugging his nose between two fingers, holding his breath. Darlene, seemingly unfazed by the creature’s stink, grabbed Jason’s wrist, directing him toward the shadow’s trail. Sweat beaded on his brow, and the smell of autumn night tinged with rust stung his nose and throat. But this was the first time since returning that he felt something other than complacency or dull annoyance. Excitement. Adrenaline. These words popped like firecrackers in his mind. This is how I was before the Guardian sealed my dreams, he thought.

  The sun’s light dimmed like a candle at the end of its wax. The shadow ducked into another alley and Darlene said, “I think that’s a dead end. Can’t run much farther.”

  Upon entering the alley, a breeze rustled Jason’s hair. It wasn’t cool and autumn-y, but stale and warm. It followed a particular pattern: hngh, huuh, hngh, huuh. In, out, in, out. Jason stopped, turned, then wheeled back around, putting on a burst of speed to catch up with Darlene. She was about to follow the shadow to the left when Jason intercepted her, huffing and pointing back behind him.

  “Stop…Gotta get out…of here…”

  “What’s wrong? Wha’cha pointing at?” She followed his finger back.

  There, at the mouth of the alleyway, towered Talshe. A plaintive smile spread across her lips. She couldn’t fit between the buildings, but that didn’t make Jason feel any safer. Green skin and white teeth flashed in his mind. Talshe raised her hand and waved. Jason’s stomach dropped out. He yanked on Darlene, ready to hide or run or something, anything to escape the gray-skinned giantess.