Authors: Christopher Golden
Waking Nightmares (21 page)
The trouble had been that Tim McConville—a boy with whom Miles had taken the school bus every day since the beginning of third grade—had dropped dead in September. A hole in his heart, a birth defect no one had been aware of until it killed him. Tim had been at Miles’s eleventh birthday party, but he had not wanted to take part in the séance. He had left the room, deeply unsettled, though just why he could not say. Miles had located him in that upstairs hallway, just outside the bathroom door, crying.
The sight of the ghost sent him screaming down the stairs to his mother, who had led the way back up with her son shaking behind her. There had been no sign of Tim McConville, but Miles had never doubted what his eyes had seen, and his mother had never expressed any doubts either. She had believed him completely. God, how he had loved her for that.
He had seen the ghost of Tim McConville several times over the years, but he had never been as afraid as he had been that first time. When he was twenty-two and just home from college, he’d been up late watching an extra-innings Red Sox game and seen Tim standing behind the television, and he had tried to speak to the spirit of the dead boy. The ghost had not replied.
There had been several other ghosts as well, but no one he knew . . . just glimpses of translucent figures on the street or in the library, and once in a tiny Irish pub on East 19th Street in New York.
Ghosts.
Miles tried to steady his breathing. His mother was dead. And what was that thing that had killed her? Was that a ghost?
Miles tried to steady his breathing. His mother was dead. And what was that thing that had killed her? Was that a ghost?
The grief came at him in waves and he exhaled, letting the latest one pass. But along with the grief there had come shock and fear and confusion, and those came in waves as well. He sat up straight, swallowed hard, and, after a moment, somehow managed to control the fit of trembling that came over him.
Awful images flashed in his mind, things that filled him with dread. Just like the ghost of Tim McConville, he did not doubt the horror he had witnessed in his mother’s bedroom. The first police officer on the scene and the EMTs who had followed had all looked at her and turned away. What could they say about the withered skin and her sunken eyes? She looked like some kind of papier-mâché creation, as though she had been laid out and dried in the sun for weeks. There had been suspicious looks, and he knew they wondered if she had been dead a long time, and he had only just called. Maybe they thought he was taking her social security checks or something.
But then Don Kramer had shown up and had mentioned seeing her just the day before, and none of them were going to argue with the chief of police, no matter how impossible it might be that this woman had been dead only an hour.
Miles felt bile burning up the back of his throat.
Ma. Oh, hell, Ma. What did it do to you?
Ma. Oh, hell, Ma. What did it do to you?
That was the question he did not want to ask, and he certainly had no desire for an answer. In his mind’s eye he saw the horrible thing on top of her, hacking those smokescythes into her body and tearing out that nebulous light, that colorful radiance that looked almost like a butterfly . . . that bit of his mother’s life, or that part of her soul, that it took with it when it fled the house.
Miles had known death all his life. He hadn’t been prepared for his mother to die, but he had thought about it enough that he could have weathered it, could have managed the grief . . . if only he did not now have to ask himself a dreadful question. Was she at rest? Could she find peace beyond this life without whatever vital piece of her that thing had stripped away?
The stairs creaked under the weight of heavy footsteps. Miles turned to see Chief Kramer reach the foyer. The chief spotted him in the living room and came in to join him, perching on the arm of the sofa.
“Miles, I’m so sorry,” Chief Kramer said.
“Thanks, Don. I appreciate you coming by yourself.”
“Of course,” Chief Kramer said.
He looked genuinely upset, and Miles believed he must be. The Kramers had lived two houses over for years. Don might have been three years older than Miles, but he had never teased the younger boy and always included him in the baseball games and touch football matches and street hockey games in the neighborhood. And young Don Kramer had visited the Varick house often, too. Toni Varick made the greatest cookies the world had ever known, and Don was always welcome. They hadn’t been buddies, really—the age difference had been a major gulf in those early years—but Miles certainly considered Chief Kramer a friend.
“Is there anything you need?” Chief Kramer asked. “Right now, I mean?”
Miles shook his head. He tried to smile and knew he only managed a grimace. He threw up his hands, knowing his voice would crack with grief.
“I’ll be all right,” he said. “Thanks, though. I’m just going to sit here for a while, let it sink in, you know?”
Chief Kramer nodded. As they were talking, the EMTs had been carrying the stretcher down the stairs. Strapped to it was a black body bag. Miles tried not to think of the dried husk inside it. That thing wasn’t his mother. His mother was gone.
As if to punctuate this thought, the EMTs put down the wheels on the stretcher, turning it into a gurney. The wheels rattled over the threshold as they rolled it out of the house, leaving only Miles and Chief Kramer, and just maybe the ghost of Tim McConville. Miles hadn’t said a word to the chief about what he had seen, the demon or whatever the hell it was, in his mother’s bedroom. Now he had begun to regret it. He hated the idea of Don Kramer thinking he had lost his mind, or been hallucinating or worse. But in a world where the public had been given ample evidence of the existence of demons—though many still didn’t believe in them—would the chief have thought him crazy? And did it really matter? What could one middle-aged police chief, or an entire police force, do against demons?
“All right,” Chief Kramer said. “Call me if you need anything, Miles. Truly. But I’ve got to head out. There was some kind of fracas down at the Troubadour and now the place is burning down.”
“In this storm?”
“Looks like.”
Miles shook his head. “What a fucked-up night.”
Something rippled across Kramer’s face—irritation, yes, but also a certain unease. But then he was retreating across the living room, headed for the exit. He had a job to do, and Miles didn’t begrudge him that. After the phone call he’d had from Amber earlier and the unearthly thing that had killed his mother—the thing that looked exactly like the creatures Amber had described from her vision—he knew that it wasn’t only
his
life that was unraveling tonight.
his
life that was unraveling tonight.
“I’ll call to check up on you in the morning,” Chief Kramer said, standing in the open door.
Miles lifted a hand in farewell but did not rise from the musty chair. “Tomorrow. Thanks, Don.”
Then the door closed, and Miles was alone in the silence of his mother’s house. For several minutes, he played the events of her death over again and again in his head. But then his thoughts began to slip back to the phone call he’d had from Amber right before he had gone up to his mother’s room. He thought about her dreams. She had insisted they were visions, and if he had been hesitant to believe her before, he had no more reservations. Amber had described in perfect detail creatures just like the thing that had killed his mother. Hawthorne wasn’t the kind of big city where most of the supernatural wars and skirmishes had been fought in the years since the world had learned the truth about magic and evil. But something evil had indeed begun to infest the town.
You should’ve said something to the chief,
he chided himself. And he knew that he would. But Don Kramer might be the kind of guy who needed convincing, and a college girl’s dreams might mean nothing to him if he refused to believe in the creature Miles had seen. No, he needed more than wild stories and visions to get the chief’s attention.
he chided himself. And he knew that he would. But Don Kramer might be the kind of guy who needed convincing, and a college girl’s dreams might mean nothing to him if he refused to believe in the creature Miles had seen. No, he needed more than wild stories and visions to get the chief’s attention.
Tonight he would sleep here, right in this chair, or on the sofa. He would give himself over to grief and exhaustion. But tomorrow . . . tomorrow he would start digging. He would talk to Amber, see if she’d had any other visions, and he would do some research. One word had resonated in those visions, and it had stuck in Amber’s mind. Now it echoed in Miles’s thoughts as well.
Navalica.
It had to mean something. If he could find out what, perhaps he would learn what had killed his mother.
And what he had to do to destroy it.
AMBER
woke abruptly, inhaling sharply as though she had stopped breathing for a minute. It took her a few seconds to orient herself to her surroundings. She still lay on the couch, her neck stiff from being propped awkwardly against the sofa arm. Stretching, she gave a soft moan and blinked, trying to focus her vision. The floor lamp in the corner still offered a wan golden light, but most of the illumination in the room came from the infomercials playing at low volume on the television. The clock above the cable box read 12:21 . . . not very late for a girl in college. On campus, there would be parties that were just getting started, or just getting good. But after the day she’d had, Amber was in no mood for a party.
woke abruptly, inhaling sharply as though she had stopped breathing for a minute. It took her a few seconds to orient herself to her surroundings. She still lay on the couch, her neck stiff from being propped awkwardly against the sofa arm. Stretching, she gave a soft moan and blinked, trying to focus her vision. The floor lamp in the corner still offered a wan golden light, but most of the illumination in the room came from the infomercials playing at low volume on the television. The clock above the cable box read 12:21 . . . not very late for a girl in college. On campus, there would be parties that were just getting started, or just getting good. But after the day she’d had, Amber was in no mood for a party.
She swung her legs off the sofa and sat up, rubbing her hands over her eyes. Her throat felt parched and, sleepily, she made a mental checklist of the steps between this moment and crawling into her bed. A glass of water. A visit to the bathroom. Removing the clip from her hair. Undressing. She had some eye makeup on, but she was too tired to clean it off tonight.
The house creaked with a gust of wind, and she heard the rain against the windows and on the roof and realized that the storm still raged outside. But as she listened, she thought maybe it had eased off just a little. That was something, at least.
And you didn’t dream,
she thought, before immediately correcting herself.
You didn’t have a vision.
What a relief to know that she could sleep without those hideous images invading her mind.
And you didn’t dream,
she thought, before immediately correcting herself.
You didn’t have a vision.
What a relief to know that she could sleep without those hideous images invading her mind.
The murmur of the TV drew her attention. She grimaced at the sight of the bearded man on the infomercial. The guy had been dead for years, but they still had him hawking products. It was ghoulish. With a shudder, she dug around the cushions on the sofa for the remote control and clicked off the TV, leaving that dim floor lamp the only source of light in the room, save for the oddly bluish lightning that flickered outside from time to time.
A glance at the chair in the corner confirmed that Gran had gone to bed. She slept ninety percent of her life now, but Amber figured that she had earned a rest. Her chair was one of the electronic variety that raised itself until its owner was nearly vertical. Some days Gran didn’t really need to use it, but most of the time she did so just for safety. Amber had suggested more than once that they install one of those lifts on the stairs, but Gran always clucked her tongue in irritation at such talk. She needed help getting up, but if she took her time and held the railing, she could navigate the stairs all right.
Until the day you can’t,
Amber always thought but would never say. She worried about that day, when her old Gran would come tumbling down. She had also mentioned many times that her parents might want to turn the back porch into a bedroom for Gran so she wouldn’t need to go upstairs to bed, and even offered her own room on the second floor, so Gran wouldn’t have to walk up to her room in the house’s converted attic. Her parents were all for either option, but the stubborn old woman wouldn’t hear of it. She didn’t want to sleep on the porch or in someone else’s bedroom. She wanted her own room. Amber thought it ridiculous, especially considering that Gran did nothing in that room except sleep, and never returned to it during the day. Once she came downstairs, she was down until bedtime, so she didn’t have to do the stairs any more than absolutely necessary.
Amber always thought but would never say. She worried about that day, when her old Gran would come tumbling down. She had also mentioned many times that her parents might want to turn the back porch into a bedroom for Gran so she wouldn’t need to go upstairs to bed, and even offered her own room on the second floor, so Gran wouldn’t have to walk up to her room in the house’s converted attic. Her parents were all for either option, but the stubborn old woman wouldn’t hear of it. She didn’t want to sleep on the porch or in someone else’s bedroom. She wanted her own room. Amber thought it ridiculous, especially considering that Gran did nothing in that room except sleep, and never returned to it during the day. Once she came downstairs, she was down until bedtime, so she didn’t have to do the stairs any more than absolutely necessary.
I hope I’m not that stubborn when I’m as old as she is,
Amber thought now as she stretched again and then headed for the kitchen. She smiled.
Assuming I’m lucky enough to
get
that old in the first place.
Amber thought now as she stretched again and then headed for the kitchen. She smiled.
Assuming I’m lucky enough to
get
that old in the first place.
She filled a glass with ice water and carried it upstairs to her bedroom. Stripping to her underpants, she slipped on an oversized T-shirt that smelled fresh from today’s laundry and then padded across the hall to the bathroom. After she’d relieved herself, she avoided looking at herself in the mirror as she washed her hands. If she saw the little bit of makeup she had on, she’d want to take it off, and she could feel the comfort of her bed calling to her.
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