Read Online The Sleepless by Graham Masterton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Graham Masterton
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would collide with the ground.
He waited and waited. He was so frightened that he was scarcely able to breathe. Perhaps the ground wouldn’t come to meet him. Perhaps he would fall for ever, down and down, into the night. But he could see the lights going out, one by one, then faster, as the hills rose up all around him. He knew then for certain that he was going to die.
Terrified, he flailed out with both arms, trying to grab hold of anything that might save him, trying to fly. He felt something against his left hand, and he snatched it, missed it, snatched it again. It was a young girl, who was falling beside him. She couldn’t save him: they were both doomed to fall together. But he held her close, held her as tight as he could.
It was only then that he realized she was staring at him through the darkness. He could see the pale gleam of her open eyes. He thought: Oh God, she’s dead already, and he reached down and realized that he was holding only half a girl, a child’s torso with nothing below the waist but bloody rags.
He screamed and twisted, but somehow the girl’s torso managed to cling on to him, and he couldn’t break free. He felt her chilly blood trickling down his thighs. He heard the hollow sound of the wind, as it blew into her empty body cavity. He felt the cold, moist touch of her cheek.
Her lips came close to his ear, and he distinctly heard her whispering, Don’t let me fall! Don’t let me fall!
Then both of them slammed into the ground and he opened his eyes and he was all rolled up tight and tense in bed, slippery with sweat, his teeth clenched, his muscles so tight that his calves were racked with cramp.
He lay still for a long time, breathing deeply and trying to relax. Thank God, he hadn’t woken Patsy. He hadn’t had that nightmare for a long, long time, and he had never had it so vividly. He could hardly believe that he really hadn’t fallen, and that he was still alive.
He climbed carefully out of bed. He felt the rough sisal matting under his bare feet. Naked, he tiptoed across the room, making sure that he didn’t collide with the rocking chair in the corner over which they usually hung their clothes. It was 4:07, and the first thin light of dawn was just beginning to filter through the flowery cotton curtains.
He went into the kitchen and poured himself a large glass of cold water. He stood with his hand on the tap drinking it in large, breathless gulps. Then he crossed over to the window that faced out over Nantucket Sound, and opened up the Venetian blinds. He could just make out the pale prehistoric humps of the sand dunes, and the glimmering white line of the surf.
He felt infinitely depressed. Was the nightmare of Rocky Woods going to haunt him for ever? Would he never be able to shake it off? That terrible sensation with which it always started – as if his bed had opened up right underneath him – that was more than he could take. Any more nightmares as clear and as realistic as tonight’s and he felt that he could easily slip into total craziness.
Maybe he had made a mistake by quitting his job and trying to run away from it. Maybe he should have stayed on at Plymouth and faced his fears until he learned to control them. Maybe some therapy then would have helped. But he had come from a family which had always been proud and private and self-sufficient; a family that never asked anybody for help, either financial or emotional.
For twenty-eight years, Michael’s father had run his own boat-making business in Boston Harbor, and his rowboats and dinghies had been famous all the way from Rockland to Marblehead for their fine traditional craftmanship. But in the early 1960s, when fibreglass boats began to supersede wood, very few of the old-fashioned boatbuilders were able to make the transition, Rearden Chandlers included.
Michael could remember the time when you could walk along Boston’s waterfront and hear a cacophony of hulls being
He waited and waited. He was so frightened that he was scarcely able to breathe. Perhaps the ground wouldn’t come to meet him. Perhaps he would fall for ever, down and down, into the night. But he could see the lights going out, one by one, then faster, as the hills rose up all around him. He knew then for certain that he was going to die.
Terrified, he flailed out with both arms, trying to grab hold of anything that might save him, trying to fly. He felt something against his left hand, and he snatched it, missed it, snatched it again. It was a young girl, who was falling beside him. She couldn’t save him: they were both doomed to fall together. But he held her close, held her as tight as he could.
It was only then that he realized she was staring at him through the darkness. He could see the pale gleam of her open eyes. He thought: Oh God, she’s dead already, and he reached down and realized that he was holding only half a girl, a child’s torso with nothing below the waist but bloody rags.
He screamed and twisted, but somehow the girl’s torso managed to cling on to him, and he couldn’t break free. He felt her chilly blood trickling down his thighs. He heard the hollow sound of the wind, as it blew into her empty body cavity. He felt the cold, moist touch of her cheek.
Her lips came close to his ear, and he distinctly heard her whispering, Don’t let me fall! Don’t let me fall!
Then both of them slammed into the ground and he opened his eyes and he was all rolled up tight and tense in bed, slippery with sweat, his teeth clenched, his muscles so tight that his calves were racked with cramp.
He lay still for a long time, breathing deeply and trying to relax. Thank God, he hadn’t woken Patsy. He hadn’t had that nightmare for a long, long time, and he had never had it so vividly. He could hardly believe that he really hadn’t fallen, and that he was still alive.
He climbed carefully out of bed. He felt the rough sisal matting under his bare feet. Naked, he tiptoed across the room, making sure that he didn’t collide with the rocking chair in the corner over which they usually hung their clothes. It was 4:07, and the first thin light of dawn was just beginning to filter through the flowery cotton curtains.
He went into the kitchen and poured himself a large glass of cold water. He stood with his hand on the tap drinking it in large, breathless gulps. Then he crossed over to the window that faced out over Nantucket Sound, and opened up the Venetian blinds. He could just make out the pale prehistoric humps of the sand dunes, and the glimmering white line of the surf.
He felt infinitely depressed. Was the nightmare of Rocky Woods going to haunt him for ever? Would he never be able to shake it off? That terrible sensation with which it always started – as if his bed had opened up right underneath him – that was more than he could take. Any more nightmares as clear and as realistic as tonight’s and he felt that he could easily slip into total craziness.
Maybe he had made a mistake by quitting his job and trying to run away from it. Maybe he should have stayed on at Plymouth and faced his fears until he learned to control them. Maybe some therapy then would have helped. But he had come from a family which had always been proud and private and self-sufficient; a family that never asked anybody for help, either financial or emotional.
For twenty-eight years, Michael’s father had run his own boat-making business in Boston Harbor, and his rowboats and dinghies had been famous all the way from Rockland to Marblehead for their fine traditional craftmanship. But in the early 1960s, when fibreglass boats began to supersede wood, very few of the old-fashioned boatbuilders were able to make the transition, Rearden Chandlers included.
Michael could remember the time when you could walk along Boston’s waterfront and hear a cacophony of hulls being
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