can’t think of a worse idea than showing you lot a scary movie before bed.”
“Ha, true. You got me there.”
All thoughts of banter leave my mind as she spreads out and then straightens the wires on something that looks like an old leather football helmet sprouting a tangled garden of multicolored wires.
She must see the anxiety on my face, and says, “You’re lucky. We used to have to shave patches of hair. This isn’t as bad as it looks.”
I sit up, and she puts the thing on me. It’s heavier than it looks. All hanging off in the same direction, the wires drag at my head like they want to pull me down to the pillow and into sleep.
Conversely, I had expected to be hooked to a big, beeping machine, but the wires lead to a very small box with an LCD screen. She fiddles with it until she seems satisfied, then unfolds straps from the back and attaches it to my wrist, though it’s much larger than a watch. She takes several Velcro straps and binds the wires to my arm at the forearm, then the upper arm.
Tugging lightly at the wires she says, “There we go. These should stay in place.”
I run my hand along the wires. The straps hold them flush to my arm. It seems like they’ll be safe even if I freak out hard, unless I get it into my head to rip the contraption off.
The nurse says, “Press that button if you need something. The door will be locked for your own safety, but you can, of course, leave whenever you’d like. Any questions?”
“Nope. I think I’m good.”
“Okay then, Jessie, you have a good night.”
I manage to make it through a few more issues of The Demon before my eyes start to close. I open them and a few minutes have gone by and I read for a bit longer. Before long, I’m spending more time with my eyes closed than open, so I put the comic on the nightstand and settle down to sleep.
My eyes snap open. My heart pounds as a jolt of adrenaline hits it. He must be here.
The room is very dark. I check for the beam of light that always comes in from the hallway. It’s not there.
I jump out of bed and run for the door and slam into a solid wall. Not only is the door gone, but the wall has moved. And the floor is different. Cold.
I shout, “Shannon!” and then listen. There’s no response. No footsteps.
I spin, and he’s standing there, a pulsing, slightly darker patch of darkness. Limbs and tentacles grow, but are then reabsorbed.
The room is so much darker than usual.
With my hands behind me, I search for the light switch, finding only wall.
He’s done this. He’s finally done it. I was wrong. I didn’t awaken in fear because I sensed him enter the real world. I awoke in fear as he dragged me into the nightmare world.
A flaming wall of adrenaline blasts through my veins like a wildfire at the realization, but when it passes, my fear is scorched away. There is no fear because there is no hope. I can’t run. I can’t turn on the lights. Here there is no light.
I step away from the wall. I walk toward the nightmare man.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
He says nothing. I approach him, and he doesn’t move. No, he moves, he shifts and changes, but he doesn’t run from or at me.
“Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
I’m readying my body to attack when he speaks. “I am a dream of vengeance,” he says.
I hit the cold, smooth ground ass-first and kick away. The voice. He has never spoken before, but I’ve imagined what his voice might sound like. The screech of rusting slabs of metal scraping together. The roar of a winter storm. The hissing of decompressing hydraulics.
But what breaks the quarter century of silence is the soft voice of a child.
A voice I hear every year at Christmas, giving an audio wish list to Santa, with my parents and wife and now kids laughing as I cringe in embarrassment.
It’s my own voice.
My back hits the barrier of whatever prison he has me in. I have to go farther. I have to get farther. I leap to my feet and shriek and pound
“Ha, true. You got me there.”
All thoughts of banter leave my mind as she spreads out and then straightens the wires on something that looks like an old leather football helmet sprouting a tangled garden of multicolored wires.
She must see the anxiety on my face, and says, “You’re lucky. We used to have to shave patches of hair. This isn’t as bad as it looks.”
I sit up, and she puts the thing on me. It’s heavier than it looks. All hanging off in the same direction, the wires drag at my head like they want to pull me down to the pillow and into sleep.
Conversely, I had expected to be hooked to a big, beeping machine, but the wires lead to a very small box with an LCD screen. She fiddles with it until she seems satisfied, then unfolds straps from the back and attaches it to my wrist, though it’s much larger than a watch. She takes several Velcro straps and binds the wires to my arm at the forearm, then the upper arm.
Tugging lightly at the wires she says, “There we go. These should stay in place.”
I run my hand along the wires. The straps hold them flush to my arm. It seems like they’ll be safe even if I freak out hard, unless I get it into my head to rip the contraption off.
The nurse says, “Press that button if you need something. The door will be locked for your own safety, but you can, of course, leave whenever you’d like. Any questions?”
“Nope. I think I’m good.”
“Okay then, Jessie, you have a good night.”
I manage to make it through a few more issues of The Demon before my eyes start to close. I open them and a few minutes have gone by and I read for a bit longer. Before long, I’m spending more time with my eyes closed than open, so I put the comic on the nightstand and settle down to sleep.
My eyes snap open. My heart pounds as a jolt of adrenaline hits it. He must be here.
The room is very dark. I check for the beam of light that always comes in from the hallway. It’s not there.
I jump out of bed and run for the door and slam into a solid wall. Not only is the door gone, but the wall has moved. And the floor is different. Cold.
I shout, “Shannon!” and then listen. There’s no response. No footsteps.
I spin, and he’s standing there, a pulsing, slightly darker patch of darkness. Limbs and tentacles grow, but are then reabsorbed.
The room is so much darker than usual.
With my hands behind me, I search for the light switch, finding only wall.
He’s done this. He’s finally done it. I was wrong. I didn’t awaken in fear because I sensed him enter the real world. I awoke in fear as he dragged me into the nightmare world.
A flaming wall of adrenaline blasts through my veins like a wildfire at the realization, but when it passes, my fear is scorched away. There is no fear because there is no hope. I can’t run. I can’t turn on the lights. Here there is no light.
I step away from the wall. I walk toward the nightmare man.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
He says nothing. I approach him, and he doesn’t move. No, he moves, he shifts and changes, but he doesn’t run from or at me.
“Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
I’m readying my body to attack when he speaks. “I am a dream of vengeance,” he says.
I hit the cold, smooth ground ass-first and kick away. The voice. He has never spoken before, but I’ve imagined what his voice might sound like. The screech of rusting slabs of metal scraping together. The roar of a winter storm. The hissing of decompressing hydraulics.
But what breaks the quarter century of silence is the soft voice of a child.
A voice I hear every year at Christmas, giving an audio wish list to Santa, with my parents and wife and now kids laughing as I cringe in embarrassment.
It’s my own voice.
My back hits the barrier of whatever prison he has me in. I have to go farther. I have to get farther. I leap to my feet and shriek and pound
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