Hutch Nightmare Men

by L. J. Vickery

  “But after these characteristic dreamscapes, I witnessed a traumatic event which I believe to have been real. One that gives her constant, horrifying nightmares.”

  “PTSD,” Paxton nodded.

  Hutch wasn’t surprised he knew the term. It was part of current culture. “That’s right. And now I’ve seen the sequence twice, having visited her dreams again last night.”

  “And this makes sense, how?”

  He didn’t want to share his shortcomings, but maybe admitting his asshole self was part of some fucked up process he was supposed to undertake. “In recent years I’ve kind of checked out on my practice, my patients. I, uh, prescribe medicine more than I conduct actual therapy sessions. A good guess as to why I’m here? I’m being reminded that people’s lives are worth more than I’ve given them, and I should pay better attention. So not an actual crime, but more like a sin of omission.”

  Paxton grunted. “If that’s the case, the woman in your dreams, can you help her?”

  “So far, I haven’t been allowed to interact. But this morning, before you showed up, there was a voice. Here. In this place.”

  “A voice?” Paxton sat forward.

  “Yeah. It was a woman. She, uh, repeated something I once said, which was pretty callous, leading me to confirm that negligence is the reason I’m here.”

  “That’s you,” Paxton replied. “But… I’m just a guy doing a job. I don’t fuck up people’s lives.”

  Hutch’s immediate reaction was to bristle that he was an asshole, but maybe he was. He had fucked up his patient’s lives. Still, if Paxton was here, the guy was not innocent. When he’d mentioned his job, Hutch immediately came to some educated conclusions. “You say you work for a chain.”

  The man nodded.

  “Big box store?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you give the green light for new locations?”

  “I just said that.” Paxton stuck out his chin in a defensive manner.

  Hutch tread softly. “Ever consider the little guys you put out of business when you bring a conglomerate to a small town?”

  Paxton spluttered. “That’s not real. It’s disinformation. My company does good things. Bring instant access to products for millions of people.”

  “From your perspective,” Hutch stated. Damn. How easy it was to see someone else’s transgressions.

  “What are you saying?” his companion demanded.

  Hutch held up both hands. “Nothing conclusive. Just that you might have inadvertently put some mom and pop stores out of business, and that could take some examination. It’s not my place to say, but I guess you’ll find out.”

  “You think I’m going to visit somebody’s dreams. Somebody who’s lost a job.”

  Hutch nodded. “It’s possible.”

  “This sucks.”

  “On that, we agree.”

  “So,” he looked around, “what do we do here all day?”

  “Do?” Hutch barked a laugh. “Kill time. You’re welcome to come for a run. Or we can talk. That might help my situation. I’m supposed to hone my interpersonal skills, at least that’s my understanding.”

  “Fine, as long as we keep it light. I don’t need a shrink, thanks. I had a happy childhood. Normal family.”

  Everybody had something to talk about. But Hutch wouldn’t pry. If the guy needed counseling, he’d come around. And if he didn’t? Fine. “How about a few miles, then?” He nodded down at the guy’s expensive footwear. “You won’t need those. There’s nothing in the sand that’ll bother bare feet.”

  Paxton pulled off his Louboutin’s, delicately buffed the dirt away with his sleeve, and placed them reverently on another of the rock seats. The carefully executed moves told Hutch the shoes meant more than just footwear. Paxton hadn’t grown up with money.

  “What’s your route?” his companion asked.

  “Into the darkness for five minutes, about a half- mile, then a circular pattern around the fire, spiraling inward with each pass. I haven’t dared to go farther,” he admitted. “It would suck losing track of the one beacon we have in this godforsaken void.”

  “I hear you.” Paxton shook his head. “And for the record, I’m glad you’re here. I can’t imagine how it was for you, not having anybody for three days.”

  Which made Hutch think. After the first day and a half of being alone, he’d calmed down. Settled pretty comfortably into the nothingness.

  Now it felt odd having someone to talk to.

  The Underworld

  Office of Special Projects

  “How are things going?

  “Besides Nusku being a total prick? Good. My first endangered soul figured out why he’s been removed from his reality, but years of selfishness still have him worried about his own skin as much as that of the woman to whom he’s been assigned.”

  “Do you anticipate he’ll have a change of heart?”

  The long-term prisoner of Hell laughed. “You know me. I’m not above manipulating people or things to get my way.”

  “I know.” Her mentor placed a hand on her arm and smiled. “Such as getting your sentence altered to allow visits from other immortals, and access to the humans you are now attempting to help. But it’s not just your manipulating. It’s because you are using your scheming talents for good that these things were allowed.” She smirked. “Your husband, I’m happy to say, is also looking well. Supervised work-release agrees with him.”

  Bel nodded. “I’m thankful the changes I petitioned for were granted. Spending too much time together made my husband and me poor company, and Utu was suffering.”

  Their son stayed with them in their meager two rooms during weekends and school breaks. During the week, he lived above with a group of earthbound gods. While below, he was allowed to roam the Underworld, supervised, but his time spent with his parents in their home-prison had become contentious. She and her husband, together 24/7, did nothing but bicker, which drove their eight-year-old son into a spiral of resentment.

  The current arrangement was far superior. She felt useful again, something she’d never thought to regain.

  “Keep it up, and the judge might rethink parole,” her biggest advocate told her, smiling.

  “I’m afraid that’s a step too far. The sentencing clearly stated a thousand years.”

  “We’ll see, my dear. We’ll see.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It had been an interesting day. So far, Paxton wasn’t the most talkative individual. After their run, some kickboxing instruction, a few hours of tic-tac-toe, as well and other games played in the sand, Hutch retired to go over his subject’s dreams from the previous night and make notes.

  Dream: Driving a long, dirt road. Sun Shining. Scarf streaming out miles behind. A box of chocolates, tossing them, one by one, from the car. Analysis: Subject has traveled a long, hard road but maintains a sunny attitude. She is, however, tethered to the past, perhaps not a horrible past. The chocolates represent parts of her life she’d like to get rid of.

  Dream: A large red pocketbook across the road. Subject runs into it. Change spills into the air, but turns to rain when she tries to catch it. Analysis: Red means energy or lack thereof in a dream setting. In my estimation, subject is running low on the energy needed to deal with everything life has dealt. Driving through the pocketbook denotes anger over that circumstance. Her inability to catch the coins, having them transform to rain, signifies her frustration at not having money to elevate her circumstances.

  There was a pattern emerging. She’d come from a place with strong ties, a solid beginning, but her current situation was untenable. Nothing was coming easily. Definitely down on her luck.

  Dream: Walking backward on four ugly green sofas. Sitting while colors swirl around subject’s head as water rises. Singing (?) in the face of drowning. Analysis: The number four denotes stability, and walking backward over the sofas means negative stability, or no chance of reaching goals. But here again, the subject’s spirit refuses to b
e quashed. Pretty colors swirling around her head and singing while sinking means she still holds hope.

  Dream: Playing cards as a child, laughing, carefree. No roof. Companion rises up and scatters cards to become snowflakes, which subject catches on her tongue. Analysis: Subject retains happy memories of her early life, but the roof could mean a lack of protection arising at some point. The cards turning to snow are like the coins turning to rain. Subject is unable to grasp the means to end her current decline.

  And then, of course, the convenience store sequence.

  Finished with work, he saw Paxton curled up, sleeping, and arose to approach the fire where he also laid down, puzzling—before sleep—over what were now two problems; his nightmare client, and his new fire-mate.

  Troubled over the first, he put that aside for a moment to focus on Paxton. It had been relatively easy to understand why the younger man was here. The impact of big box stores on neighborhoods, narrowing to the effect on the livelihoods of its local citizenry, made Paxton’s job teeter on the lines of ethical. Whether the man wanted to examine that or not, was up to him.

  So begged the question, why, when he could so clearly see Paxton’s disregard for humanity, was it so difficult weighing his own impact on people’s lives? Perhaps because he wasn’t the one who’d sent his patients into their decline, just as he hadn’t dictated the trajectory of their lives. He was only there to put their pieces back together.

  He grimaced. If his dream-subject had come to him with her nightmares, would he have listened…or prescribed medication? He didn’t like the answer that rose to the surface.

  Turning over, he thrust his troubled thoughts aside, breathed deeply, and eventually found sleep.

  He drifted above. Not far above like before. Closer this time.

  Disembodied hands, women’s hands, scooped pudding into an éclair, then drizzled chocolate over the top. The éclair disappeared to be replaced by a baseball. The hands jabbed a pen into the top of the ball. Soon, there were five pens puncturing the sphere, after which the hands brought forth a butane lighter, setting the ends on fire.

  A large flash, then…

  His subject reclined on a beach, eyes closed. He noted her lush, tanned body, adorned with a small, two-piece bathing suit. She lay on a towel, recessed into a trough of sand piled high around her seemingly on the verge of collapse. If it shifted, she’d be buried, and she knew it. Her facial expression denoted resignation.

  Her green eyes opened, and looking straight at him, she soundlessly gasped.

  What? Could she see him?

  She raised a hand and he reached back, but he hit the invisible obstruction then…the sand shifted. She was swallowed up.

  Birds. Brilliant blue birds filled the foggy air beneath him, each carrying a colorful ribbon in its beak. One by one, they flew toward him, but smashed into the unseen barrier and fell. He beat on the loathsome membrane, upset he’d lost them.

  A blurry face emerged, looking up from beneath water while he…tumbled forward…to stand on the edge of a pool! Was he in her dream, finally, and not a watcher? He extended his palm and met the barrier. Dammit. Not in the dream.

  The face became clear. It was the woman, red hair streaming behind. Her brilliant green eyes opened and met his. She headed to the surface.

  No, he mouthed, holding up his hands. He didn’t want her crashing into the hard buffer between them.

  A brilliant smile bloomed on her lips, and at the last minute she turned and dove. He saw a flash of skin and a glimpse of bare toes.

  The haze descended, parted, and once again he was above her.

  Nude, she headed straight to the street where her dream would become her nightmare.

  He banged on the bulwark between them. “Stop!” he bellowed.

  Textbook dream interpretation would say her nakedness meant she had opened up, showing vulnerability and desire, but he panicked. Heading into danger, the danger he knew awaited, unclothed, would render her exposed, defenseless. He didn’t know if that would change the unfolding events, but his whole being protested. “Stop!” he screamed. “Let me in.”

  He was above her in the small store. Still nude, she grabbed the pot, headed to the back, then rinsed it out to return and set the coffee brewing. She replaced the man behind the counter, who left, then began her routine with the papers. He watched, his heart beating hard as her gaze darted anxiously toward the door, but before he could yell again, she raised her eyes to him.

  And smiled.

  Clothing appeared on her body, and though he watched her fear came back full force, she turned to face the assailants who entered with a stoicism previously absent.

  “Not the bat,” he yelled, shaking his head. “Give them the money.” He didn’t know if it would make a difference when the attack occurred, but if she could change it in her sleep, her nightmare would lose its power.

  His admonitions were useless. Events unfolded in the same manner as before, but this time his eyes moistened, affected more viscerally as she was struck. Yet after the initial blow, he switched his focus from his subject to the attacker, seeking anything to identify the man in black. His vision became hyper-focused.

  One strand of blond hair straggled out from under a ski-mask. The man’s eyes in the cutouts were dark, almost black. And… There! On the back of his neck. A tattoo. A horned demon, ragged teeth in an open mouth, arcane symbols on a striated forehead. Hutch committed it to memory.

  Then he awoke.

  He checked his watch. Three AM, just like the last time he’d visited the woman’s dreams. Paxton slept a few feet away, laying on his side in the sand. He looked peaceful. Hutch wondered if he dreamed.

  He slid back into sleep, this time into blackness.

  Hutch stirred.

  “You awake?” Paxton’s voice.

  He blinked his eyes open. “Yeah.” He sat up.

  “I didn’t dream.”

  Hutch nodded. “Neither did I the first night.”

  “Well, it creeps me out.” Paxton stared at the fire. “I always dream, and it’s weird. Fucking weird. Did you dream about the redhead again?”

  Huh. Seems he wants to talk now.

  “Uh, huh.” Hutch wasn’t sure he wanted to share.

  “Same nightmare in the end?”

  “Same nightmare,” he acknowledged. Then because they had all the time in the world… or wherever they were, he opened up. “It was different this time. I think…” Should he put voice to his supposition? Why not? “I think she saw me.”

  Paxton turned from the fire and stared at him. “Seriously? What makes you say that?”

  He described the dreams in detail.

  “You might be onto something. But, naked, huh?” Paxton smirked. “Was she hot?”

  Hutch blinked. Until that moment, he hadn’t really thought about it. Was she hot? The gorgeous, thick auburn curls that fell past her shoulders, her long, slender neck, the full breasts that tilted up, delicately pink-tipped… Yes, she was striking.

  He recalled her pale flanks, skin smooth like cream and an ass taut and lush. He hadn’t seen her vagina. Would the curls there have the same flame-colored hue as those on her head?

  Paxton nudged him with a foot. “So, she’s attractive?”

  Hutch could answer that. Hot, when applied to his subject, had sounded derogatory. Attractive he could work with. “She’s beautiful. Those green eyes…” he trailed off.

  Paxton prodded some more. “You got a wife or a girlfriend in real life?”

  “Neither. How about you?” Hutch turned the tables, more in command asking questions than answering them.

  Paxton shrugged. “Had a girlfriend. Thought about marrying her, but she got mad at my job, said I was gone too much.” He shook his head. “But after she got pissed, she got…busy. Slept with a friend of mine. Ex-friend.” He buried his toes in the sand. “So, no. No women for a year now. Being shit on is hard to come back from.”

  Hutch itched for his laptop. Perfect-life-Pax
ton had issues after all. He probed. “One bad relationship shouldn’t paint the whole female population with a tainted brush,” he suggested.

  “I’ve had a few other examples.” His companion rose to his feet and clammed up.

  Hutch was intrigued. Eventually he’d break down the walls Paxton might not be aware he put up.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Darby was excited. Excited! When was the last time she looked forward to anything? Especially sleep. That was twisted. But after the previous night, seeing the man with the coffee-dark hair and captivating brown eyes, her nightmare didn’t hold as much sway.

  He’d been with her. Seen her. And he cared. She’d noticed it in his eyes. Of course, he wasn’t real. But… Who had she made him up from? A composite of what men in her life? Dreams, as she understood them, were a collection of things from reality.

  Darby pondered. The new guy, Seth, was tall but sandy-haired. Her father had been dark. But who had those eyes? Nobody she remembered. They were warm. Not in a “if I pretend friendliness I’ll get invited into your pants” way, but in a concerned, “if you let me, I’ll have your back” manner. She hadn’t seen that look in a long time.

  After her dream-man’s somnambulistic presence last night, her day had been damned good. Two hours working with Seth, eight hours at the pound. No sign of Cy. Yeah. That described a good day. And she’d cashed her paychecks.

  Hefting a heavy bag of groceries onto her hip, she unlocked her apartment door, opened it, then locked it behind her.

  She’d splurged. A pork chop, green beans, mashed potatoes. And not the boxed kind. She’d bought a small bag of spuds and would make some, fresh. They’d keep, and she could eat them all week. The beans were canned, but she’d bought a name brand, not the store label.

  For the first time in months, as she cooked, her kitchen smelled homey, her windows steamed with unaccustomed heat. She’d eat until she was full, settle down to read, and stay up late. Work at the pound tomorrow didn’t start until eight, and if the nightmares eased, she’d sleep in.